Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If it were any other time, Damian would’ve been happy to see Dick’s contact flash across his screen. Truly, he wouldn’t have thought twice about dropping everything and answering. Dick had been undercover on an important case for four months now and their contact had to be kept sparse. The last chance they’d had to talk was three weeks ago and Damian ached to hear Dick’s voice again. Unfortunately, the timing of Dick’s call was… inconvenient, to say the least. Not that it stopped Damian from hitting accept.

“Hello?” Damian answered the phone, slipping out of class and ignoring how his teacher yelled for him to come back. Dick normally had the courtesy to call when he knew Damian wouldn’t be busy, so a call in the middle of school was unusual enough for him to be confused.

“Dami?” Dick’s voice was quiet. Damian frowned and turned up his volume.

“Yes, Grayson? What is the meaning of this? I am in school, you realize?”

Dick made a small noise. “Sorry, I forgot.”

Damian frowned. “Why did you call?”

“Hmm… I-I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Damian ducked into the art room, hearing the lunch bell chime. He sat down on a stool, staring out the window.

“…I am happy to hear your voice too, Grayson,” he admitted finally. “I am on lunch break now, if you’d like to talk?”

“Yeah.” Damian could hear Dick’s smile through the phone. “Yeah, tell me all about home. How is everyone?”

“Fine, I suppose. Drake is still a liability at best, especially with his frequent disregard for any basic self-care. Just yesterday, Father and I watched him mix a five-hour energy drink with his morning coffee and when questioned, he proceeded to lie right to Father’s face about it!” Damian fumed.

Dick laughed wetly, but Damian was kind enough not to acknowledge it. The next few minutes, Damian tried his best to beat back silence with tales of his animals, school and their family. Dick listened on the other end, a quietness that Damian had never encountered before. Only vague noises prompted Damian to keep talking, reminded him that Dick was still on the line.

“And then, you won’t believe it, Brown grabbed Todd’s backside! Right there, in front of every vapid reporter in Gotham! Drake just about died, which really would’ve been better for all of us in the long run but—" Damian was cut off by a harsh cough. A cough turned into two, then three until Dick was coughing uncontrollably over the phone. It took a few minutes to die down.

Damian tried to keep his voice neutral but he could tell a bit of worry slipped in as he asked, “Are you sick, Grayson?”

Dick laughed weakly. “Mmm… jus—just a little cough is all. Keep… Keep going. I want to hear how this ends.”

Damian didn’t respond. It was in the silence that he heard what he’d been hoping wasn’t real—hitched, pained breathing on the other end of the phone. Dick made a low, curious noise, trying to get Damian to talk, trying to act like everything was fine. Damian’s fingers tightened around his phone.

“Why are you lying to me, Grayson?” Damian tried to sound angry, but all he felt was scared.

“What do you mean, Dami?” Dick replied, answer far more put-together than any other thus far. It just made the strain in his voice more prominent.

“You’re not really sick.”

Dick tried for a laugh but just ended up coughing more. “Oh, trust me, I am. Sick of this job. I miss you.”

It was such an obvious change of subject, far from the smooth misdirection Damian was used to. Were they different circumstances, Damian would have criticized Dick for it. In current ones, Damian just struggled to swallow around the lump in his throat.

“Dami? Are… are you still there?”

Damian scrubbed at his eyes. “Of course, I am, Grayson. I am not so dishonorable and uncouth as to hang up in the middle of a conversation.”

Dick made an amused noise. “Didn’t you hang up in the middle… in the middle of Jason’s rant on Pride and… Prejudice?”

“Because Todd is an imbecile. Zombies do not deserve opinions.” Damian scoffed.

“Ooh… Rough. I’m… I’m so telling him you said that.”

“Feel free.”

Silence reigned once more, a cruel queen. Damian had a lot left to say, words stuck in the back of his throat. I have too many ghosts, he wanted to say. Please don’t leave me. I don’t know if I can make it without you. I love you. You mean more to me than anyone else on this planet. Don’t go. I need you. Please.

He couldn’t force them off his tongue.

“How bad?” he asked instead. Heavy breathing filled the air, but Damian could barely hear it over the sound of his heartbeat. He picked at flakes of dried blue paint on the desk in front of him.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Dick answered after a second, and Damian wanted to scream. He wanted to call Dick a liar, wanted to accuse him of luring Damian in just to leave like everyone else. You promised, Damian wanted to shout. You said you’d always be there for me!

A crow cawed outside the window and Damian kept quiet. He pretended the water trailing down his cheeks was sweat, even as more followed.

“Damian… Please. Talk to m—me?”

And so Damian did. He spoke, in halting sentences, about Bat-cow and Alfred the cat. He mentioned training Titus to attack Stephanie on command and the glitter bomb she snuck into his backpack as revenge. He narrated a story about Alfred scolding Bruce for reckless driving.

“Todd thought it was hilarious, until Pennyworth started in on him too… You would’ve gotten much pleasure from seeing it, I’m sure.”

“Mmm… I—I told them both it’d come back to… to bite them one day.”

“As if they’d listen,” Damian scoffed. “Though I’d note that you are far from a model citizen yourself, Grayson.”

“How could you… you say that, Dami? I’ll have you know I have memorized Gotham law—laws!”

“Yes, and you use that knowledge to frequently break them,” Damian replied drily. Dick attempted an offended gasp, but it came out a wheeze. Damian couldn’t help but notice how wet it sounded. A punctured lung maybe? That would mean they didn’t have much time left.

“…Why did you call me?” Damian whispered.

Dick made a small noise, confused.

“You could have called anyone else,” Damian said. “You should’ve called anyone else. Father could have saved you, if you’d called him, I’m sure of it. Todd, Gordon, Kent, West, even Drake could’ve done more to help you than me. If you’d called them, you’d probably already be saved by now but instead you’re in pain, hurting somewhere you won’t tell me about and you don’t want me to tell anyone else. All you want is for me to talk to you and I don’t—Don’t you want to be saved?” Don’t you want to come back to me?

“Damian,” Dick said softly, “I wouldn’t have made it, even… even if I had called someone else.”

“What are you talking about, we have Superman on our side, he could’ve gotten you faster than you can blink and—"

“Damian,” Dick interrupted. “Dami… Baby, I—I wouldn’t have made it. It’s… Damian, I got crushed. It’s… it’s bad. The only reason I’m still alive is because the weight is… is keeping my body in one spot. But as soon as that weight moves… I—I’ll die, Dami. It’s not something… something I can live through.”

“Bu—but we could, we could find a way, if you would just tell me where you are, we could fix this, we could help you!”

“No. You can’t.” Dick’s voice was coated in cotton but Damian still heard the steel underneath. It felt like a knife to the heart.

“Baba, please. Please don’t go,” Damian begged, voice barely audible as his vision blurred with tears. “Please, please, don’t leave me.”

Dick made a wounded noise. “I’m sorry, Dami. I’m so sorry.”

“Baba, please, please , I love you. Don’t leave me. Baba, please, don’t leave me.”

“I love you too, Dami. I love you more than you could ever imagine. I’m sorry, I love you so much, Dami. I love you so much, and that’s why I have to hang up now.”

Damian shot to his feet. “No! Don’t hang up! Please, don’t go! Please, Baba!”

“I’m sorry, Dami, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I love you, but I don’t want you to have to listen to this. I’m sorry, I love you so much, Damian.”

“No, no, Baba, Grayson, please !”

“I’m sorry, Dami. I love you.”

“Baba!" 

The dial tone sounded.

And something inside Damian fractured.

Chapter Text

His fingers moved on automatic, fighting the ice in veins, flooding his heart, to dial a line of numbers he knew better than his own phone number. Damian called back twice and was dialing a third time before he abruptly realized Grayson was not going to pick up. Vigilante training kicked in, cutting through the numbness. His next call was to his father. Batman would be able to save Grayson.

"Hello?" Bruce said, his voice light and slightly distracted. Even through the phone, Damian could practically hear the airheaded smile in his father's voice. He would be at the WE now, acting like a complete buffoon for the board and masses.

"Father. Your assistance is required. Grayson is injured," Damian said bluntly, feeling the need to destroy his father's masks, make him feel the pain Damian was feeling. Dami, you know he acts like that for a reason, he could hear Grayson chiding.

"Injured? Damian, what—" He knew he had his father's attention now.

"It is—He said that he was crushed. I—I don't know where he is, I—" Damian didn't know what to say, his petty, misdirected anger fizzling away once he verbalized what happened to Grayson. The emergency was suddenly that much more tangible. "Please help him," he begged.

Down the hall, two girls froze at the tone of his voice. Damian didn't care, sneering at them before turning his back. The part of him that was raised by the League screamed at him for putting his vulnerable back to strangers, but he didn't care. They didn't matter. Dami, that's not nice.

There was a long silence over the phone. Damian strained his ears. There were some indistinct noises coming out of the speaker. Was his father moving? Was he headed to the bunker?

"Father, please," Damian forced out, needing the reassurance. He knew it was foolish, that of course his father was going to fix everything, but he wanted to hear it out loud out of some childish sentiment. After the situation was rectified, he would train it out of himself, but for now... "Please—"

"I will," Batman promised, the low growl bleeding into his voice. "Stay there. Tim will to pick you up."

Tim? Called using precious time that could be spent saving Grayson? "Don't waste time. I will get there myself," Damian snapped. He hung up the phone and stared at the ground.

Father did not call him back.

Damian told himself that that was what he wanted. He forced himself in the direction of the nearest exit. His feet moved, one after another, each step quicker and easier than the last. His belongings were abandoned without a thought, mere objects that could simply be replaced with Father's excess of funds should his acquaintances fail to retain them for him.

"Mr. Wayne!" Damian looked up to see his English teacher slipping from an office door and approaching when he was mere meters from the door. She reached for his arm, scolding him the entire time. "Why are you out of class? You should be—"

Damian refused to budge, digging in his heels and staring at the hand wrapped around his wrist.

Restraining him from helping Grayson.

Slowly, he moved his gaze up. His fists clenched. Deep breaths, Dami, Grayson's voice echoed. Count to ten with me.

Damian took a deep breath, counting to five instead of ten because he was superior and did not require ten whole seconds to reign in his anger. 

"Unhand me, harlot," he ordered coldly through gritted teeth, watching her face as she flinched back, grip loosening. We do not call people 'harlots', he could hear Grayson say. Without waiting, Damian yanked his hand away and pivoted on his heel, marching out of the school before she could gather her wits and attempt to stop him. It would end badly for her if she did, and Grayson would be disappointed. Grayson had other, more important things to concentrate on once he was saved. 

"Jonathan!" Damian called out to the open sky. "Your immediate assistance would be appreciated." There was a whoosh of air before he even finished speaking, Jonathan taking "immediate" seriously, to Damian's approval, though the half-alien boy had no doubt been attending his own classes.

"What's up?" Jonathan said from beside him, unbearably cheerful in the face of Damian's glare.

...Dami.

Clicking his tongue at Grayson's imagined disapproval, Damian lightened his glower to a mere frown. He lifted his chin.

"Come. We will save my brother."

After the number of times Damian had randomly called Jonathan to check on Grayson, Damian's experiment succeeded. Damian had managed to condition the half-alien hero to recognize Grayson's heartbeat on command. Due to this, they were able to locate Grayson less than seven minutes after Grayson had hung up.

The injuries were indeed severe. Grayson's lower back was caught by a heavy metal beam. Grayson couldn't see from his position, vision blocked by the pile of beams, but his legs were mostly intact in comparison. The injury on his spinal cord was serious enough for Damian to wonder if Grayson would ever fly again, though.

But he was alive.

The former Robin was drifting somewhere between awareness and unconsciousness, but when Damian grasped his hand, Grayson turned his eyes in Damian's direction. His mouth moved, but Damian couldn't make out any words.

"What are you saying?" Damian demanded. "I cannot hear you."

Grayson's lips moved uselessly, and his hand flopped against Damian's cheek in a weak parody of a caress. Then, Grayson's hand fell from Damian's cheek, and the man stilled. Damian shrieked and moved to shake his Baba awake, but was restrained by Jon. Some part of Damian was aware that Jon was speaking, but Grayson was the only thing on his mind.

In the end, Damian couldn't do anything. Like Grayson had mentioned over the phone, moving him would result in his immediate death. The beams were the only thing preventing Grayson from bleeding out. If Todd was there, the older boy would have no doubt commented on the irony. 

All the two young heroes could do was transmit their location to the Justice League, which Jon had done the moment they laid eyes on Grayson. It was enough, however.

Batman arrived promptly with Green Lantern, and they were able to transport the unconscious ex-Robin to the Watchtower. It felt like hours of pacing in the waiting room before they were given the news. The medical team saved his life, but, like Gordon, Grayson would never walk again under normal circumstances.

The key term was 'normal circumstances.'

Absentmindedly, Damian reached up and ran his index finger down his cervical spine. He wondered what his mother would ask for in return for another metal spine.

Chapter Text

“Mother,” Damian said, face layered in masks, both physical and metaphorical.

“Son,” Talia answered just as evenly.

The two studied each other. Even Gotham seemed to be holding its breath, the wind causing the only sound on that rooftop. Damian shivered slightly, though summer was only just beginning. The darkness doing most of the work hiding the tiny shudders from his mother, the hooded cloak doing the rest. Off in the distance, Damian could hear the ever-present sound of engines, but it was muffled. Up here, a bubble of silence enveloped the two.

This was a mistake, Damian's inner Grayson said. I suggest turning around and pretending you didn’t see her.

Damian had been putting off this meeting, hopeful that Grayson would regain partial use of his legs or gain another purpose in life, as Gordon had.

Grayson never did.

The past month had been hard on his family. The Bats were shaken by how close they were to losing another member of the family again. Red Hood visited the manor and hadn’t left since. It might as well be the crime lord’s permanent residence at this point. Todd haunted Grayson's room, sleeping curled up at the foot of the bed.

Red Robin refused to rise to his barbs, only returning them with patronizing looks and assurances that the other boy ‘understood’ what Damian was feeling. The imbecile tried to hug him, just the previous day.

The girls were a nonentity, lurking in their ‘secret clubhouse’, as Grayson would put it. Damian would see them in the Manor, but they would be there one moment and gone in the next. Ghosts.   

For his part, Father had to be convinced to let him out on patrol, out of some ridiculous belief that he would be happier and safer if benched. Damian had snuck out twice before his father finally realized that taking away the costume would not prevent him from patrolling. 

Worst of all was Grayson.

Grayson had them all fooled. His flippant jokes had them all convinced that he was recovering.

Damian wasn’t an imbecile, though.

Though Grayson faked smiles and laughter, there were shadows in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. It was clear that Grayson’s health was declining. Perhaps it was complications from having his abdomen and organs crushed. Perhaps it was heartbreak. He ate very little, and only when Damian brought the food. Outside of those times, Damian never saw him eat. He was unconscious for longer and longer periods.

Damian knew something was wrong.

What if… 

What if one day… Grayson decided not to wake?

That the landscape of his mind was a more worthy world than the one where Damian could follow him?

The others were content to ignore the reality, sometimes even avoiding Grayson’s room for stretches of time, as if forgetting that Grayson could no longer go to them. 

Damian didn’t protest, because that just meant that he could hoard Grayson’s precious waking hours to himself. 

Or, Grayson’s voice mused, maybe they know what I mean to you and wanted to give you this?

Occasionally, one of them would finally bring themselves to grace Grayson’s room and hover around Damian. 

Tt. As is it was Damian who needed them. Couldn’t they see that it was Grayson who was drowning mere inches away?

Evidently not.

Sometimes, they would send inscrutable looks in Grayson’s direction—sorrow-pain-confusion-fear?—but always they focused on Damian, offering their time, their attention, their affection. Worse, Grayson urged him to go with them. Damian didn’t. He wouldn’t.

It was obvious what they were trying to do.

They wanted to pull him away from his Batman, so that one of the others could take his place. Grayson wasn’t helping, holding Damian close even as he mouthed pleas to their family and gestured until they dragged him away from Grayson’s bedside.

Damian didn’t need them. He didn’t need their pity.

He didn’t.

It was Grayson who did.

Every time Damian left for patrol, he would check on Grayson through reflections in mirrors and glass panels. When his back was turned, mirrors showed him Grayson at his truest, and Damian could see that his Batman was breaking.

As Grayson’s Robin, it was Damian’s duty to protect him.

Which led to this meeting in the dark of night, Batman and Red Robin distracted by a series of nightly burglaries that the GCPD was unable to solve. They wouldn’t be able to solve the case, Damian knew. What reason would they have for suspecting the League of Shadows of robbing convenience stores?

It was Damian who broke and spoke first. During tests like this one, it always was. As well-trained as he was, Damian could never quite measure up to his mother's experience. 

“I request the services of the surgeons who repaired my spine and the technology they used,” Damian laid out simply. He did not bother with pointless pleasantries or verbal traps. There was no point in that. Not with his mother.

“What would you offer in return?”

Damian blinked. That was… unexpected. Normally, his mother would simply give a price for whatever he requested, and he would decide whether to accept or not. If the prize was worth the price.

It was another test, he realized. Talia, though she could no longer ignore his attachment to Grayson, was entirely unsure of the extent of his affections to the first Robin. She didn’t know what to ask of him in return for fixing Grayson’s spine, and so she was putting the ball back on his court. Instead of putting him in a position to refuse her price, she was putting herself in a position to refuse his offer.

In another life, Damian would be pleased to see that she was acknowledging that he was improving in her eyes, that she was increasing the complexity of their interactions and giving him a chance to play on a more even field. Maybe, after their meeting, he could savor the memory. At present time, however, he was caught off guard and therefore at a disadvantage.

What did his mother want? The easy answer was the Batman. She wanted his father, her Beloved. He could perhaps ask his father to spend time with her in return for the procedure. There wasn’t anything Father wouldn’t agree to do to let Grayson fly once more.

But what time Father spent with Mother would be done begrudgingly. No, Mother would not lower herself to accept such a payment. If anything, she would take it as an insult. Damian certainly would, should he find himself facing such a trade.

Power, perhaps? Mother had once expressed traitorous thoughts of succeeding Ra’s al Ghul when they were alone, in the dark, under the stars, miles from civilization. That was not something he could offer. Grandfather had centuries of experience on Damian, not to mention an adult’s physical strength.

Damian had little power as the son of Bruce Wayne. Wayne Industries was headed by his father and Drake, and Damian had very little say in what the company did. Besides, Mother had her own company to play around with. Robin had ties to other heroes, but he was not considered a welcome presence. Too young and rash, they said. Too ruthless. Other heroes might reluctantly listen to him, but they would double-check with their own sources or ask another Bat.

Information and blackmail? If not on politics, then on the Justice League? As if Mother would be foolish enough to take on metas and aliens for no reason at all. Besides, Mother trusted information she could send her agents to confirm. She did not need his help in this.

Even as these thoughts ran through Damian’s mind, he already knew what she wanted of him.

No, Damian. Don’t, Grayson’s voice pleaded. Offer something else. Promise her you'll do a favor or something.

If he offered anything less, he would lose his chance. Failing this test could mean that his Batman would never fly again.

Don't do it.

It was for Richard, Damian told himself. For his Baba.

Dami, no. Not this. Not for me.

“Myself.” Damian raised his chin by a fraction of a centimeter. “Your loyal heir, at your side.”

Dami...

Something sharp and vicious flashed in his mother’s eyes. At once, Damian knew he miscalculated.

"How did you know he would surrender? He—he was in a prime position to… He was an utter imbecile! He could have shot the hostages to cover his escape by distracting us with administering first aid! Not that he’d get away from us,” Robin ranted to his Batman, struggling to understand how easily their target had given up. Batman gave him a smile in response to the question, obviously glad he was taking his lessons seriously.

“People who do terrible things,” Batman said, inclining his head to the scene below, where the criminal was being led away in handcuffs, “are usually the first to believe the worst in others. He definitely wouldn’t hesitate to kill them, so he didn’t think I would think twice about leaving them behind to go after him.”

"So instead of 'wasting time' by shooting them, he just decided to try fleeing like a coward," Robin stated, looking to Batman for confirmation.

He was given an approving nod in return. Batman fiddled with his batarang for a brief moment, muttering something about wing-dings before complimenting Robin on his continued dedication to learning to be the best vigilante he could be.

"Do remember that, Robin,” Batman said gently. “It’s not a rule or anything, and doesn’t always apply. Some criminals are smarter than that." His lips quirked. "Either way, it’s always good to figure out what your opponent’s thinking and why.”

"I’ll remember,” Damian promised. He nodded determinedly, trying to engrave the lesson into his mind.

Damian had never seen his mother show signs of caring for anyone outside of his family. If it weren't for father, Damian would've thought she was incapable of loving anyone not related to her. She certainly would never barter her life away for someone not of blood. Despite seeing proof that Damian truly cared for Richard, she certainly did not suspect that he would go such lengths for the other vigilante. She had been expecting a much smaller boon, and instead, Damian had offered himself up.

There was nothing he could do, however. The offer was given. Now, his mother would accept or decline. Really, there was only one option. His mother was not foolish enough to decline.

The tips of her painted lips curled in a slow, victorious smirk.

“Offer accepted.” She held out a dainty hand. “Come, my son.” 

Son.

Damian stared at the proffered hand. Son of the Demon's Daughter. Blood and death and everlasting life. 

Son.

Son of Batman. Begrudgingly taken in, trust slow to grow, but there. 

Son.

Unbidden, thoughts of Drake fighting teeth and talon for the wellbeing of their family came to mind, his reluctant forgiveness blossoming to an alliance forged in steel.

Of Todd's fierce protection of his territory, which had expanded to include the Bats. His bloody retribution on Black Mask’s goons when they had separated Damian from Batman shortly after his father’s return.

Of vibrant colors flashing in the dark of night and feather-light fingers caressing his hair when their owner thought he was deeply asleep. A gentle pair of hands, adjusting his stance, and an even gentler voice, teaching him wrong from right. A presence like springtime, casting away his shadows and engulfing him in dawn.

Son of Robin, Damian thought, even as he took her hand. The phrase was foreign, but it felt fitting, draping over him like a well-worn cape.

Not just a team, but a family.

Robin is magic!

Tim, Steph, Jason… We were all Robins to Bruce first… But you were my Robin.

The dying embers in his chest flared to life for a brief, glorious second. For the first time since the Incident, Damian felt warm. 

Chapter Text

For the first time in weeks, Tim was having a good day. The board members were treating him more as an equal, acknowledging the work he was putting in. His PA had finished off all his assignments for the rest of the day… gotta give her another raise. He’d been allowed to head home early and had solved a cold case without even putting on the suit, and he could smell his new, specially imported coffee brewing.

Yes, Tim was having an exceptionally good day.

He felt bad for smiling after what happened to Dick, but he reminded himself that if the eldest Robin was next to him, he would whack Tim over the head over such thoughts. 

Or smother him in hugs.

Tim’s smile wavered for a moment before he reinforced it with some more happy thoughts.

As Jason passed by, Tim could hear him chanting under his breath, “He is a literal child. Do not pick a fight with the literal child.” Tim smirked before the subject of Jason’s distraction hit him.

Damian.

His smile slid off his face.

Good day instantly ruined. 

What happened to Dick really changed the Demon Brat. Not that it hadn’t changed the rest of the family, but it really hit the brat hard. 

At first, it seemed like he was trying to make up for Dick’s absence in their daily lives by funneling his energy in being twice as aggressive, twice as angry. And then he just… deflated. 

Now, the Demon Brat was quiet whenever he left Dick’s room, watching the room with laser-like concentration. His eyes would linger almost obsessively on the rapid-fire taps of Tim’s fingers as he typed, the flick of Jason’s wrists as he cleaned his guns, or Cass’s graceful movements as she danced in quick, impossible movements, so different from the long, slow glides she was known for among her fellow ballerinas. He'd dog Steph's bouncy steps or stare at Bruce's still form until the man glanced away, uncomfortable. Most of the time, though, the Demon Brat would just sit there quietly until he was all but forgotten, drinking in the motions of his family members.

The Demon wasn’t even doing anything wrong, but it grated Tim’s nerves. Part of him was suspicious, the feeling of eyes on him leaving his skin itching. The other part was concerned. Damian had been getting better before the Incident, that much he knew, but he was still never open about his affection. And that is what Tim thought it was. Some weird, hair-raising form of affection. Possessiveness, maybe?

Was Damian still in Dick’s room? The family had given Damian a lot of leeway, but the kid had to go to school sometime. Damian wasn’t doing anyone any favors by hiding there. 

Some people dealt with grief and anger by surrounding themselves with friends and family. Other people… like, say, Dick… they put on a happy smile for others to see, because they couldn’t handle seeing other people be sad, instead putting up a front, being strong and showing no weaknesses, waiting, just waiting until they’re all alone to tear themselves up so they could finally allow themselves to be fixed and…

And he was projecting, wasn’t he?

…He was hanging around Steph and Babs too much.

Tim peered into Dick’s room. There was a single head of messy, black hair peeking out from under the covers. The vague, annoying sound of Angry Birds could be heard before it hastily cut off and the figure assumed a more natural sleeping position.

Hiding a smirk, Tim closed the door. Yeah, he’d be alright. 

“You’re not fooling anyone! We all know you cuddle with the pillows when you’re not sleeping as a pretzel!”

Tim raced away before he could hear a response.

“You need to let me go.”

What?

From where he was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, Damian looked at Richard, so small and weak-looking. Insubstantial, as if he wasn’t there.

Richard met his gaze, reading his eyes. In-sync as ever, he answered Damian’s unspoken question. “It’s not going to get any better. I’m not going to get any better.”

Cool fingers ghosted Damian’s cheek, not quite touching him. Damian resisted the urge to press forward into Richard’s hand. He couldn’t be selfish. Richard would touch him if he wanted to. 

Busying himself in straightening the already-pristine sheets, Damian clicked his tongue. He sensed rather than heard the door open behind him. He didn’t look back. The person entering was unimportant. His time with Richard was limited, and he would not give it up easily.

“I’m not giving up,” Damian said. He lifted his chin in the imperious way he knew Grayson considered ‘adorable’. “We’re not giving up. We are the best. Victory is inevitable.”

A smile flickered across Richard’s face. It was beautiful and shattered like glass, reflecting any light cast at it to the viewer and blinding them with false brightness. It was the very smile that so often fooled the rest of the family.

Whoever was standing in the doorway took a sharp inhale. Footsteps approaching. Damian tilted his head in acknowledgement but did not turn and look. “Father.”

“Damian.” A heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Bruce!” Richard chirped.

“You stay out of this,” Damian said, not sure who he was addressing.

Bruce breathed, long and deep. “You should not be here alone.”

“Tt.” Damian canted a look at his father before turning back to Richard.

“He’s right, kiddo. I’m only dragging you down.”

“Do not start your ‘let go’ speech,” Damian said.

“I’m not, I’m not!” Richard said, raising his hands good-naturedly. “But you shouldn’t be cooped up—"

“Damian…” Father began lowly, talking over Richard. “Maybe you should talk to Tim. He’s worried about you.”

“—in here with little old me,” Richard finished loudly.

“Tt,” Damian scoffed. Both Batmen were insufferable.

“You should be out enjoying the sun, playing with your pets, talking with your siblings—"

“We’re all worried about you,” Father said, squeezing Damian’s shoulder in a way that was likely meant to be reassuring. It was not.

“I will not speak with Drake today, nor Todd, Cain, Brown, or any other replacements you bring to the Manor,” Damian said. “They are poor substitutes for Richard.”

Richard—the utter imbecile—shrugged and smiled. “Does this mean you’ll talk to them tomorrow?”

Deciding not to answer, Damian gave him a ferocious glare instead. He could feel Father’s heavy stare but ignored him. Father never understood him the way Richard did. No one ever did.

No one ever will.

Richard dragged his gaze from Damian to meet eyes with Father. “Get him out of here,” he said lightly, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “He needs sun, some time with his friends. It’s autumn now; who knows when we’ll have this much sun again?” Richard glanced wistfully out at the colorful leaves outside the window, tilting his head to bathe his face in the golden light. 

Bruce sighed through his nose, following Richard’s gaze. His lips tightened, and he gave a firm nod. 

Father used his grip on Damian’s shoulder to pull him out of Richard’s bed and tug him towards the door. It was a poor attempt at the nonverbal communication that he and Richard shared, but Damian allowed it. It was easy enough to climb onto the roof and slip in through Richard’s window. It wouldn’t be the first time he did it.

“Dami…” Damian turned to meet Richard’s sad eyes, ignoring the way his father’s grip once again tightened. “You need to let me go,” Richard said gently, as if that would soften the blow of his words.

“Damian. Let’s go,” Father ordered.

“Never,” Damian said, answering both of them as the door closed.

You need to let me go.

After a frank discussion, Steph was recruited for "Demon Distraction Duty," something that was probably not needed anyway. It was more of a precautionary measure, in any case. They all knew where Damian would be. 

“Memorizing,” Cass said when Tim cornered his other two siblings while Damian lurked in Dick’s room, doing whatever he was doing. 

“Memorizing?” Jason snorted. He stared when Cass didn’t join in laughing. “What, is he trying to memorize how we move in case we follow Golden Boy's footsteps?”

Tim sent Jason a dirty look. “Don’t call him that.”

“What, it’s not like he—”

“Memorizing,” Cass repeated with a shrug.

“Aw, Demon Brat really cares,” Jason crooned, something dark in his eyes.

“He cares,” Cass said.

“Of course he cares,” Tim agreed. He turned to Jason. “Look, he’s a brat, but he’s getting better.”

There was a thump above them, and the three froze. After a moment, light, animalistic steps clattered down the hall. They exchanged sheepish glances, realizing it was only the dog. Tim spared a thought to wonder what Titus knocked over this time. Alfred was still dishing out disappointed looks over the last broken vase.

“Why are we being all quiet and sus?” Jason demanded. “This is our home and we’re three upstanding residents. We’re allowed to hang out in unused rooms for secret meetings!”

“Upstanding,” Tim repeated with a scoff. “Sure.”

“Upstanding residents, not upstanding citizens. We follow the house rules and don’t do unreasonable damage,” Jason argued.

“Your idea of unreasonable damage and the world’s idea of unreasonable damage are very different things.”

“I don’t need to hold up to the world’s idea, I just gotta hold up against this family’s expectations.”

Jason… was technically right. As active vigilantes, they were quite... destructive. Plus, Jason didn’t actually break anything they couldn’t replace. Yet. Unlike Dick, who once... Tim flinched and shook his head. They were getting sidetracked. He avoided Cass's eyes, turning his attention back on Jason.

“Hey.” Tim prodded Jason’s chest, keeping a wary eye out for any sudden attacks his poking finger might prompt. “Do your big brother duties. The kid’s hurting.”

“We’re all hurting. And you’re his big brother too,” Jason retorted.

“He might actually attempt homicide again if I try to comfort him. He’s hurting and he’s a decade younger than you, therefore you’re the bigger big brother and you have to look after him,” Tim deadpanned.

Jason opened his mouth, probably to quip something about how Damian was a demon, when Cass pushed herself between the two, hands held out towards either one.

“Stop,” she said, turning to look at each brother in the eye. “No fighting. Dick would not like,” Cass said with emphasis.

Automatically, the two boys glanced at the door, as if expecting the man to be summoned by the mere mention of his name. They all froze, then pointedly looked away. Of course he wasn't going to appear. What were they thinking?

A grimace crossed Jason’s face, quickly followed by shame. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

Cass put her hand on his arm and smiled slightly. “It’s okay.” 

Tim waited for the moment to pass, which it soon did. Jason straightened up and cleared his face, letting Cass’s hand slide off. “So, any ideas?”

“Hurting,” Cass said, revisiting their earlier conversation. “He denies.”

Jason grunted. “Just give the Demon Brat some time. Kids are adaptable. He’ll get used to the new normal soon enough.”

“Maybe we should take interest in his interests?” Tim suggested.

“Sure. Let’s go stab some criminals in the name of revenge.” Jason raised his hands in surrender in response to Tim’s Batglare #3. “I was kidding. Obviously. And even if I wasn’t, I said ‘stab’, not ‘kill’. It’s very possible to stab people without killing them.”

“Pets. Drawing,” Cass offered.

“Hell, no. I’m not spending—” Jason cut himself off at Tim’s Batglare #6, which was basically Batglare #2 with a dash of disappointment. “I’ll… take him patrolling,” Jason said reluctantly, already calculating the hit to Red Hood’s reputation when whispers came out that Red Hood had a preteen shadow. “We won’t kill anyone,” he tacked on.

“I draw,” Cas said. A look that was a cross between a smirk and a grimace crossed Jason and Tim’s faces. Cas was deadly, she was graceful, and she couldn’t draw anything more complicated than a stick figure to save her life.

“That leaves you with the pets,” Jason said, smirking at Tim. “I dare you to get bat-food and feed the bats with the Demon Brat. Hey, maybe you can even train them to do tricks.”

At those words, Tim had a very uncomfortable flashback to that one time he climbed to the ceiling of the Batcave and tried to train the bats. When they realized he had food, they had swarmed him, knocking him off his perch with sheer numbers. The only thing that saved him from more than a broken bone was the fact that he fell on one of the older Batmobiles. Bruce had not been pleased, but Tim had gotten out of punishment by deleting the footage and blaming Jason. At that time, Jason's relationship with the rest of the family was still rocky, but Tim wasn't sure if Bruce had believed him. 

Did... Jason know that Tim blamed him for that incident?

Tim laughed nervously. Divert! Divert! "Well, Jace—"

"Don't call me that!" Jason inserted.

"—I'm not sure that patrolling with you is the right thing. I mean, Damian might be an angry-sad. He might get stabby with his katanas."

"I'm capable of keeping a preteen from maiming," Jason said, indignant. 

"Are you sure? Because I remember that one time, when—"

"Shaddup, your dad's a furry," Jason snapped.

Tim blinked. 

Cass frowned.

Jason paused.

"What?" Cass said delicately. Tim couldn't answer. 

Luckily, Jason was there. "A person who dresses up as an animal," he explained. At his words, Cass gained a thoughtful look. 

"I... what?" Tim said when his mind finished rebooting.

"I dunno, I just said the most insulting thing I could think of at the time," Jason said with a shrug.

"But... Bruce also adopted you? He's your dad too!"

"How do you know I meant Bruce?"

"My bio dad does not dress in a fur suit!" Tim said. 

"How would you know? He was out of the country, most of the time." Jason pointed out in a faux-reasonable voice. Tim vibrated as Jason hit one of his weak points, torn between sadness and fury. "How do you know he didn't have a fursona?"

What.

Tim.exe had crashed. 

Rebooting in process...

Rebooted. 

Jack Drake was not a furry. Right?

Tim... didn't want to think about it. He was 100% positive that his mother wouldn't allow his dad to do something stupid like that. Then, Tim realized with horror that he hadn't discounted the thought that his father wouldn't wear one, just that his mother wouldn't let his father do it. Jack did do some pretty out-there things when he was younger, but most of the crazy stuff died out when he married Janet... Did Jack Drake have a secret furry side?!

He was torn from his thoughts by a repetitive poking on his forehead. "I think I broke him," Jason mused.

Tim shook his head, grabbing Jason's finger before it could prod him again. "I'm fine," Tim said brusquely. "So, are we all set?"

Giving him a dubious look, Jason said, "Well, I guess you're fine... besides the fact that you're the son of a furry. Does that make 'Robin' your fursona?"

Cass tapped her heart. "Black Bat. Fursona." She pointed at Tim. "Red Robin. Fursona." She tilted her head and turned to Jason, an inquisitive look on her face. 

"Sorry, sis. No fursona for me. Other than Robin, but I've moved on from that. I've been reborn. I'm a changed man! Unlike some people," Jason said, smirking at Tim.

“Okay, then. We can table the conversation for now. Give him some space and time,” Tim decided loudly, retreating to the doorway. “Cass, I guess you can start sketching with him now, if that's okay with you? We’ll revisit it in a few weeks if nothing changes.”

So in the end, the discussion was tabled. They never really got back to it. 

Because Damian Wayne, Demon Brat and blood son of Batman... died. 

Chapter Text

The body was barely recognizable as Damian. Terrible burns wrapped around it from head to toe, even bleeding through the supposedly heat-resistant costume. His metal spine was intact, though. That was how they knew it was Damian before even testing him.

They still tested him. It. 

That small, hurt-looking thing was no longer Damian. It was just an empty shell now.

Bruce reluctantly notified Talia, murmuring that, as Damian’s mother, she had the right to know. Though disgruntled, none of the remaining Robins and Bats argued with that. 

Despite it all, Talia did love Damian. She loved him darkly, in that unrelenting, all-encompassing way she had been taught. In that possessive, almost obsessive way she gleaned from her father. It was the only love she knew until Bruce had loved her for that brief, perfect moment in time. It was still the only way Talia knew how to love. She loved Damian even as her touch burned him, but no one could deny that she did love him. 

As they waited, Bruce sat by the thing that was once his son. He stared at unrecognizable features, wondering how much agony his child had been in before the end. The metal spine in his back, the thing that enabled him to move… it must have caused him agony as it conducted heat. There was a wound on his son’s thigh, one that sliced right through the artery. It could’ve been caused by any of the melted shrapnel found at the location, any trace of blood scorched off. 

At least, that was what a clinical analysis would suggest.

But a dark thought wouldn’t leave his head. What if, alone and in agony, seeing no way out and knowing none of them would find him in time… What if Damian had taken his own life?

Damian had a weapon in his hand, twisted metal shards that was once one of the Robin throwing stars. Had he been trying to slice his way out through the rubble with weakening strikes, bleeding out the whole time? Or had he calculated the odds as the fire crept closer, misguidedly deciding that ending his life and leaving that single clue behind would somehow lessen the pain his family would be left in? 

Bruce didn’t know which was worse. 

Jason had died still believing he would be rescued, that Bruce would come in time. Damian was a pragmatic, and much less keen to hoping. 

They might never find out. Unlike in Jason’s case, there would be no Lazarus water for Damian. The Pit was only for the living and the newly dead. Talia wouldn’t be able to save him. 

In mere hours, Talia arrived in a dark whirl of fine cloths and long hair. She arrived as a hurricane, wrecking all in her path. She must have been on a League mission maybe in the middle of one when she got the message, because her quick, frantic movements sent droplets of blood raining from bloodied bandages and small, untreated cuts.

Despite her injuries, Bruce found her presence more drawing than he ever did before. The Demon’s Daughter had always been undeniably beautiful, but in a cold, unattainable way. Now, her wounds reminded him that despite it all, she was human underneath the masks and deception. 

Her raw pain reminded him that, despite her masks, she could love. 

“Where is he?” she demanded with the bearings of a queen. “Where is my son?”

“Come,” Bruce said, holding out his hand.

Talia stared at him, empty, before she took it and let him lead her to his office and down, down, down into the Batcave. She didn’t clutch possessively or try to press onto him alluringly, just held on bracingly. Her grip grounded him.

This could’ve been them in a different life, he realized. Partners. Helping each other instead of playing on opposite sides of the board. If she stayed, they could’ve defended what was theirs together. She might not have the world, but she could have Gotham. Not the League, but his Robins. Not a corpse, but Damian.

In another life. 

Instead, he was leading her to the table that held their son’s body. His remaining children trailed behind him, not wanting her near their brother’s body but unable to deny a mother from seeing what was left of her son. 

None of them knew her like he did, didn’t know what to expect, but were still caught off guard by the way Talia clutched Damian’s body, uncaring of the dress she just ruined. Not Bruce, though. He was intimately aware of how she loved. Her love was wildfire, burning all that stood in its way. In the face of such destruction, what was a little more ash?

“My son,” Talia said, a barely noticeable tremor in her voice. “Oh, my beloved. Oh, my son! What have I done?” she moaned. “I never should have let you go. Why? Why did I? How could !?”

“Talia,” Bruce said gently, touching her shoulder. She looked up, her tears drawing a long line of mascara down either cheek. The black was striking against her otherwise flawless skin. “He was happy. He died doing what he loved.”

“He’s dead!” Talia shouted, causing everyone to flinch. She took a deep breath. “He’s dead,” she repeated, her voice now calm and hollow. “I will take his body home.”

“He is home,” Bruce said sternly before softening his voice. “His body is too damaged and it’s been too long, Talia. You can’t use a Pit.”

”Don’t you think I know that? I know!” Talia snarled, green eyes flashing. “I know that... How could I not?” Her voice cracked. 

Talia fell to her knees with force that Jason calculated would leave them bruised for at least two weeks. She clutched and pulled at her hair and wailed. Damian’s pets ran in circles at the loud noise. Talia reached out blindly, managing to hug one of them to her chest. Jason couldn't bring himself to care to check and see which one it was.

Distantly, through the numbness, Jason could feel himself softening at the sight of a mother’s distress over her deceased son despite himself. His failure of an egg-donor would never have done that. Catherine, though? He hoped that she would’ve. Some prickles of a familiar emotion flickered rawly in his chest. It took him a moment to recognize it, but as soon as he did, he was disgusted at himself. How screwed up was that, feeling jealous of a dead kid? 

“You know, I can almost see her as human right now,” Jason commented, trying to start an argument, pick a fight. Anything to distract from the sight in front of him. Anything was better than the numbness of the last couple hours, than the despicable emotion he was feeling right now. How dare he? How dare he feel like this when his youngest brother had just died?

From the look on his face, Tim wouldn’t phrase it that way but agreed with the sentiment Jason had just voiced. They were seeing a whole different side to Talia al Ghul.

Jason left, uncomfortable with the sight.

It was so much easier yesterday, when villains were villains and not grieving parents. It was so much easier when he didn’t think about Mr Freeze’s cryogenically frozen wife, or Poison Ivy’s origins, or Harley Quinn’s abusive relationship and the psychological manipulation she went through.

In the end, so many of the ones who hurt others were hurt themselves, and while that didn’t make it right, it did make it harder not to feel for them. It was easier, he thought, if he could focus on their actions and not their motives. It was easier if he couldn’t see himself in them.

The rest of his siblings followed him out, leaving B alone with Talia. Jason was reasonably sure she wouldn’t try to pull something next to the dead body of her son. 

Jason tried cleaning his guns, but quickly gave up. They were in perfect condition. Of course they were. As if he'd leave them in anything less. He wandered the halls instead, noting all of the little nicks on the walls where the Demon Brat had ground his knives into while in the depths of boredom. 

His skin crawled. 

He wanted to leave. He wanted to fight something, someone. He wanted to switch out his rubber bullets for something more lethal, leave a trail of bodies behind as he carved out his anger on the lowlife that preyed on others, that deserved it. 

But he couldn't. He couldn't dishonor Damian's memory like that. Not after all the effort the brat put into changing. Into becoming a hero instead of a killer. 

His stomach turned.

Jason ended up in front of Dick’s room, where he stared uneasily at the door. Closed, as it often was, these days. Jason’s gaze moved to the Demon Brat’s door, cracked open just a little, still waiting for Damian to return.

Had anyone…?

Jason retreated. It was none of his business, and someone else could deal with that.

He ended up in the living room, where Steph lounged, sipping on something that could be apple cider, could be whiskey. Alfred hovered, offering hot chocolate. 

They all started trickling into the living room after that, Bruce and Talia being the last ones in. 

Tim retrieved a precious scrapbook of pictures, and Cass dug out Damian’s many sketchbooks. Like a normal family, they spent hours flipping through pages and reminiscing. Talia even shared a few stories of Damian as a toddler. It was hard to imagine the Demon Brat as a toddler, though it was unreasonable to think he flopped out of his artificial womb holding a katana. Tim and Jason were never as close to Damian as Cass and Dick had been. Staring at those pictures though, tracing the outline of a soft smile on Damian’s face... Torture was the few terms that could fit.

Jason had to step out for a second. Tim stared unseeing at his laptop screen at some points as Steph held his hand. Cass sat there, uncaring of judgement as a single tear slipped silently down her cheek. It was probably overwhelming to not only have her own grief but read everyone else’s as well.

“He… truly loved him. A large fraction of his drawings feature Richard at one point or the other,” Talia murmured, fingers brushing over a drawing of Dick mid-laugh, looking adoringly down at the viewer. At Damian. Jason couldn't muster up a scowl at the name she used for Dick. It was one that Damian had used in rare moments with Dick. That way of addressing him was just another thing she shared with Damian.

“Dick is—was his favorite. They were always together,” Tim tried to say casually. It missed the mark. “If you want to see it, I have a whole album with only them.”

Talia didn’t let go of the picture, staring at it with a single-mindedness that echoed Damian during those past few weeks. Jason was hit with the realization that Talia did know Dick. Had to. 

“His spine,” Talia said, stumbling over the syllables. “You can use it. He would have wanted you to. To use it and help whoever you wish. I—I can offer the services of my surgeons.”

“That’s… really morbid,” Jason said after a beat of stunned, disgusted silence. 

“Thank you,” Tim tacked on tactifully. 

“Really practical, too,” Jason hurriedly added. “He would’ve wanted that.” Well, not really. Damian probably would’ve pitched a fit, eventually insisting that only someone ‘worthy’ would be allowed to have his spine. Eventually coming to the conclusion that ‘someone’ meant Dick and only Dick. 

Jason closed his eyes as grief swelled.

“I know exactly who we’re using it on,” Bruce said. Jason glanced over to see a glint in his eyes. Jason stared at him until Cass’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. He turned his focus on her as she leaned in.

“Does not… mean it that… way,” she said, grief making her struggle with the words in a way she hadn’t for over a year. Jason tapped the back of her hand comfortingly before turning back to the conversation.

Talia was nodding. “I will send for my surgeons immediately.” She hugged the animal in her lap tighter. Her arms were awkward around Alfred the cat, but the cat was too well-trained to swipe at her.

For his part, Jason was just surprised that Talia was willing to tolerate animal hair on the expensive dress.

“These are his pets?” Talia asked, eyeing the Titus and Alfred the cat. 

“He has a cow, too,” Jason said, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile. 

“I will take them with me,” Talia said with a firm nod.

“Absolutely not!” Bruce denied. 

“Beloved,” Talia said, rolling the endearment out almost disdainfully. “You have his pictures, his drawings, his gifts, and, as you so kindly mentioned, his happiest memories.”

Bruce hesitated.

”Come on, old man. Are you volunteering to take care of his pets?” Jason taunted, not sure why he was fighting for Talia all of the sudden. “I’m certainly not doing it.” 

“Alfred always complains about the cat hair,” Tim offered. 

Talia stared stonily at Bruce. "As you will undoubtedly refuse my earlier request to bring him home, his body will be buried on your grounds, half a world away from me. All I want is the comfort of those he once held close. Will you deny me this?" She stepped close enough to Bruce to be seductive, but as she looked up to Bruce, the look in her dark, kohl was unreadable to Jason.

They looked at each other for a long time before Bruce relented. “Fine. You may keep his pets as long as no harm comes to them.” 

Talia’s eyes glimmered with some secret mirth. “I’m hardly going to eat them, beloved.” In response, Bruce raised an eyebrow. Jason was left wondering at the story behind that.

“Alright, but Jon is keeping the cow. Damian promised,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

Talia nodded. “Acceptable.”

“Do you want all their toys and beds and stuff as well?” Tim asked.

“Their what.”

Tim met Jason's eyes. He raised an eyebrow. Jason nodded. Tim smirked, and they both turned their attention on Talia. 

Talia caught the glance her beloved's children exchanged. Of course she did. She was immediately on guard. While it was doubtful they would attack, there were many psychological strikes they could attempt. 

"Yeah, and we have the special food Damian got them. You should know that Titus needs to be bathed once a week—" Tim chattered.

"—And he’ll need his ears and teeth cleaned too," Jason added. "He needs to go on a walk at least once a day or he’ll start chewing on stuff."

"Also, Alfred the cat is really picky about being brushed so be gentle unless you want to lose an eye," Tim said with a sage nod. Talia had to remind herself that they were purposely attempting to antagonize her.

"Yeah, you might want to ease up on that hug, lady," Jason said, nodding to her arms, which had unconsciously tightened around her son's cat as the brothers spoke. Talia froze. She slowly loosened her grip. To her relief, the cat did not swipe at her. Was this another trick? Jason's eyes widened as he thought of something else to add. "Oh! And—"

It was at that moment Talia realized she may have bitten off more than she could chew. 

Chapter Text

Something was happening within the League of Assassins. It boiled underneath the surface, leaving behind dead bodies and ruined bases across the globe. Governments were uneased by people they thought were normal civilians being brutally murdered. People were nervous and nosy journalists were in a frenzy. A civil war, the shadows whispered. The Demon’s daughter has struck the Demon himself.

Bruce stared at the screen, jaw clenched and fingers tightening on the mouse. It creaked in his grip. The League of Assassins was strictly Bat business, but the sheer scale of destruction wrought had members of the Justice League hinting about how they could help with ‘anything, anytime, Bats. Really!’

It had only been two months since Damian’s death, and already Talia was going back to her scheming ways. Actually, it had been less time; the whispers dated back to a mere week since her visit to the manor.

What was Talia thinking? The League of Assassins was an old, patriarchal cult. There was no way his ex-lover could have swayed enough loyal assassins to her sect when she was so unabashedly female. If he were a gambling man, Bruce wouldn’t have hesitated in casting bets that Ra’s al Ghul would utterly crush Talia. Yet, the woman was still alive, still fighting.

From her surprisingly vulnerable display of grief in the Batcave, to her sentimental offer in the manor, to now, turning on her father, his old flame was full of surprises.

It was a pity that it was the loss of their son that finally drove her from Ra’s al Ghul’s clutches.

Ra’s al Ghul had made the mistake of letting Talia be the sole face of Head Industries. Talia had used that sway to completely cut all ties between the multinational company and Ra’s League. Where Ra’s men were scrambling for funds, Talia’s agents were fully outfitted in the latest tech. Ra's globe-wide League of Assassins against Talia's much smaller League of Shadows. It was a war brewing under the surface of ambiguity. 

He could see Damian’s presence in the new stances Head Industries was taking. The company had always been eco-friendly, but now there was a new factor of non-cruelty in their products. They had started a new branch in the food industry, specializing in cheaper organic and vegan foods. It was as if Damian was calling to him from the grave, tell him that, I might be gone, but I'm still here.

That wasn’t all.

Electricity instead of gas. Protection agencies. Outreach programs for the women in patriarchal sections of the world. A League of Shadows woman had been planted in California and was running as a 3^rd party in the senatorial elections. Bruce had looked over her platform and reluctantly approved of the stance she was taking in most major issues. If he was any other hero, he would’ve said that she seemed like she genuinely wanted to help.

It was what the League should have been in the first place: a group for the betterment of the world.

At least, that was what it looked like on the surface.

Bruce’s senses were screaming at him that something was wrong. That it was a trap. That it was a smokescreen Ra’s and Talia put up to hide more nefarious plans. What else could it be?

Bruce couldn’t accept that Talia wasn’t engaged in something dirty, couldn’t believe that she’d just… changed. It had to be something else.

“Wow, she really went off the deep end,” Jason commented, leaning over Bruce’s shoulder to read an article Bruce had opened on one of the monitors. “Guess she really loved him.”

His son at his shoulder, almost hanging off of him to see what Bruce was doing. Bruce had to catch his breath. It was an echo of simpler times, before dead sons and complicated schemes from across the world. “You think she’s doing this because of Damian?” Bruce asked as Tim wandered over, coffee in hand.

“I mean, it makes sense. Do you really think Talia cares about—” Tim squinted at the screen “—rehoming abused pets? That has Damian written all over it. It’s her way of honouring him.”

Bruce had thought about that. “And turning on Ra’s?” Bruce prompted, wondering if Tim’s thoughts ran along the same lines as his.

Tim nodded. “I mean, we’ve always suspected that sending him to live with you was at least partially about getting him away from Ra’s. And if he’s the reason why Damian was here, then he’s indirectly responsible for Damian dying. I’d be pissed if I were her.”

“Possible motive, check,” Jason said. He nudged Tim. Once the two of them decided that Bruce was done speaking, they meandered over to the other side of the cave.

Bruce turned and gazed at the footage of Talia and her shadows limping away from another skirmish with Ra’s assassins, bloodied but alive. Victorious. She looked at the camera and smirked, as if she knew he would be watching.

He stared at the clip as it replayed, trying to read her eyes before giving up. Looking into her eyes had always been like a trick mirror. You saw yourself reflected back back. People saw what they wanted to see, unable to see what lay behind the glided frame. Likely, Talia wasn't even trying to send him a message. She might have been hoping that Ra's was watching. Bruce put the monitors on standby, pulling up other files as his sons went to change into their uniforms, ribbing each other. The file he ended up with was on the upcoming surgery.

The spinal surgery was not quick and easy process, as they had initially hoped. Informing…

Bruce closed his eyes, took a breath, and thought in more clinical terms to distance himself.

Informing the intended recipient was a hard task, one he took upon himself. He couldn’t leave that task to any of his other children or not-children. The recipient had responded in stunned shock and cold silence, one that immediately morphed into rage that was understandable upon reflection.

“Out.”

“This is an opportunity—”

“Get out!”

A tablet had been thrown with unerring accuracy at his head, only his quick reflexes preventing injury. Placing the tablet on a nearby table, Bruce had retreated before something larger and more expensive—such as the laptop on the bed or the monitor at the table—could be thrown at him.

Jason.

Barbara.

Stephanie.

Damian.

Dick.

Damian again.

Who next? How many more children and not-children would he lose?

It took weeks before the offer of a spine was grudgingly accepted, the recipient hating that it was necessary but understanding that it was for the best.

Measurements were next, the painstaking mapping of every vein and nerve cluster. It was important that every nanometer was accounted for, to ensure that no irreparable damage was done.

This surgery was to be more complicated than Damian’s had been. The sheer amount of time that had passed between the injury’s creation and the surgery meant that it healed, and it healed wrong. The surgeons—apparently fewer in number than the amount that originally operated on Damian—had argued amongst themselves on whether they should go around the scars tissue or if it was possible to reopen the wound. Bruce was certain that the missing surgeons were dead, murdered by Ra's men for their betrayal, or by Talia herself had they chosen her father.

Currently, they were behind schedule, only now finishing the micro-adjustments to Damian’s spine.

…Not Damian’s spine.

The spine that was once Damian’s. Now, it belonged to...

Brokeneyesbetrayalpointedathimneverforgive—

Talia had the foresight to ensure that the spine was adaptable, able to gradually grow with Damian without surgery. The surgeons would simply have to force the spine to lengthen instead of the slow growth that it was built to adjust to. They would also need to realign the receptors to bind to the recipient’s nerves. Bruce now knew more irrelevant information about spines than he cared to. Things like the fact that there were differences between a male and a female’s spine, differences that could be spotted even in infancy, and that following an injury, neurons in the spine can carry pain signals more easily to the brain.  

Tim, Barbara, and Bruce would have to go over the spine and blueprints one last time before the surgery. He wouldn’t put it past Talia to plant a bug or some other trap within the metal casing. He would like to trust her, had once trusted her with his life and heart, but now...

Bruce rubbed his eyes, tiredness sinking in. He didn’t know how much longer he could do this.

The modifications and surgery would be long, but the recovery would be even longer. Muscles that had fallen to dystrophy would have to be retrained to do simple things like walk. It would take months, if not years for a full recovery.

Bruce let his eyes fall shut in defeat. He loved his children. Loved them. But. He couldn't just... stop. He couldn't just leave Gotham.

“My children…”

Jason snorted at Tim's words, descending the last few steps. His heavy boots thudded on the floor of the Batcave.

"Yeah, and—What the fu—" Jason snarled, teal eyes flaring green in a way that had Tim flinching back. “BRUCE!”

Taking a moment to calm his racing heart and shove aside memories of a darkened tower, of broken bones and broken promises, Tim followed Jason's gaze. The moment he saw it, he understood Jason's anger. 

Next to the glass case displaying Jason's torn and bloodied Robin uniform was Nightwing's latest costume and Damian's Robin uniform. Damian's costume was cut up and scorched beyond repair, making even Jason's costume look intact. Unlike Jason's, Damian's had very little blood, the fire taking care of that. In stark contrast to its counterparts, Nightwing's costume was pristine, Dick not having it on when he was crushed.

The two new displays were in cases identical to Jason's, right down to the shiny plaques. Tim couldn't read the plaques from the stairs, but he was kind of expecting something vaguely insulting. Maybe "A DECENT ALLY" for Nightwing, and perhaps "HE TRIED" for Damian. 

Bruce had the decency to look ashamed from where he was sitting at the Batcomputer. 

"Really? This is how you honor your family? We—They were your sons, not your soldiers," Jason hissed, stalking forward. Tim winced, catching that slip. If he caught it, there was no chance that Bruce didn't.

“Jason.” Bruce cautiously stood, watching Jason’s approach with wariness. 

“Bruce,” Jason returned with a sneer.

”You are reading the situation wrong. Calm down,” Bruce ordered.

Tim winced. That… would not help the situation. Like, at all. When had this family ever responded well to an order to calm down, especially in that tone?

Sure enough, Jason vibrated with anger. "That—That's—" He flung his hand out at the cases. "What's wrong with you?"

"There are things you don't understand—"

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly well."

They paused, two predators metaphorically circling each other.

"Three out of four," Jason said. 

Tim blinked before realizing that Jason meant the Robins. Five, not four. Had anyone told Jason about Steph? About what Black Mask did? At this point, Tim was torn between gratefulness that Jason didn't know and something darker, more vicious. That side was considering telling Jason just to have someone verbalize his hurt to Bruce.

His brother wasn't done yet, though. "What, are you looking to complete the set? Watch your back, Replacement. You're the only one he hasn't added to his collection yet!"

Tim flinched, though Jason had long since started using the term "replacement" as an endearment instead of an insult.

Jason still wasn’t done.

”Just nudge Damian’s to the side a little! We’ve gone through ‘beaten to death’, ‘out of costume’, and fire. What next? Drowning? Sniper? A little acid?” Jason ranted. 

Recoiling, Tim could do nothing but watch as images of the Red Robin uniform in various states flooded his mind. Undamaged, like Nightwing’s. Unmarred except for a single round hole. Faded and eaten away at the edges.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

Tim trembled, suddenly aware of his mortality. It had happened with all the other Robins. Why not him too? He’d come close in the desert, had lost Owens and Z and his spleen. He’d almost bled out, had only survived because of Ra’s al Ghul and sheer determination. He’d almost died and he hadn’t even told Bruce about it, would never if he had the choice.

He couldn’t quite get a hold of himself before Jason saw him. Something like regret flashed across Jason’s face, and the older boy opened his mouth again. No words came out. Jason turned on his heel and stomped towards his bike. 

The engine roared to life, Jason revving it obnoxiously before racing out of the Cave, leaving Tim alone with Bruce. Tim felt Bruce’s gaze on him.

"That is kinda cold," Tim said neutrally, not meeting Bruce's eyes. 

Sighing, Bruce ran a hand through his hair. He looked away.

"It wasn't meant as an honor," he said. "Do you think I want to display..."

Bruce took a deep breath. From the way he shifted, Tim knew that Bruce was looking at him, waiting to make eye contact. His mentor wouldn't be saying a word until Tim did.

It was an unspoken offer. Bruce was willing to let Tim know, but only if Tim wanted to.

But did he really want to know what screwed-up reason Bruce had for the morbid display cases? Tim knew that out of all the Bats, both living and not, he was the one most similar to Bruce in temperament and thought process. What if he agreed with whatever Bruce's explanation was?

Well, curiosity had always been a weakness of his.

Reluctantly, Tim met Bruce's gaze.

"They are a reminder," Bruce finally said. "A warning to me that... even the best of us can fall. I’ve never been very good at it but it’s… important to show love for one another because in this line of work… there’s no guarantees.”

Tim looked at the gristly display with new eyes. 

"It's... still an asshole move," he told Bruce. Bruce smiled wryly. 

“I’ve been told I make those a lot.”

Tim didn’t bother responding, just turned and left. There was nothing left to say.

Jason could feel Tim slither up behind him like a snake approaching prey. He was somewhat surprised. After racing out of the cave like a bat out of hell—his mouth twitched—Jason had stashed his bike behind some bushes and doubled back into the Manor. He hadn't been ready to leave. He had thought he would have more time before Tim tracked him down. Half a day, at least, as his little brother systematically hunted down his many safehouses that he didn't tell the Bats about yet.

He didn’t acknowledge the soft footsteps even when Tim slipped into a crouch beside him.

They were settled in the secondary parlor, a stiff room that Jason had only visited once before. It was at the beginning of his time with Bruce, the first Manor party he’d ever had to attend. It had been horrible, a cesspool of sugary comments, plastic smiles and forced laughs. Disgusting, fake people that made his skin itch and stomach turn. He’d desperately escaped to this room, hoping for a way out of the suffocating atmosphere. The secondary parlor had only made him feel worse though and he had been thrust into an anxiety attack. Dickhead had been the one to find him and lure him to the kitchen with promises of hot chocolate. 

Leaning back against the never-used sofa, Jason sighed. This room held only bad memories for him, and yet he found himself drawn back to make more. Dickiebird had almost made the memory something good, but the true comfort had only really started once they had been settled at the kitchen counter, hot drinks chasing away the remaining jitters and chill. 

”I shouldn’t defend him,” Tim said, staring at the ceiling. Jason snorted.

”Nope. But you’re going to anyways.”

Tim sighed. “I am. You know he’s just… an idiot. He doesn’t think things through, doesn’t consider what it looks like to other people.”

Jason's thoughts immediately went to the uniform hanging next to his own Red Hood gear, the one that had sat there for the last couple months. It was still brand-new, unused since its creation.

The latest rendition of the Nightwing uniform.

More shielded at certain joints, but otherwise identical to the previous one, save for red coloring where there had once been blue. It wasn't the same shade of red that Nightwing had a couple of years back, something darker, like the red of Damian's uniform or the one of Tim's own Red Robin uniform. 

The very thought of that costume left a bitter taste in Jason's mouth. Bruce hadn't asked anyone's opinion before he chose to have it made. Not Tim. Not Jason. Did his idiot of an adoptive father even think of what Dick would say if he saw that shade of red on—

”He’s a dumbass,” Jason stated firmly.

“Yeah, he is.”

The agreement wasn't as satisfying as he thought it would be.

Jason laughed, the sound harsh and grating. “I thought—I thought it was just me. That I was the Robin who died, the one who didn’t deserve a—" He cut himself off with a strangled sound, half sob, half something else that couldn’t be described. Heaving in breaths, he fought to shove the hissing voice of the Pit back in its cage. It didn’t bother him as much these days but Bruce had always been a sure-fire way to get him seeing green.

”I almost died when Bruce was stuck in the time stream,” Tim remarked casually. Jason shot him an incredulous look, but Tim just kept talking. “I had finally found the deciding clue to his whereabouts and my team got ambushed almost immediately after. Two of my team died, the other got her larynx slashed and I lost my spleen—"

”You lost your what!?”

”Not important right now. It's not like I said I lost my virginity or something. As I was saying, it was bad. But I realized something, bleeding out in the sand. I thought to myself, ‘I don’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to be left behind.’ And I think, as repulsing as Bruce’s displays are to us, they’re his way of remembering. Of making sure we never get left behind. I know they’re hurtful and I know they’re so so screwed up but… so is Bruce. I mean, what sane guy runs around in a bat costume, right?” Tim smiled weakly. "Furries, am I right?"

Bombarded by all those new facts, Jason was silent for a long moment. It was nearly impossible to piece together the entire story with the puzzle pieces that Tim just presented. Missing organs... Virginity... Bleeding to death at a beach or something... Something about furries... Typical of Tim, really, to taunt people with interesting tidbits but not bothering to explain what actually happened. After a minute, he realized Tim was starting to tense up. His idiot younger brother was probably thinking that he’d messed up, made it all worse or something. What was up with this family and martyr complexes?

There was only one thing Jason could do.

He groaned dramatically, resting an arm over his eyes and slouched back. "Why do you have to go all brainy on me like this, Timberlina?” Jason rubbed his eyes in mock-exasperation. “Just once, just this once, I’d like to be pissed at Bruce and have others pissed with me.”

Mood lightening instantly, Tim snorted. “Oh, no. I’m mad too. Definitely. I just happen to have a different way of showing it.”

"Yeah, and what are you going to do? Put tacks in his shoes?”

”I was thinking something more along the lines of ‘accidentally’ slipping up about Bruce’s love affair with Batman and their half-human half-bat child to the press.”

Jason’s grin was all teeth before he suddenly remembered something. “Wait, let’s go back to the virgini—I mean, spleen for a second—”

Chapter Text

2 Months Ago

Talia walked into the LoS base, the cat in her arms and the dog at her heels. Several assassins looked in askance at the animals as she walked deeper into the base, but Talia gave nothing away. It was not their place to question her.

Opening the door to her suite, Talia released the cat, which immediately made a beeline for the chair by the desk, the one surrounded by half a dozen monitors. The dog immediately followed the feline. Rather than feeling abandoned, Talia felt relief that they left.

“I brought you two of the pets you are so fond of. The cow—" Here, she wrinkled her nose. “—will be staying with your alien friend.”

The chair spun around. Her son opened his mouth, reconsidered his words, and finally spoke with stilted words. “That is acceptable. Thank you, Mother.” Damian looked back at the largest screen in front of him, where the events at the Manor were playing. “A brilliant performance as always, Mother.”

Together, they watched the Talia onscreen fall to her knees, face cracking in despair. In the depths of her own mind, Talia wondered if she would act that upset over her son if he died for real. Of course she would be devastated, he was her son, but would she publicly mourn him like that? Willingly bare her vulnerabilities in front of those who were tenacious allies at best, enemies at worst?

She quickly banished the thought, instead fixing her eyes on the reports on the screen next to it.

It was best not to think of things she didn’t want to know the answer to.

“What will you have me do?” Damian asked, face betraying nothing when she glanced at his dark reflection on a blank screen. 

Talia wrapped a slim arm around her son, pulling him close, feeling how much bigger and stronger he was. How long had it been since they were able to be just mother and son, instead of teacher and student, commander and soldier? Under her father, such weakness would result in punishment for the both of them.

Talia wouldn’t lie to herself, or her son, in this regard. She was fully aware that her son was never truly hers. Her object of affections, maybe, her blood, definitely, but hers? Completely and utterly hers? Never. He was the League’s—their puppet—and then Bruce’s—his son—and then Dick Grayson’s—his Robin. He was not Talia’s, did not know her. Some parts of her regretted that. Others could only find relief that he would not turn out like her. She saw so much of herself in him. It almost scared her.

Luckily, there was so much of Bruce in him too.

Humming, Talia ran a hand through his hair. She could feel him fight himself, tell himself not to, then lean into her touch anyway. Under her father, he would be punished for this. She should give him punishment for this. This was a weakness, something that could be exploited. What if some enemy lowered his guard with a kind touch, only to thrust a blade between his ribs? Talia would never forgive herself if such a thing happened, but she could not stop stroking her son's hair. She could hardly bear the thought of punishing him for this, especially when it was in part due to her own weakness. 

After this, when her son was safely away from her, Talia would punish herself for this indulgence. 

After.

But for now, she let herself enjoy the feeling of connection between herself and her son. 

“What do you think I will have you do?” Talia asked. Tucked closely against her side as he was, Talia had no trouble feeling him tense up. No doubt he thought it was a test. 

Was it a test?

Talia didn't know.

She didn't know who she was without her father. She didn't know how much of her actions were hers, and how much were her father's, whispering in the corners of her mind and directing her actions like the marionette she had been for so long. 

The marionette that she still was, snared by His teachings, instincts driven by Him.

“I do not want to kill again,” Damian admitted stonily, words drawing her out of the pit she had unknowingly slipped into.

Talia breathed out a sigh, one that was barely distinguishable from a normal breath. Yes, Damian was very much her Beloved’s child. “Then you will not,” she stated simply, ignoring the feeling of failing a test.

Her son did not fail.

The failure was all hers. 

At her side, Damian froze. “Mother?” he said cautiously. He leaned away, tilting his head up to examine her face.

What did he see on her face? What did he see in her? 

“Mother, what do you mean?” He tested the waters, fingers of his right hand curling ever-so-slightly in a tell—but a tell of what, she wasn’t sure. Reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there?

It bothered her that she could not tell, where once she could’ve predicted his every move without flaw.

“I… care for you,” Talia admitted, struggling with the words. I love you. “If you are to stand by my side now and forever, it would not do to have you unhappy.” I don’t want to lose you again. I don't want you to leave me.

Still Damian studied her, eyes darting around her face, searching for clues. She wondered what he saw and if he could hear the words she left unspoken. If he was anything like his father, then he would not understand her, not without her explicitly telling him.

“Of course, Mother,” he said neutrally.

This time, it was Talia who could not read him. Did he understand her message?

Damian lowered his head it that peculiar bow he taught himself, low enough to be respectful, yet head angled just enough to be able to see, should she move to strike him. “I am grateful for your kindness.”

I am not kind, she thought, staring at her son’s lowered head. If I were, I would let you go.

Chapter Text

It was necessary to fake his death, Damian knew. If he did not, there was no length his family wouldn’t go to get him back. You bet your little butt there isn’t, Grayson would’ve chimed in agreement. They would disregard his oath to his mother and take him back.

Even though he wanted more than anything to go home and hug Grayson, he couldn’t. He made an agreement, and he always kept his word.

For all intent, Mother’s latest failed clone did its job in convincing his family that Damian was dead. Shortly before its body had been planted at the scene of his 'death', an adjustable metal spine had been grafted into its back, identical to the one in Damian’s own back except for minuscule internal differences, ones that would not be detected by scan. Legendary Bat paranoia had ensured that the cave had multiple scans of Damian’s spine, but without physically splitting Damian’s skin and surgically opening the spine’s casing, there was no way they could know of any difference in the makeup of the spine.

Damian himself combed over the spine, checking for traps and finding none. He poured over blueprints and medical scans, yet could find no flaw in the make. There were no fatal failsafe or malicious tracking devices. It was indeed just a spine. 

Mother had assured him that something had gone wrong inside of the clone’s growth pod, that it was already dead and not specifically grown to die. Damian could not tell if she was lying or not, but for his part, he truly believed his mother was telling the truth.

Damian did his best to soften the blow to his family. The clone had to be burned to hide its lack of scars, but Damian himself was the one to nick the clone’s artery before the burns were applied. Hopefully, that would convince his family that Damian bled out quickly, with no time to truly work up a panic. That he died before the burns.

He wasn’t sure if the ploy worked, but he was hopeful. Cruel a plan this was, he would not bring them unnecessary pain and allow them to believe he died slowly. He wished them no extra hurt, not even Drake.

He had been mourned. 

There was no gaudy funeral, no touching speeches in his honor. It was too much of a risk, having Damian die at the same time Robin was taken out of commission. But he had been mourned. It was in the animal shelter that was opened just off the Bowery and how Pennyworth still bought vegetables. No doubt the increased greenness of the Manor meals would inconvenience carnivores such as Todd and Brown. Damian was very proud of that fact. 

Mother had Damian start with small tasks. Inconsequential missions, no doubt tests to prove his loyalty to her cause. He should have been insulted, but with every passing second, he felt like more and more was being drained from him, leaving only a bone-deep exhaustion.

He was introduced to her rebel faction of the League as their prince, a person worthy of their lives. The treatment was oddly reminiscent of his childhood with a few tweaks. Training was one. Damian trained with his mother most of the time, sparring non-lethally, more of a dance than a fight. They were nowhere near the same level, but Mother was not nearly as overwhelming as she would be when employing deadly methods.

A part of Damian warmed at her attempts to prevent bloodshed. Maybe it was just because they no longer had a Lazarus Pit to dump someone in if they were injured too badly, but her little transitions away from killing meant a lot to him. She had even agreed to his own division, an experimental group of only a few members that he would attempt to teach to use non-lethal tactics. It was slow-going so far, but Damian did not expect any less. These people had been raised as assassins. It was hard to adapt to a whole new fighting style. He knew from experience.

"I did something wrong," Damian muttered, trying to scrub the red off his hands. "What did I do wrong?" The water ran red as blood washed off into the sink. 

One of his men, the one that liked to slip dirt into people’s shoes, had flinched when his sparring opponent had attacked and automatically responded lethally. It was a training spar, but in the face of fatal strikes, both opponents instinctively reverted to their old assassins' training. 

It led to one of them nursing broken bones, while the other bled out on the sand. Refusing help from his other students, Damian had staunched the blood flow himself before the medics arrived and rushed the two off to the med bay. 

Maybe they couldn’t change. Wasn’t this why Father never took lethal action against his foes? Once a killer, always a killer.

You’re not.

It was all his fault. 

"Lil' D, you can’t blame yourself for this. It’s not an easy task," Grayson said. "Maybe.... Maybe you should go home. Bruce helped train you out of these instincts, didn't he? He'd help."

Damian ignored him, as he always did when Grayson mentioned leaving the LoS or going back. He bit back the instinctive, 'You were the one to teach me kindness, not Father.'

"Dami, stop. You're hurting yourself," Grayson begged.

Damian blinked.

The water steamed and ran clear, but Damian could still see the red covering his hands, bright ruby against his tanned skin. He scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, skin stinging and raw. It wouldn’t come off.

"It was never this hard before," he muttered.

Two hands covered his own, smaller ones, shielding him from the blistering water. 

Damian's heart stopped. For a moment the only thought in his head was—

"...Grayson?"

Green eyes blinked down at him. The faucet was turned off as the female Leaguer grabbed his hands, eyes narrowed and inspecting them. Her nose was crooked from multiple breaks and she was bald. It was a distinctive look that helped Damian recognize her as one of his.

“No," she said, voice abnormally low and scratchy. "I’m Pru.”

That... was probably a nickname.

“Your hands don’t look too bad, but you should probably go see the doc just in case. Won’t be much help teaching if you can’t use ‘em.” She dropped his hands and crossed her arms. The informal, edging on rude, way she spoke to him would likely get her in trouble with anyone else but it almost reminded him of Jason. 

"What is your last name?" Damian asked. 

A spark of something mischievous in her eyes. "Who knows?”

She led him away. As Damian risked a glance back just before the door closed, he could almost swear he saw Grayson's sad eyes watching him.

He kept busy. The silence, the moments of idleness reminded him of the manor, of simpler, happier times.

In the rare free time he had, he tried to draw and play with his pets. More and more, however, he ended up sleeping. He hadn’t expected the relocation to be so tiring but even with the naps, the fatigue never seemed to fade.

It was a truly dangerous game, to engage in potentially harmful activities with less than stellar attention. A few nicks here and there were quick to wake him up during training. 

Well, they woke him up momentarily. As the battles wore on, he found it harder and harder to keep up his concentration. He had never noticed it before, as a child, but the way the League fought was… predictable. 

They all fought more or less the same, They prioritized speed and lethality, each move a precise strike at a critical area. As long as he kept his arms up, ready to defend key strikes at his neck and other vulnerable areas, he could sort of… drift away. Even his own team, with it’s slowly developing style, was more of a challenge.

Damian found himself taking more and more risks while fighting them, trying to force them to change their fighting styles, make them different from the drones they were.

His only rewards were bruises.

Before... Before the Incident, Grayson had been trying to teach him to do the quadruple somersault. The Flying Grayson's move. A move that only a few people in the entire world could do. Not wanting to fail in front of his mentor, Damian had initially refused. Statistically, he would be unable to successfully perform it, no doubt disappointing his Batman. 

Grayson, the imbecile, had not accepted that answer. He recounted his own failures with that move. He spoke of how it was 'a learning process, Dami,' and that it took him months of constant training, not to mention an entire childhood of acrobatics, to be able to perform the move. At the end of his monologue, he had held out his open hand to Damian, waiting. 

And Damian... Damian had taken it.

Now, Damian flipped off of the platform, curling his body and remembering Grayson's coaching. 

One flip.

Two flips. 

Thre—

He couldn't do it. Not enough strength, and his target was quickly approaching. He would need to abort the movement and grab on if he didn't want to fall. 

Damian reached for the hanging bar, but his fingers slipped off.

Damian fell, knowing that no one would catch him.

Grayson wasn't here.

Grayson thought he was dead.

Grayson couldn't—

All the breath left his lungs as he landed squarely on the safety net. Damian laid there, staring up at the platform.

The Grayson’s never used safety nets.

"It's okay to make mistakes. What's important is that you get up and try again," Grayson said.

"Shut up," Damian muttered, ignoring how Harun, the one who excelled with throwing knives, squinted at him.

He couldn't do it.

Couldn't be the Father's perfect son, couldn't be mother's invincible heir, couldn't be Grayson's Robin, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't—

“You would hate me, Grayson, if you could see me now.” 

His fighting style was again favoring the League’s in form and function. He had only realized it today.

Just that morning, during training, he had retaliated in a moment of fury when his opponent had drawn blood. In his anger, he had overpowered her and struck her throat. He had the mind to lighten his blow at the last possible second, but she had still had to go to the medics. 

When he had looked up from where she was being assisted off the field, he had seen his mother watching, some emotion glittering in her eyes.

He feared it was disapproval, but even more than that, he feared it was approval.

Never. There’s nothing you could possibly do to make me love you any less.

”Shut up. You’re just a figment of my imagination, likely caused by a mixture of trauma and stress. The real Grayson would never approve of what I’m doing.”

Approval and love are very different things, Dami, and I will always love you. Always.

“I wish you were real.”

Me too, Dami. Me too.

It was cold. He couldn’t get warm. It was worse at night.

As he cuddled with Titus and Alfred the cat for warmth as much as contact, he thought of Grayson. He imagined Nightwing, soaring through the sky like the bird he was always destined to be. He pictured Grayson’s smile, Grayson’s encouragement, Grayson’s arms wrapped around him.

The memory only made him feel colder in its absence.

Exhausted mentally rather than physically, Damian dozed off, only to jolt awake to the echo of Grayson’s laugh. His heart soared like birds in the night, only to plummet when his mind reminded him that he was alone.

The word was bitter in his mouth, full of the spoiled taste of regret and the sourness of missed opportunities. Why didn’t he say it more when he had the chance? Why could he only now voice it, here where no other human could hear?

”…Baba?”

It was a lonely chirp, a call that wouldn’t be answered.

A word meant to be shared between two, but one would never hear. 

The moon was hidden that night, so Damian promised to the shadows that he’d never say that word ever again.