Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Selina didn’t think she would have children. That is, until she met Jason.

At first, he clumsily tested her. He would snap at every word or try to shock her with brazen behavior and the dirtiest profanities that he could come up with. Selina laughed. Afterwards, he began to cautiously observe her from a distance, never coming close enough. Selina calmly offered her hand and waited. When he felt the shared past, recognized in her the same Gotham streets that had raised him, he approached closer. Selina began to open up. The first time he said, “Whatever, Mom,” nonchalantly hiding behind a joke. Selina said that she would make a terrible mother. But when months later he asked if he could call her like that, she felt like the happiest woman in the world.

She didn’t think that she would have children. She never thought that she would have to bury her own son.

In the gray colors of Gotham, obscured by clouds, time seemed to have stopped. And it felt right. Unlike everything else.

Alfred aged abruptly by a decade. Lost and quiet Dick looked so unlike to his usual self. A lifeless void was the only thing left in Bruce’s eyes. White lilies skillfully arranged into a beautiful wreath seemed too bright for a gray day like that. The dark wood of the coffin slowly disappearing into the grave could not be real at all.

Selina tightened her grip on Bruce's hand as the coffin descended into the ground with a soft thud. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. Her only wish was to wake up in the mansion, not remembering any of this nightmare. She opened her eyes and saw the withered April grass and the gray tombstone.

The nightmare didn’t end.

It pursued her every morning when she woke up and remembered. When she forced herself to go downstairs and eat breakfast. When she fed the cats. When she went outside, drove the car, talked to people. Kept on living as if nothing happened.

Jason wouldn’t have wanted for everything to stop. He also wouldn’t have wanted to die. No one wanted such a cruel death. No one deserved it. Or almost no one.

According to the calendar, Selina descended into the cave two weeks later. According to her feelings, both few hours and one eternity had passed since.

She found Bruce at the computer. In the bluish light of the monitors, his gaunt face resembled an unfamiliar mask. When he heard her footsteps, he turned, raising his gaze, but said nothing. He barely spoke since he had brought Jason home. His words were in his gaze, emphasized by heavy shadows under his eyes. In his hold that became too tight. In the nightly patrols that lasted until dawn.

Selina wanted to hear something else entirely.

“You are not going to kill him.”

She didn’t ask. Selina only told what she knew. What she saw in him.

“Selina, this is still…”

“Don’t,” she shook her head. “Don’t say anything.”

“Selina…”

“Don’t!” she abruptly interrupted him.

Selina had accepted the rules of his game. She had agreed to his whim. And it turned out to be a terrible mistake. A mistake that Bruce refused to acknowledge. He was about to say the same things as before. Selina couldn't bear to listen to the same empty words.

Bruce fell silent, never taking his gaze off her. He himself resembled a dead man. A dead man desperately clinging to such a beautiful and nonviable idea.

“Let's just not talk about it, okay?” she suggested.

Bruce nodded wearily.

In the prevailing silence, she approached closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. He covered her hand with his own, leaning his head against her touch. Time momentarily froze; as it should have from the very beginning.

But for the first time since the funeral, returning to her—though only Harley and Ivy constantly resided there—mansion, Selina especially keenly felt its flow. Death should have touched everything in Gotham, should have left its imprint on every stone.

Instead, May arrived, and the plants that enveloped the mansion bloomed, coloring the walls with vibrant patches. They entwined the steel railings near the door. Selina noticed one of the vines moving.

“Hello, Ivy.”

As Selina entered inside, she was greeted by Harley.

“Kitty!” she exclaimed, instantly hanging onto Selina. “Come in, come in. Although if this is your home, should I invite you? No, all cats must be invited. And fed,” she nodded energetically, pulling Selina by the hand and seating her at the table.

She could behave in her usual way, but Selina saw the seriousness that didn't suit her at all. Concern, frozen somewhere deep in her eyes. Stranger’s eyes on a familiar face.

“You and the kitchen? Should I be worried?” Selina asked, smiling as best she could.

“Phew! That's hurtful, by the way. Alright, when you're amazed by what awaits you, I'll forgive you.”

Selina sat frozen at the table, trying to understand why she allowed herself to be seated. Trying to remember when she last ate. She definitely had breakfast, but was there lunch? Food had become an unpleasant necessity. Without it, Selina grew weaker. With it, she tried to cope with the heavy lump in her throat.

Harley returned a couple of minutes later, ceremoniously placing a plate with a toast generously smeared in thick layer of light orange colored jam, in front of her.

“If you don't eat it, then I'll have to. And I can't stand apricot jam,” Harley wrinkled her nose as she sat on a nearby chair.

“Thank you, Harley.”

“Mmm, you're the one to thank. For saving me from the jam.”

“And the royal cuisine?” Selina asked.

“Royal?! I should not be allowed in the kitchen!” protested Harley.

Selina forced a smile.

She had no appetite, but started eating anyway. She thought she probably should. She still couldn’t remember if she had lunch.

The first bite. It wouldn’t change anything if she didn’t eat.

The second. The taste was hardly noticeable, but she didn’t really need it.

The third. Harley and Ivy were already too concerned.

The fourth. Jason wouldn’t want…

A heavy lump formed in her throat, and Selina set the toast aside. Harley, tracing circles on the table with her index finger, shot her a brief glance. But Selina noticed. Someday she would thank her, but for now, Selina had no energy for that conversation. She came for something else.

“Where's Ivy?" she asked.

“In eeevery leaf and every flower,” Harley replied, stretching the word. “And also in the living room. I think.”

Selina nodded and got up. She silently walked through the corridor, gazing at the vines spreading across the walls in intricate patterns. Every leaf and every flower. Even in the dark stone jungles of Gotham, there was enough greenery.

Indeed, Ivy was in the living room. She sat on the floor, legs crossed, and green vines, almost completely covering the floor, lazily coiled around her arms and ankles. They parted under Selina's steps, even though Ivy didn’t look at her.

She still was able to see. And Selina needed her eyes.

Silently, Selina sat down next to Ivy, and one of the vines moved onto her lap. Ivy didn't say anything aloud, but in the silence, Selina could sense the patient anticipation. Ivy was waiting for the question, and Selina wanted to ask it. She wanted it ever since Bruce called her from Qurac.

“Can you find him?” Selina finally asked.

“I can and I will, Kitty. No matter what hole he's hiding in,” Ivy promised, gently running her hand through Selina's hair.

She had a reason to hate the Joker. And that same reason had kept him alive for so long. It would have kept him alive even longer if he hadn't crossed the line.

Several vines on the floor intertwined, making a soft creaking sound. Selina watched as they stretched, transformed, and became covered in leaves, until they turned into a small bird that perched on her shoulder.

“We'll do this together, Kitty," Ivy promised. Her lips didn't move, but the leaves of the bird trembled slightly as her voice sounded.

As Selina was leaving, she noticed Harley frozen in the doorway, her mask crumbling away. Another woman was looking at Selina. A woman with profound sadness reflected in her bottomless eyes.

“Kitty, I'm sorry, but... do it quickly,” she asked.

He didn’t deserve to die quickly. He tortured her son for hours. He abused Harley for years and almost managed to break her. Selina could easily imagine herself killing him slowly. After each blow she would ask if he’s disappointed that Batman never came down to him. If he regrets about every Harley’s tear now. If he understands that he won’t ever be avenged, unlike Robin was. But Selina knew that he is too insane for any regrets. She didn’t want to give him anything. Even the time to realize what’s coming.

He should just die. The rest didn’t matter. Jason deserved so much more, but she could only give him that.

“Everything will end quickly, Harley. I don't want to give him any chances,” Selina spoke the only truth that she wanted Harley to hear.

“Come back soon," Harley whispered, abruptly turning around before fleeing deeper into the mansion.

Selina closed the door behind her.

“It's a pity,” Selina felt the movement of the leaf-feathers on her shoulder. "He deserves pain."

“He won't be able to understand it.”

“And again, it's a pity.”

“He deserved even more,” she echoed Jason's words.

She couldn't even remember how many times he had told her that. But in every conversation, he would instantly flare up, erupting with words that were too loud, with nervous steps and quick gestures. It was as if he desperately wanted to believe that someone truly deserved it. That such people existed, wandering nearby on the streets, so often going unpunished.

Bruce didn't understand that. Selina only had a guess, never directly asking. She waited for him to tell her himself, if he could. If he ever wanted to. Joker deprived him of the opportunity to free his heart from the old splinter. Deprived him of the world, of faith, of warmth—of absolutely everything. Deprived him so early.

“But he deserved even more!”

“He did, Kitten,” Selina would usually reply to him.

“He did, Kitty,” echoed the bird on Selina's shoulder, as if hearing her thoughts. “He deserved so much more than a simple death,” Ivy's voice carried a dangerous venom, giving Selina strength. “But we, you and I, know about mercy, don't we?”

Her triumphant laughter sounded like music, like an anthem Selina desperately needed.

“We do,” Selina said, sitting on the motorcycle and putting on her mask. “Lead the way.”

The bird took off from her shoulder, and Selina followed it.

Chapter Text

A month had passed.

A month since the castle had been filled with unfamiliar bustle. Something was always happening in the League—it was the natural order of things. But Damian hadn’t liked those particular preparations from the very beginning. His mother was too immersed in them. At first, she paid so much attention to the body double, personally observing the results and nitpicking every small detail. She demanded the reshaping of a single wound on the cheek multiple times, even though she knew the embalmers had already made it barely noticeable. But his mother demanded perfection, demanded speed, and to Damian seemed too engrossed in the matter.

She became even more immersed as she received the real body. And when… what happened, happened.

Damian was present at the ceremony, but barely paid attention to it. He watched his mother closely instead.

She didn't even try to hide her anticipation. She scowled, biting her lip in impatience as the body was carried to the Waters. She held her breath as it was lowered, and it slowly sank to the bottom. She froze like a statue as the waters closed over the dead, but nothing had happened. When her eyes widened, Damian himself turned to the Lazarus Pit, looking at the person resurfacing. For a moment, it seemed like everything turned out to be perfect. Just like his mother wanted.

Then the person in the Pit screamed. No, he howled like a wounded beast. Or something way worse.

His scream was so loud that its echo alone deafened. The scream damaged his vocal cords, and the drops of the Lazarus Waters clinging to his neck evaporated into a poison green mist, healing them anew.

There was nothing human in that howl—a chorus of madness, agony, and sorrow ripped through the air and crawled deep under the skin, down to the very bones. Even Damian, who had heard enough screams in his life, both human and otherwise, felt a shiver run down his spine at the memory of that cry, even a month later.

And that cry was and remained the only sign of life from a person who had been put into the Lazarus Pit.

Damian stood opposite to the door of his room, leaning against the wall. He was waiting for his mother's and her... project return. Lately, she had been spending all her time with him, refusing to admit defeat.

Damian recognized their footsteps the moment he had heard them. They stood out among all the others in the League. Soft and barely audible—those could belong to anyone. Heavy, clumsy, shuffling—only to one person.

“Damian,” his mother said, approaching closer. "What brought you here?"

"Curiosity about your work did, Mother."

He turned to her and narrowed his eyes, seeing the familiar sight: his mother leading the dead man by the hand. She could let go of him and walk away, and he would remain standing there, staring blankly into nothingness. When someone guided him, he walked. When no one touched him, he remained still. If left alone, he could sit or lie down in the same spot where he was left.

This was anything but life.

His mother's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. She took the dead man to the door, opened it, and led him inside. She sat him on the bed. Like a doll. As if she had got the body double that was meant to end up in the morgue.

Damian entered the room, quickly surveying the sparsely furnished space. Just a few pieces of furniture—a table, a couple of chairs. The bed. A small wardrobe for clothes. It seemed that even his mother understood that this person didn't need much. Even if she didn't want to admit it.

“I have to say, I am impressed so far. The amount of wasted time is almost unbelievable.”

His mother gently placed the dead man's hands on his lap. Straightening up, she turned to Damian. Her gaze was somewhat distant, like it had been for the past month. As if the lifeless void had clawed its way into her as well.

Damian clenched his teeth.

“A month ago, Jason was dead,” she replied.

“I cannot say that he is alive now.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Damian looked at the dead man, trying to find any sign of consciousness. He maintained his balance, not falling. He was breathing. That was where the mockery of life ended. Even in his colorless eyes, there was only void. Even the bloodstain from the ruptured vessel in his right eye seemed more like a reminder that biologically he was indeed alive, than an actual injury.

Damian approached him closer, running his palm right in front of his face, but there was no reaction. He took the dead man by the chin, lifting his face and meeting no resistance.

“What makes you call this life? You used to be able to acknowledge defeat before,” Damian said. “He is dead.”

“I missed the moment when my son suddenly acquired so much knowledge on the Lazarus Pit,” his mother replied.

“It is obvious that they do not bring back life!” Damian raised his voice in frustration. “On this occasion at the very least.”

“Dami...”

Her voice sounded so faint and weak that Damian's upper lip twitched. His mother had never spoken like that. Even barely conscious from her injuries, she sounded different. But this lifeless void was swiftly erasing everything he knew about her. It was destroying her.

His mother had never sounded so... pathetic.

“What?” he asked sharply.

His mother wasn't looking at him. Only by following her gaze did Damian realize his mistake.

What he had taken for weakness was actually caution. Quiet disbelief, perhaps.

Damian himself could barely believe it when he locked eyes with the gray – not colorless at all – eyes. The dead man was looking at him. Looking directly into his eyes. There was no trace of the usual void or inability to focus on anything.

Damian released the grip on his face.

The dead man slightly lowered his upturned chin and continued to stare directly at Damian.

“Step away to the other wall,” mother asked.

Frowning, Damian took a few steps, confident that the strange reaction would end there. Instead, the dead man continued to watch, tracking his every step. Never taking his eyes off Damian's face.

Damian took a few more steps, with the same result.

The dead man observed Damian, paying no attention to his mother.

“I do not understand. Why is he watching me?” Damian asked.

He would understand if the attention was directed at his mother. She had been taking care of this person for a month, patiently assisting him in everything from food to clothing. She spoke to him in his native language, trying to drive out the emptiness from his mind. She took him out of the room, not allowing his body to become useless.

Damian was nothing to him. Just a random person, a couple of brief encounters lasting a few seconds each. His touch couldn't have had such an effect either – his mother constantly touched the dead man. It was unlikely that some word that triggered something in his memory. It was unlikely that he knew Arabic at all since mother spoke to him only in English. But it couldn’t be a coincidence either. Damian didn't believe in coincidences. Not in the case like that.

He had no answer. But his mother did.

“He might be drawn to someone familiar,” she said, her finger lightly touching her chin in thought. “But not familiar enough to provoke a negative reaction.”

“What are you talking about?” Damian was confused.

“About the resemblance to your father.”

Damian turned sharply to her. They had never talked about his father. Damian saw in the mirrors the features that he inherited not from the Al Ghuls, and he had always considered that his only connection to the unknown man. He never asked about him. Damian deemed the questions pointless, deciding that his father was either dead or irrelevant. Both options evoked only indifference.

But if any of those were true, this… Jason – whoever he may be – wouldn’t have appeared in the castle.

“Does he know my father?”

“He is his son.”

His mother spoke casually, as if she was talking about an approaching rain. Damian felt as if either his hearing had failed him, or his mind.

“He is my brother?!” he stared in disbelief at Jason, who was still silently watching him.

Damian looked at his face as if for the first time, desperately searching for something familiar. Something he had noticed in the mirrors before. Something that wasn’t his mother’s.

He could not find anything.

“Not by blood,” his mother clarified, and everything fell into place. “But you can call him that.”

The absence of shared blood didn't change much. Even if they weren't directly related, the indirect connection raised too many questions. About his father—somewhere out there, alive. About his mother's relationship with him. Not only she knew about his son but also found out about his death so quickly. She knew where to look for the body. And for some reason she decided to experiment with the Lazarus Pit.

But there was another question. A question that Damian wanted to shout out.

“Don’t you think I should have known it earlier, mother?” he asked coldly.

“No,” she answered simply. “You are here only because you considered him to be the lost cause. How would it benefit you to know about your connection, if he really was just an empty shell?”

Her words made sense. And at the same time, she chose the most convenient ones – as she usually did. With everyone else, but not with him. Damian clenched his fists until the knuckles turned pale. He slowly counted to five in his head, not allowing the anger to take over.

“This was not a choice for you to make!” — And yet he couldn't resist the sharp accusatory gesture, pointing his finger at his mother.

“It was. Yours was to never ask about your father.”

“Does he even know about my existence?”

“No.”

Just one word was enough for Damian to feel that no amount of counting would help. That he was dangerously close to saying things he would regret. His anger could poison both him and his mother. There was simply too much he wanted to say, but none of it was rational. It was as if he was a child unable to control himself.

He counted to five again, regaining control. Briefly, but he only needed several seconds.

“We will talk about that later, Mother,” he said before leaving the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

His mother didn't try to stop him.

Chapter Text

Even several hours later, closer to midnight, Damian still had the urge to find his mother and to say out loud every word that had captured his thoughts. He wanted to accuse her.

She called that a choice?

He knew absolutely nothing about his father. Until recently, he considered him dead most times. He didn't know how his mother and father met and how their ways parted. He knew nothing about their relationship, which existed even sixteen years later. He could have seen him even. He could have seen him more than once, never suspecting anything.

The last moment, Damian stopped at the door, retracing his steps back into the room after few seconds. Not allowing himself to explode. He knew that it would be wiser to wait for morning and let time and rest erase the unnecessary emotions.

But the seething irritation demanded to do something sharp and unreasonable.

It didn't even start to subside as a quiet knock came.

“Come in”.

Damian knew it was her. At such a late hour, no one else would seek him out. He stood by the bed, crossing his arms on his chest, barely restraining himself from any unnecessary movements. The urge to tap his toe on the floor was unbelievably strong. It was a childhood habit he thought he had gotten rid of, but sometimes it tried to slip out and reveal too much about his thoughts.

His mother, on the other hand, seemed to embody calmness. Genuine calmness, not the illusion that Damian maintained.

“Damian,” her tone always softened slightly when she pronounced his name.

Yet even he got the taste of her senseless lies.

“So, who is he?” Damian asked sharply.

“Before your birth, he was one of the League. Perhaps the best the League knew,” she looked straight in Damian’s eyes. “Talent and perseverance rarely come together in one person, but he possesses both.”

“He possesses,” Damian noted the present tense. “If he is that good, why was he expelled in the first place?”

His mother shook her head.

“He left on his own. Your father has a fatal weakness, and my father made a mistake believing he could overcome it. When I learned that I am with you, I understood that your father would pass it on to you if I stayed with him.”

Raising an eyebrow, Damian remained silent, waiting. His mother continued:

“He refuses to take a life.”

“The best in the League, yet unable to take a life?” he frowned, skeptically looking at her.

“Make no mistake: he is able. He refuses to bear that burden.”

“That is absurd.”

“Indeed that is,” his mother agreed. “But his fear has deep roots. So deep that even my father wasn’t able to reach them.”

“Such depth turns weakness into vice.”

“You can call it that,” she agreed. “And it is a vice he tries to pass on to everyone close to him.”

“Including you?” the very idea seemed laughable.

“Including me.”

“That is absurd,” he repeated. “And naive. Maybe he didn’t have enough pressure to give up this foolishness.”

She shook her head.

“Father made enough. His life created even more,” his mother sighed heavily. “This boy, Jason. He died in agony at the hands of his father's enemy. But even that was not enough, just as I feared.”

Damian froze in disbelief. He had no interest in Jason and his death, but he presumed something simple. Death in battle. A tragic accident. Common murder.

He recalled the empty gaze of gray eyes.

“He allowed the person who did this to his family to roam the earth?”

“He did. Now do you understand why I never told you about him and why I never let him know about your existence?”

Damian clasped his hands behind his back, bowing his head, trying to imagine the impossible—not doing anything after such an event. Flatly refusing to challenge fear and take on the burden of death.

He couldn't. And he did not wish for a life in which he could.

His mother spoke reasonable things. Damian had no reason to argue with any of them. But the bitterness stubbornly refused to fade away.

“I wanted to tell you about him after you came of age. Introduce you, if that was your wish. But under these circumstances, I decided that you were already prepared enough.”

He could have remained ignorant even longer.

“That… makes sense.”

“But I am sorry you found out about everything like that,” she approached, running her hand across his face.

Damian didn’t react.

“Considering the circumstances, it is acceptable,” he looked into his mother’s eyes.

“Very well,” she withdrew her hand. “If you wish to learn something about him, I will give you all the answers.”

Damian hesitated for a moment. The bright spark of interest in him extinguished, leaving behind only ashes of disappointment. Perhaps a lonely smoldering ember. And the desire to personally verify his mother's words.

Not a pleasant desire at all.

“I have two questions. His name?”

“Bruce Wayne. Batman.”

Neither name nor the alias told him anything.

“The second one is not about him. It is about the killer. Can he find out about our intervention and attempt to interfere with the League?”

“That is not a concern; he is no longer alive.”

Damian titled his head in confusion.

“Jason’s death was avenged. Bruce's weakness didn't take roots as securely as he would have liked in people close to him.”

“I see. His ideas can not be convincing enough to many people.”

“You have no idea how comforting those words are to me, Damian,” a calm and warm smile appeared on his mother's face.

But it never reached his heart. He still thought about the web of unspoken words that had formed into a secret. A secret that shouldn't have existed in the first place.

He felt nothing towards a man named Bruce Wayne. And considering everything that had been said, he had no desire to develop any feelings. Unless there were new unspoken words hidden within.

If, however, everything she said was true...

If anyone dared to do anything to Damian’s mother, he would not be able to find salvation in any world or from any God. And nothing would save anyone who managed to catch Damian off guard while his mother breathed.

He had no doubt about that, even despite the lingering bitterness of the lie.

“One more thing, Mother.”

She tilted her head inquisitively.

“That was your last lie to me,” he said. “I am no longer a child and you can no longer make such decisions for me. If there's anything else you have, I wish to hear it soon. By your will, not by circumstance.”

His mother let out a deep sigh, barely shaking her head.

“For you, there are no more secrets, my son. And there was a weighty reason for this one. But you really are grown enough for it. Forgive me for my maternal blindness.”

Damian nodded.

“I forgive you. This time.”

“And I am grateful for that, Damian,” she approached, rising on her tiptoes and lightly kissing his forehead.

This time, Damian leaned in.

“I will come with questions, but later,” he said, straightening up.

“And I will give you all the answers I have,” she said warmly. “For now, goodnight, my son.”

“Goodnight, Mother,” Damian replied, watching her as she left.

When she closed the door behind her, Damian sat in the chair near his bed, leaning forward.

Alone, he allowed a bad habit to take over, tapping the floor rhythmically with his right toe. What had been said didn't fully settle in his mind. Thoughts constantly returned to the same name.

Bruce Wayne.

Not particularly expecting anything useful, Damian opened the laptop charging on the coffee table and entered a name into the search bar.

Instantly, he was met with a pile of information. But even a brief glance at the headlines was enough to understand its meaninglessness. Gossip. Another one based on the first. A third contradicting the second.

On another continent, Bruce Wayne was a well-known man. As was Batman.

The headlines about Batman carried slightly more meaning. Wayne had decided to bring prosperity to his city by sacrificing his life. And the lives of his family. Damian's gaze caught on another alias – Robin.

Even with just a few photos of more than a mediocre quality, Damian easily compared his height and figure to Jason's.

In one photo, he was soaring through the night sky between two skyscrapers, clinging to a rope. In this photograph, Jason was just a blurred red spot, but it intrigued more than the others.

The combination of height and lack of safety harness spoke volumes about him, more than a person who resembled a mannequin ever could. Life was surprisingly fragile.

Damian scrolled through several more photos, read a couple of articles that didn't seem particularly sensationalized. And in each one, he found confirmation of his mother's words. He skimmed a short discussion on vigilantism in Gotham, ending with the words, “at least the courts are left in the hands of competent individuals”.

Competent individuals. Those who allowed this chaos from the very beginning.

Damian turned his attention back to the photos, this time focusing on those without masks. A chill ran down his spine at the sight of the first photo of his father. The resemblance was absurd. Especially noticeable in random moments, rather than the rehearsed smile on Bruce Wayne's face for the cameras.

In one of the photos, he noticed Jason. He was looking at Wayne with a wide smile, explaining something to him – the journalist had captured him in the middle of a broad gesture. He looked like a completely different person. So full of life.

Damian closed the laptop, tiredly rubbing his nose. They had snatched a small particle from the clutches of death and considered it a success.

To Damian, it felt almost like an insult.

Chapter Text

The morning was not much different from any other.

She had hoped that after Jason’s and Damian’s meeting, she would notice some changes, but when she entered Jason's room, she saw him lying motionless on the bed. He was staring at the ceiling – in the direction of the ceiling – never reacting to the door opening, to the quiet footsteps of Talia, or to the soft clatter of a plate being placed on the table.

“Good morning, Jason,” she said. Her words, just like the entire past month, went unanswered.

Talia didn't know if he could understand her or even hear her, but she continued to speak to him every day in English. She didn't know if Bruce had taught him Arabic. Given Jason's complete lack of reaction, it was impossible to tell.

Even the day before, he didn't react to words. He reacted to the face.

Approaching the bed, Talia carefully sat him up. He silently obeyed – as he did almost every day. In the month Jason had spent in the castle, he had behaved differently only twice. Both times, it was as if he had retreated even deeper into his own mind. Talia didn't understand the reason, and on both occasions, she feared that the worsening would remain. But it fade both times by the next morning, leaving behind only new questions.

She couldn't understand so much about Jason's condition. No one could.

“You surprised us yesterday,” Talia said, pulling a chair closer to his bed and sitting down next to him. “Both me and my son, Damian,” she mentioned his name, watching for a reaction.

She received none.

Talia took Jason's hand and gently straightened his fingers, looking at the overgrown nails. Her gaze fell upon a deep scar on the back of his hand. Fresh and still reddish, obviously inflicted by the Joker.

The Lazarus Pit had brought him back, but even it had its limits.

“When I first learned that I was with the child, I immediately thought of such possibility,” she said with a quiet regret, running her thumb along the scar. “Bruce obtained one enemy after another but refused to deal with them. They were no threat to me, but what about our child?”

Talia took a pair of nail scissors from the set she had brought and held Jason's thumb, gently trimming the overgrown nail. He remained indifferent. She shouldn't have expected anything. Even as his broken teeth were restored, he remained motionless the whole time.

He maintained only the pain reflex. And even that had an exception.

“I knew that would lead to disaster eventually, one way or another. I didn't want Damian to become like Bruce and suffer the consequences. And I certainly could not allow him to grow up in the circle of enemies,” she continued, while Jason remained silent, still staring into emptiness, as she straightened the rest of his fingers.

“The League is no place for the weak, but we do not spare the lives of our enemies without good reason. I wanted for you to know that you were avenged,” Talia went on, carefully trimming the other nails. “Though I don't know how you would have reacted. I don't know what you think of Selina Kyle, but she care enough for you to go against Bruce and his rules.”

She was met with a usual indifference.

Prior Damian, he had reacted to something only once. Cruelly and destructively towards himself, and the mark – a burst blood vessel in his right eye – had since served as a reminder of the necessary caution.

Back then, Talia showed him a photograph of Bruce. And for the first few seconds, it seemed like the right idea. Jason reached out towards the image, seeing something familiar, but then...

Talia still remembered his scream. Not as horrifying as the one she heard near the Lazarus Pit, but still bone-chilling. She had to restrain Jason to prevent him from gouging out his own eyes. Then she had to wait for the ragged breathing to calm down and for the indescribable gaze to return to the quiet indifference.

Talia took his other hand.

“I never thought you would see him in Damian,” she warmly smiled. “They always seemed alike to me, but you made me realize just how much. I'm glad that Damian has inherited only the best.”

She chuckled and briefly looked at his face again.

“Don't think he's angry at you. Damian takes time to adjust to changes, especially unexpected ones. He will want to get to know you, but later. He needs some time.”

Having finished with the nails, Talia adjusted the strands of hair that were falling into Jason's face. At the hairline, she noticed a patch where the roots had lightened, indicating the onset of gray hair.

Talia too easily imagined Damian in Jason's place. She knew the point where he had escaped a similar fate many years ago. The point at which she made a choice that shattered her heart back then.

Sometimes she mourned the life she left behind, but she never regretted her decision. She didn't need validation of her rightness. Yet she received one.

Talia pulled a table closer to the bed and placed the plate near its edge. Scooping rice porridge with a spoon, she brought it to Jason's lips. For several long seconds, he didn't react until he finally closed his lips around it. Just as slowly, he swallowed the porridge.

Talia assisted him with the next spoonful. And the rest of them.

He could manage on his own, but then he never ate enough, simply ignoring the offered food most of the time. When she tried not helping him, he only ate a few spoonfuls in a day. Even with assistance, he ate insufficiently.

He stopped when a third of the plate was still left. Talia set aside the spoon and offered him some water. He only took a few sips, pursing his lips when more than half the glass remained.

He could drink too. But still not enough.

Talia suspected that his senses had been dulled to the point where they had almost lost their significance. The Lazarus Pit had inflicted a heavy toll upon him.

“All right,” despite the heavy thoughts, she said warmly. She stood up to put the table back in its place. She took a napkin and wiped away the remnants of food from the Jason's lips' corners. “I'll be back soon. You can lie down again if you want.”

Jason hardly needed permission. From what Talia observed, conversations, even in his native language, probably remained background noise at best. But they were certainly more useful than silence. Perhaps Jason still caught individual words, or even sentences. Perhaps she wanted to believe that.

She never knew Jason in person; their ‘acquaintance’ consisted only of fragments of Talia's observations of Bruce's life. She understood how much Jason meant to him, even if his senseless rule remained unbroken. She regretted the young life almost lost due to senseless animosity. She thought about her own deal with chaos, which led him to Qurac and allowed his claws to grip Jason. And she couldn't stop thinking about Damian.

Perhaps it was due to their age. Talia checked: they were born the same year. Jason was only a couple of months older.

Before leaving, she glanced at him once again, ensuring there were no changes. The day before, he showed a positive sign, and she could only wait for more. It took almost a month for the first one. It could take even more for the second.

Talia had always been patient.

But for the sake of the peace of mind of a person who was once immensely dear to her, she hoped that the walls of Jason's mental prison would crumble soon enough. She wanted to inform Bruce. She never wanted him to mourn his son. But she knew him too well. She knew he would never believe her intentions. He would try to do everything right but would make mistakes that he would never be able to forgive himself for.

If instead he wouldn't forgive her, Talia didn't mind. Their ways had parted long enough ago for it to matter.

Chapter Text

He remembered absolute void. There was no concept of color in it; it didn't hide behind darkness, it simply did not exist. Gravity had no meaning in it – there was no weight. There was nothing to have color, weight, to have anything at all. Even time did not reach this void. Seconds and millennia were the same. Neither of it existed.

He was at peace. And then everything exploded.

Each sensation drove him to insanity, piling up and tearing any thought into shreds and burning it to ashes. He couldn't grasp anything, when everything was chaos.

The noise gnawed at his skull, splitting his head and never left, not even for a second. The eternal rhythmic pounding – his heartbeat. The unceasing roar – his bloodstream. The grating sound of skin touching skin. The clamor of voices. The slow sound of breathing.

So. Much. Noise.

Air touched his lips and nose, traveled down the throat, reaching the lungs, and he felt every single piece of its path as pressure. The pressure was everywhere. The clothes felt like stones on his skin. The hair lay on his head with dead weight. His own weight on his bones felt unbearable.

So. Much. Pressure.

The whites of his eyes dried up. His eyelids pressed heavily against them. Dryness. Heaviness. Dryness. Heaviness. Again, again, and again.

He hated every second. If the scream didn't tear through his throat, didn't demand air, he would have screamed. It could have muffled at least the noise. At least partially. He just wanted to not drown in a hundred, in a thousand sensations, to silence them with something, with anything at all.

So much of… everything.

There was no rest, not even for a second. His body functioned, discarding something old and bringing something new every second, never giving him a chance to distinguish anything.

When hunger became worse than taste, worse than stickiness on teeth and throat, he ate. When thirst became worse than the water sliding down his throat, he drank. When touches became worse than movement, he obeyed them.

There were many touches. None of them were meant to be cruel, but each one burned on his skin like fire. Just like the voices burned his ears. The voices remained calm, but it was just too much. Too much for him to understand the meaning; to realize in time that voices were speaking to him.

There was no escape. This hell was endless.

It was endless, until something familiar was able to catch his attention. A face. He was able to look without thinking about eye movement. It dulled everything else slightly, while simultaneously scratching at his memory.

Perhaps it was better. It was definitely not worse.

Chapter Text

Mother continued walking with Jason in the castle corridors, and Damian continued to bump into them. Sometimes he wanted to ask if she did it intentionally, but he knew he wouldn't get an answer.

His mother's promises had their limits, and Damian doubted if this situation was worth testing them. He... didn't mind. These rare encounters didn't bother him. His mother deemed them necessary. It was fine enough for him.

Although every time Damian said even a single word in Jason's presence, he would instantly look at him. He simply watched, but Damian couldn't shake the feeling that something was expected of him.

But nothing more happened. And Damian... got used to it.

This family wasn't his concern.

Although his mother didn’t tell him the truth, she was right about everything else. His father, his city across the ocean, and his strange ideas were his own story. They didn't concern Damian. His place was in the League, by right and by spirit. Jason meanwhile remained just a guest in the League. Barely aware of his position, if aware at all.

But one day, as Damian was heading to his training, he saw that Jason's room door was wide open. His mother never left the door open. Jason didn't touch the door at all.

Damian paused in the doorway, expecting to see an empty room. Overturned furniture indicating a struggle or an outburst of anger. For some unclear reason, he didn't consider the most obvious possibility, which was exactly what he saw.

Jason sat indifferently on the bed, leaning against the wall and staring into emptiness. In front of him, without paying him much attention, one of the servants was mopping the floor. Damian should have thought of something like this from the very beginning. It should have been his first thought. It wasn’t though.

“Can I help you, Sir?” the servant asked, noticing that he had stopped in the doorway.

“No.”

A single short word was enough for Jason to lift his head. Damian briefly met his gaze but quickly turned around, continuing to walk towards the castle's courtyard.

He had only taken a few steps when he was stopped.

“Sir,” the servant called out.

Damian turned around, seeing that she had come out of the room.

“I'm not sure what's happening, but it might be important,” she said, briefly glancing inside the room.

As if something was happening there. As if something could happen there.

Damian clenched his lips and started walking back. That was his mother's concern. Something different awaited him, and he had no desire to involve himself in what she was doing. Not to mention that he knew nothing about Jason's progress and whether any small movement should be considered a sign of it.

He had only three steps left when Jason emerged from the room and, upon seeing him, stopped. For a moment, Damian froze, staring at him as if the another’s emptiness had struck him as well.

“Interesting. You were right to call me,” he said to the servant.

She had acted appropriately. It was not her fault that Jason showed signs of his own will around Damian. Not around his mother, who eagerly awaited for every single one.

Damian took a few steps back, expecting Jason to stay in place. Then he could lead him back and finally go to his sparring session and inform his mother about the incident later.

Jason took a few steps forward.

“Unbelievable. Mother would have been delighted,” he shook his head. “You should follow her, not me.”

If only he could understand the words.

Turning around, Damian walked down the corridor, immediately hearing heavy awkward steps behind him. As if there was any reason to doubt such outcome.

“Do not follow me,” he said without slowing down.

Of course, it had no effect.

But Jason was still walking too slowly, even for an ordinary pace. Picking up his pace a bit, Damian soon heard his footsteps receding until they completely faded after the next turn.

Getting lost was impossible if... If one understood where to go. If one perceived the path, not the person ahead or their voice. Damian glanced back at the empty corridor near the courtyard exit, where not a single sound could be heard.

He awaited for a few seconds before opening the door and stepping out into the courtyard, where several members of the League had already gathered. Damian joined them.

Not seeing anyone who matched his level, Damian made an annoyed click with his tongue. He had to settle for the lesser opponents—such training sessions never brought him enough satisfaction. They had ceased to be a challenge a long time ago.

Because of that Damian decided to choose three of the best among the acceptable ones to spar with him.

Drawing his sword, he took a combat stance. He waited for the attack—a rational and coordinated one—to make the task a bit more challenging. The attack was rational, too rational. He could easily predict it from the very beginning.

Easily evading two strikes and countering the third with his blade, Damian stepped forward, quickly closing the distance with one of the opponents. With a swift movement of his left hand, he drew a dagger from his belt and grazed the opponent's throat with the flat side of the blade.

“Dead.”

He spun around, throwing the dagger precisely at the second opponent's foot.

“Dead.”

The third opponent stepped back, intercepting the sword with his left hand. Damian tilted his head with interest, observing the strange maneuver. At least it was inventive. But was it rational enough?

The last opponent picked up the sword of the ‘dead’ ally with his right hand and, wielding two blades, lunged at Damian, aiming for his stomach and throat. He exposed his left side, apparently counting on Damian, now without a dagger, being unable to react.

But Damian also could fight with his left hand.

Intercepting the sword, he stepped aside and struck, colliding with the blade that had stopped him at the last moment. Damian deflected both blades downward and delivered a kick, throwing the opponent off balance. He then brought the edge of the blade to his opponent's liver.

“And dead. You stay,” he said to the last one. “You two, leave.”

He went on to spar with two more pairs of opponents before choosing those capable of holding their ground against him, even if only for a little while. But the sparring still remained unbearably simple for him. The older he grew, the more he understood why he rarely saw his mother wielding swords, why she preferred practicing in solitude. Why those who were skilled enough seldom appeared in the group sparring sessions.

Understanding didn't make the irritation disappear. It didn't make him stay when Damian had learned enough about the chosen opponents to be able to predict their movements all too well.

After another ‘killing’ of all three of them, he turned around and returned to the castle.

His own footsteps sounded too loud, and Damian forced himself to slow down. To breathe slower. He counted in his head to five, calming his thoughts in an effort to find the source of his irritation.

It turned out to be surprisingly easy.

He was annoyed by the empty corridor. Annoyed by the unknown result that he had turned his back on. Annoyed that he didn't know where Jason was, whether he was capable of coming back to his room or not. He needed to suppress this flare-up, and Damian moved slowly towards Jason’s room, taking the same path he had taken to leave the castle.

He found Jason way before reaching his room.

At the first turn, he saw him sitting on the floor by the wall. Jason lowered his head, looking down at something on the floor near his feet. Damian knew that for Jason, it was nothing out of the ordinary. If it weren't for the floor, he would appear normal.

On the floor by the wall, he seemed crushed.

He was still alone with the toll that the Lazarus Pit had left him. Ra's al Ghul preferred to call it a battle, but Damian saw it as an injury. A heavy injury for which the only remedies were willpower and time.

Even Ra's al Ghul didn't always emerge victorious.

Damian sighed heavily and stopped next to Jason.

“Jason,” he called out.

He blinked slowly, as if waking up. Just as heavily, he lifted his head and met Damian's gaze. Nothing, absolutely nothing on his face indicated it, but for a moment, Damian thought he sensed reproach in his gray eyes.

The thought was absurd. Damian knew perfectly well that he saw what his own emotions dictated to him. He shouldn't leave the injured man in this place, even if he wasn't his responsibility.

But he reached out his hand, momentarily forgetting the futility of the gesture.

Jason's fingers, however, previously motionless on his knee, trembled. As if... everything was far less futile than Damian had previously believed.

Damian didn't flinch. Jason's fingers trembled again, then once more. And finally he lifted his palm into the air.

“Unbelievable. Why wouldn't you do this near Mother? I suppose she would have had a reason to celebrate,” Damian observed patiently, still lending his hand.

Jason raised his palm a little more, until it froze very close to Damian's hand. Incredibly close, but something seemed to hold Jason back at the last second.

His palm began to slowly descend, and Damian caught it, helping him rise. Jason complied with his movement.

“Fine. I suppose it is time to deliver the news to her.”

Taking Jason by the hand, he led him to his mother's study, where she spent most of her time before Jason came along. If Jason stayed in the same place for so long, his mother must have been occupied with something else. Which made the study the best option once again.

Damian stopped at the heavy wooden door, released Jason's hand, and knocked. Hearing her voice, he entered.

Damian always found the environment his mother gravitated towards excessive. He had a poor understanding of how she could navigate such surroundings, but he knew that each item had its place and purpose, even if they seemed trivial at first glance.

His mother, half-lying on the couch with an open book, looked up at him.

"Damian?" she tilted her head in an unvoiced question. Damian rarely appeared at this hour.

"Now he has decided to follow me," Damian simply stated, turning around.

Jason followed him slowly. He showed no reaction to the surroundings or Damian's mother, who hastily placed the book down, pages facing downward, and approached him closer.

She looked at Jason as if trying to find something new in him.

"I had hoped he would take an interest in you. But I did not expect it to be so apparent," she admitted.

"I have noticed your hopes," Damian raised an eyebrow skeptically, recalling each of their supposedly coincidental encounters.

"Of course you did. I never intended to keep it a secret."

Damian didn't bother to hide how tired he was of this wont. His mother didn't bother feigning remorse. When the same behaviou repeated constantly, formalities became unnecessary.

His mother, clearly sharing the same opinion, walked past Jason, making sure he still didn't react to her.

"Jason," she called, touching his shoulder.

And once again, nothing.

"I told him he chose the wrong person to display his attention to."

His mother laughed.

"Perhaps."

"Definitely," Damian rolled his eyes.

Sometimes, he was immensely tired of knowing his mother’s habits too well.

Chapter Text

In the League, everyone had long grown accustomed to Jason's presence.

At first, there was curiosity and some cautious whispers. But that ghost of interest faded quickly, giving way to a simple habit. Jason wasn't tied to anyone's mission, he never distracted or interfered. Because of that he didn't matter. Practicality had always been a priority in the League.

They constantly dealt with oddities far greater than a teenager trapped in his own mind.

When he started wandering around the castle, a shadow of interest returned, but faded even faster.

The rest remained true. Even if Jason had some unclear purpose, he was still too faraway from anything in the League. He remained indifferent to conversations, to places, and to people. Almost to all people.

Except for Damian.

Mother didn't ask anything concerning Jason from Damian. She didn't even attempt to, knowing he would refuse. But Damian turned out to be quite good at finding trouble himself.

Sometimes he would find Jason near the staircases.

Damian didn't know if Jason would manage the steps on his own without stumbling. One mistake would be enough for him to fall. And with his clumsiness, that mistake was quite probable.

But he usually stopped nearby, not attempting to ascend.

“You should not be here,” Damian would say, capturing his attention.

Jason left with him without demur. But he returned just as easily.

Sometimes he would find Jason not far from the rooms where Damian and his mother lived.

There was nothing dangerous about that place, but the fact that Jason was drawn to it raised questions. Questions that no one could answer.

How conscious was such behavior? Did he understand that this was the part of the castle where people, who paid attention to him most often appeared? Or was it more of a topographical part of his memory, repeatedly bringing him back to the place where Damian and his mother often had led him?

“What are you doing here?” Damian asked, more to himself.

But he would capture his attention. Again.

Sometimes he found Jason in the courtyard.

Almost always in the darkness; always near one of the walls.

Jason didn't try to go further inside. He didn't attempt to leave entirely—although the main gate remained closed, he was able to witness the brief moments when they were opened. He could see the wide open field behind them, with the only human sign being a narrow asphalt road.

“We should go,” Damian would say, no longer trying to understand.

Even summer nights were cold enough for a person who spent so little time in motion. Considering the complete absence of complaints, the signs of his physical illness could have be discovered too late. Damian didn’t want to take any risks.

Sometimes Jason disappeared completely—his mother told Damian about days when Jason moved with evident reluctance. As if falling deeper into the confines of his mind. Damian should have cherished his own freedom during those times. He did not. He became entangled in attempts to understand the cause.

Sometimes... More and more often he would find Jason nearby.

Damian himself didn't realize when slowing down while walking became a habit. When the subtle presence of someone else began to calm his thoughts: if Jason was in sight, he surely wasn't contemplating conquering the stairs, freezing outside, or venturing too far.

His mother was right. His mother was unbearably right. Damian sometimes hated how often she turned out to be right.

“Jason, you would not find anything of interest there,” Damian promised once again on another day, taking him by the hand to lead him away from the staircase that led to one of the towers.

That one had been designated for storage purposes, and Damian himself had been there only a couple of times. He had little interest in the inventory of tools, cleaning supplies, and the laundry room.

"You can consider it a mop warehouse," Damian shrugged, guiding him towards his mother's office to be under her supervision.

Jason's lip twitched almost imperceptibly, as if he was trying to say something.

Or maybe it was an involuntary tick, and Damian was attaching too much significance to it.

“Just mops,” he repeated. “Washing machines. Construction tools if you go to the upper floor.”

Jason’s upper lip twitched again.

“I never thought someone could be so fascinated by a storage room,” Damian raised an eyebrow.

And once again, he noticed the same movement—slightly more pronounced this time. Damian was good at lip-reading in several languages, and he knew common patterns of the ways syllables formed on the lips.

What he saw on Jason's lips resembled much more an attempt at a disgruntled grin.

He had no idea what was happening in Jason's mind. Was his memory impaired? How much was his perception affected? Was there room for emotions?

He occasionally caught glimpses of them. But they were too elusive, to the point where Damian couldn't confidently say he truly saw them, and wasn't projecting something from his own thoughts onto Jason's face. Sometimes he noticed the subtle shade in an otherwise ordinary gaze. Or in movements stifled by awkwardness.

The more he thought, the more these ghosts resembled his own imagination. This irritation – if it truly existed – seemed to be the most reliable sign. And even that had another explanation. A more rational one.

But he still doubted.

“So, now you are irritated. Wonderful,” Damian had no idea what to do with this information.

Approaching his mother's door, he did the most sensible thing – he left that concern in her hands. He wished there was a reliable way to do it once and for all. Because this concern persistently fell on his shoulders.

And he had yet to discover its lack of harmlessness.

During the day, he rarely saw Jason in the courtyard, but he wasn't too surprised to find him in his favorite spot by the wall. Damian chose not to disturb him, deciding that a warm day wouldn't do him any harm.

The rest of the League, gathering for training, paid Jason even less attention.

Damian scanned people in the courtyard, clicking his tongue in irritation. He just wanted to leave at this point, without even bothering to try. Him trying to pick out those who could withstand at least a few of his strikes took too much time.

This was already taking more time than the sparring itself.

Without attempting to hide his boredom, he called over one of the warriors—the face was familiar. But Damian hadn't seen him in Switzerland for quite some time. A lot could have changed since then.

Damian didn't know whom he was trying to deceive.

He took a combat stance, preparing for the first strike, contemplating how he could make the task more challenging, even if only slightly elevating it beyond the elementary level. Damian noticed his opponent raising his sword, preparing for a heavy strike from the right shoulder, and slightly shifted his weight to evade faster.

The opponent stepped closer, gaining speed, preparing to launch an attack, and...

Damian saw a lightning. And it was not his opponent.

Of course, Damian didn't allow himself to focus solely on him, forgetting about everything else—that was one of the first things taught in the League. The League didn't need splendid duelists who perished in their first real fight.

Damian noticed a shadow abruptly detaching from the wall. Skillfully maneuvering slightly behind, right at the edge of his opponent's field of vision. Approaching swiftly and efficiently, utilizing body weight. Slightly changing direction, and knocking off the opponent, swiftly rendering his hands useless.

It was Jason. Jason was that shadow.

Damian watched in absolute disbelief as Jason heavily struck the man in the face completely disorienting him. He clasped his hands around the man's throat with the confidence of someone familiar with killing, like someone who had no doubt about its necessity.

It all happened in a matter of a seconds, but no one in the League needed more time to react.

“Back off!” Damian commanded, seeing that the others perceived it as an attack and prepared to act accordingly.

He instantly found himself by Jason's side, grabbing his wrists and forcefully prying them apart.

“Let him go.”

The grip was incredible. Damian barely prevented him from breaking the bones in the man's throat by sheer force, but he couldn't loosen the hands enough to allow him to breathe.

He could kill. If Damian wasn't intervening, he would have already killed.

He wanted to kill. His punch was powerful enough to partially stun, to eliminate any resistance in the split second when it still mattered. Jason's face froze in a rage, and Damian could clearly see his purpose in his eyes. Murder.

Nothing else existed for him in that moment.

Following instinct rather than reason, Damian pushed Jason aside, forcing him to break eye contact.

And for a brief moment, just for a moment, he saw that look directed at himself.

Nothing in him was cold or calculated. Only pure rage was in his eyes, bright and suffocating, it left no room for anything rational. So far removed from the League, where killing was always something rational.

But it quickly faded. The slightest trace of anger vanished as if at the snap of fingers. Jason’s facial features relaxed. His grip immediately weakened, and Damian effortlessly broke the stone-like hold, instantly hearing a gasping breath and a heavy cough.

Damian barely heard him, keeping his gaze fixed on Jason. Seeing the familiar Jason and trying to reconcile him with the one who was ready to attack him just moments ago.

He couldn't make sense of it.

“Let's go,” he said sharply, taking Jason by the hand.

He led him aside, meeting no resistance as usual. Damian still couldn't fully process what he had witnessed. The speed, the strength, the precision, the rage—it just couldn’t be Jason. But it was him.

Damian led Jason into the castle, stopping in a corridor where they wouldn't be followed by unwanted curiosity.

“I do not know what that was, but it is unacceptable,” Damian said sharply, examining Jason's bloodied hand. It wasn’t his blood. He himself had no injuries.

But he had broken the man's nose and lips, incapacitating him. And then he had attempted to strangle him.

A man who attacked Damian.

“How am I supposed to... No, why should I even have to deal with this?” Damian spoke more to himself. “Murder is not allowed in training, even if you think it was a defense. Absolutely unnecessary, mind you.”

Damian turned to face the other wall, running his hand through his hair. Words were futile. And if it didn't matter before, now his mother would have to take this into account as well.

Unbelievable.

He looked at Jason again, noting how Jason slightly turned his head, looking in another direction. Damian followed his gaze, out of caution, but the corridor remained completely empty.

Damian was about to take Jason by the elbow when he flinched slightly. He shifted.

It was the second time Damian froze within a few minutes.

And just as abruptly, he understood the turn of Jason's head. That posture.

Jason averted his gaze. He tried to withdraw from the touch. He was... Damian would call it ‘disappointed.’ Perhaps it was worth calling it that because denying emotions became pointless. Foolish even.

Damian took a slow breath, counting to five. Restoring calmness to his voice.

“Jason,” he called out more gently.

Jason's gaze flickered slightly.

Damian didn't need anyone's protection. But he felt an unpleasant pang deep in his chest. Jason hadn't tried to do anything wrong. On the contrary.

“There was no need for that. It was just a regular training session,” Damian said. “He didn't pose any threat to me, and there was no need for an attack.”

Perhaps emotions drove Jason's actions, but Damian doubted that his words reached him. Unlike the tone.

Because at the change in tone, Jason's gaze flickered again. It drew closer.

“I need to take you to Mother. I doubt she knows what to do, but at least no one fights near her,” Damian said.

Jason looked at Damian.

“Will you come with me?” he asked, offering a hand.

Jason's fingers trembled.

And Damian took his hand.

Chapter Text

Three deaths had changed the castle.

A silent anticipation hung in the air. Damian noticed it in the glances, in conversations that suddenly sounded a bit quieter, in the caution that seemed to permeate everyone.

The League had lost people before. Not so rarely in fact: it almost never became an event. Shadows took on tasks that many considered impossible, and their victories were not always absolute. The price of the challenge remained high.

But this time, they were challenged. And it made everyone froze in anticipation.

And everyone had listened to the silence, which remained the answer.

Damian waited, patient enough. He didn't ask his mother any questions, though he observed no less intently than the others. He waited for action—any action. But he saw none.

The murderers remained alive. Their group thrived. Punishment had not arrived.

Two weeks after the incident, Damian's patience ran out. His mother promised him to answer any question, and Damian intended to take advantage of that privilege.

He didn't find her in her office. She wasn't in the training hall or the meditation room, where she often spent her time. Her personal quarters were empty as well. There was one more place to check, and indeed, she was in Jason's room.

It was clear he was having one of his ‘bad’ days. Damian had last seen him the previous evening. But even if he hadn't noticed Jason's absence, he would have understood much from the way Jason sat on the bed. He was absolutely still and stared into the space, much like in the beginning.

He didn't respond to Damian's footsteps.

“Damian,” his mother smiled warmly as he entered the room.

Jason glanced at Damian, reacting to the name.

“Hello,” Damian nodded. He then turned to his mother, “I wanted to ask about Germany.”

“You may ask,” she nodded.

Damian cast a doubtful glance at Jason.

According to his mother, his progress had become rapid. She also said that Jason probably understood much more than he could express. Her words carried unwavering confidence.

Damian had his doubts on that matter.

Jason could definitely catch individual words. He absolutely understood the intonation. Sometimes, Damian felt like he could make out everything or almost everything until an invisible wall came between him and the world, caused by something Damian could not comprehend.

For someone with a head injury, he was recovering remarkably well. For someone brought back to life by the Lazarus Pit several days after his death?

Damian didn't know. Nobody knew.

“You may ask,” his mother repeated. “I do not believe there are any secrets in Germany that Jason shouldn't know. In fact, I think he should be part of this conversation too.”

Damian didn't quite understand why.

“If you think so. Your inaction worries me, Mother.”

“What makes you think I'm inactive?”

“Just what I see.”

“Maybe you should look closer.”

A faint smile appeared on his mother's lips. Damian knew that smile well, knew that it boded ill for their enemies. It had nothing to do with inaction.

That was reassuring. But it wasn't enough for Damian.

“You have promised me the answers,” he reminded her.

“I did,” his mother sighed. “Alright. Tell me, Damian, what is the price of three lives?”

“No less than three others.”

“That is a fair answer when it has nothing to do with the League. But our people weren't just killed, we were given the message that our protection means nothing. They told us that we are weak. It is an insult, and it is more serious than the attack itself.”

After hesitating, Damian brought a chair and placed it next to the bed, facing his mother. When he sat down, he caught Jason's gaze on himself. Fleeting, as if tired—losing a lot of its recently acquired sharpness.

If he had to guess, Damian would say that he was tired. It was a bad version, but it was the only one he had.

Sitting down, Damian crossed his leg over the other and looked at his mother.

“What is your plan then?”

“To demonstrate a mistake. But not to them, but to those who are now hiding and watching. Do you think three retaliatory deaths would impress them?”

No, they definitely would not be impressed. Such answer would just lower the League to their level. It will show everyone that they are mere mercenaries, if not worse.

“They would see it as a sign of weakness,” Damian admitted.

“Exactly. That is why my response will be different. What would you have done, Damian?"

Damian frowned, pondering. Usually, such leading questions made him want to cut them short and get to the point. But Damian knew – he was getting a lesson now. An invaluable lesson. Perhaps one of those that his mother, Ra's al Ghul himself, had once given her.

“I would ensure they never recover,” Damian thoughtfully said. “I would not annihilate them, nor I would do anything in secret. I would force them to commit a mistake that will lead to their destruction, and leave an obvious trail for the right people to follow. Maybe... a trap, here in Switzerland. They are close enough to try to establish themselves further. But they will stumble, and they won't be a minor problem for Germany anymore; they will become the target of two countries. And Switzerland will point to us.”

“That is correct,” his mother smiled and nodded. “And I have already chosen the time and a place with plenty of independent witnesses. It also has a security unrelated to us. The League won't even need to unsheathe a single blade to turn our enemies into a memory.”

Damian sensed more in those words than his mother said.

“You want to make yourself the target.”

“Such target will make them forget about caution.”

“Absurd! That is not a task for someone of your importance,” Damian shook his head.

“First you were annoyed by the lack of action, and now you do not like the plan you came up with yourself?” she countered.

Damian clenched his lips, slightly grimacing. She knew perfectly well what he didn't like, even if she preferred to pretend otherwise.

“You know what I do not like,” he raised his voice, pointing at her.

He expected some quiet reassuring words and arguments that made perfect sense.

He didn't expect the cautious touch on his elbow; it was Jason. Again.

Not too long ago, Jason had tried to protect him. Now, on one of his ‘bad’ days, he reached out upon hearing something off in the tone. Or maybe he understood every word and tried to reassure.

Damian remembered their first meetings. And he felt the blood rushing to his face.

“I appreciate that,” he said, meeting Jason's gaze and nodding. “But that is unnecessary.”

The grip tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you for caring about my son,” his mother warmly said to Jason.

Damian felt the blood rushing to his face a little stronger.

“I am perfectly able to worry about myself without assistance, Mother.”

She laughed, and for a moment Damian felt as if he were a child who had just said some clever words, never understating their meaning.

He cleared his throat.

“I still do not like your idea,” he changed the subject.

“That is not its purpose.”

“I want to know all the details.”

“If that helps you, I will provide them,” his mother nodded.

Damian doubted it would be of much help. But he certainly didn't want to miss anything from his mother’s disgustingly logical, correct and consistent plan.

Damian's gaze involuntarily fell on Jason’s fingers still resting on his hand. It was a simple gesture of support. And Damian didn't know what to do with it or if he should do anything at all.

He met Jason's gaze, noting how he froze. Not like in the early days when he was too lost in himself. Back then, he seemed too relaxed, as if he was in some drowsy state.

This time, he froze like a statue. As if he had stopped in the middle of a motion, turning into stone. Damian could see tension. Nothing resembled an escape from reality.

Jason reached Damian with his left hand, strangely shifting his right shoulder back and slightly down. His forearm was held too close to his body. The tilt of his back seemed unnatural. It appeared as if he was trying to stretch his left leg as much as possible. The longer Damian observed, the more oddities he noticed. Small, but adding up into something significant.

Damian almost heard a click in his own mind. It made him want to slap his forehead for not realizing the answer sooner.

“Mother,” Damian said, his gaze still on Jason, “he is in pain.”

His mother turned, looking at Jason. Damian saw her noticing the same details he did, and her understanding brought forth quiet sympathy.

“I see,” she nodded. “Stay here, I shall bring some painkillers.”

Damian nodded, watching his mother as she left. Jason watched her as well.

It had been foolish to take everything as a worsening just because he didn't want to deal with something. Fatigue from the pain had misled both Damian and his mother.

He gently touched Jason's fingers.

“It is alright. You can let go,” he said.

Jason looked at Damian, then at the door. He seemed to be deciding something internally for several seconds before removing his hand and leaning against the wall, finding a clearly more comfortable position for himself.

When he settled again, Damian understood why such a simple solution hadn't occurred to him or his mother before. Jason appeared relaxed once more—almost like before. Almost, because now Damian knew what to look for.

His mother tried not to disturb Jason during his ‘bad’ days, which is why the signs remained so subtle. A ridiculous and painful cycle.

“It will get easier soon,” Damian promised.

Closing his eyes, Jason didn't react to Damian's words.

He also didn't react when his mother returned with a syringe and two warm pads. Damian nodded approvingly; he knew the theory. It dilated blood vessels, enriching them with oxygen.

It should help, but Damian was aware that chronic pain was never something simple.

His mother sat on the bad and rolled up Jason's sleeve. She skillfully administered the injection. Jason's eyelids twitched slightly, but there was no other response. As if a simple gesture of sympathy had exhausted him completely.

“We should have noticed sooner,” Damian said quietly.

“Maybe. I knew the Lazarus Pit had its limits, but... I should have understood from the scars,” his mother sighed.

Damian fell silent—he had been inattentive. He had missed something so obvious. It felt like a slap. Especially since Jason himself was attentive enough to notice his concern even while in pain.

Damian helped his mother lay Jason on the heated pads, being careful not to disturb his right shoulder too much. From what he could see, Jason was protecting it more than anything. But even after lying down, the tension didn't entirely leave him.

But not even a minute later, Damian saw how he shifted slightly, pressing his back closer to the warmth. He sighed with such obvious relief that mistaking it for something else was impossible.

Damian exchanged a glance with his mother.

“Alright. It shall be easier now,” she promised Jason.

For several minutes, he kept his eyes closed, and Damian thought he might have fallen asleep. Until he half-opened his eyes and shifted his left hand, pulling it from under the blanket.

Damian hesitated, unsure if he had understood Jason's intentions correctly. Nevertheless, he gently touched his palm, feeling the slight squeeze of his fingers.

Damian looked at Jason's face, and noticed how the corners of his lips quivered almost imperceptibly.

Jason was smiling.

Chapter Text

Selina always understood him better.

Bruce found it difficult to admit, considering he had known Jason for longer. He had met him on the streets of Gotham; he recognized the same anger that lived within himself. The same anger that tried to break free from its chains and reduce everything around to ruins.

He tried to give Jason direction, to help him find something constructive. But he forgot about the reasons behind his anger. He forgot how long it had helped Jason to survive. Jason didn't know any other ways. But Bruce still blamed him when he returned to anger again and again, not knowing where else to find strength.

Bruce blamed him when he could barely hold on to the edge of the abyss himself.

Lately, Bruce's knuckles had almost stopped healing. The damaged skin was peeling off. It was surrounded by light-pink spots covered with fresh dark scabs. They wouldn't heal, reopening too frequently.

How could he teach someone if he himself was failing?

Bruce looked up at Jason's suit. At what caused of his death.

“Do you know what he would say?” Selina walked into the cave unnoticed. He turned at the sound of her voice.

“What?”

“That we should hang a sign that says ‘Dangerous levels of gloominess; proceed with caution’ at the cave’s entrance.”

Bruce chuckled. Jason probably would've said something like that if he saw Bruce like this. If only he could.

“You still haven't said anything, Bruce.“

He sighed heavily, leaning back on the chair.

“No, I haven't.”

She sat on the table, gripping its edge with her palms. She used to do that often. That was before she almost stopped showing up in the cave at all. Bruce couldn't recall the moment when he had got accustomed to someone’s presence there, to the conversations in the cave, to the constant rustle.

But he felt the difference immediately after Jason's death.

“And I came here to pull the words out,” Selina shrugged.

He knew what she was asking. Of course, he knew. Thoughts of what she had done had never left him.

He thought how he wanted to do that himself. To admit that there is one exception to the rule. Only a single one, absolutely hopeless one. Joker had no desire for repentance, no purpose. There had been nothing human in him. Not a single living soul was crushed by his death. Bruce saw only rejoicing. It was everywhere. In the press, in the city, in people. Even in his own family.

Even in himself.

Every night in his dreams, he killed Joker. He thought about it when awake. He recalled it when fighting on patrols, barely stopping his hand at the last moment.

A simple and clear boundary never seemed so fragile. As if only after Jason's death, Bruce could truly understand him. The dark whispers so easily crept into his mind, suggesting striking once more to eliminate the threat to others forever.

What was he trying to teach Jason if he himself was no longer clinging to an idea, but to prohibition? If it was only because of prohibition that the boundary still existed at all?

“You know what I think,” Bruce said, turning away.

“Actually, no, I don't know. So now you'll use the words and tell me what's going on in your wonderful mind.”

“What do you want to hear, Selina?”

She shook her head.

“I already told you, Bruce. I want your thoughts. I can't hear them, and it's becoming harder to ignore the elephant in the room, don't you think?”

Bruce looked up at her.

“You shouldn’t have done this. Joker belongs in the Arkham.”

Selina pursed her lips, looking at him with disappointment. It cut deep. It cut even deeper because of how easily Bruce could imagine the same look in Jason’s eyes.

No, he wouldn't be disappointed. He'd be furious.

“I can't say I expected anything different,” Selina said, looking over his head, somewhere deep into the cave.

“But when I found out that he was dead... I was glad,” Bruce admitted.

“Well, that's more interesting,” Selina acknowledged.

“There's nothing interesting about it,” Bruce replied sharply. “All the time he was alive, I wanted to find and kill him. And now, even though he's already dead, I still want that. I kill him in my dreams. Hell, I can barely stop myself when I'm awake, even with those who have nothing to do with him,” he looked at his injured knuckles again.

“Does being human scare you that much, Bruce?”

“There's nothing human about wanting to kill someone!” he exploded.

Selina squinted, looking directly into his eyes.

“Get your head out of your ass, Bruce,” she said sharply. “Do you think you're the only one who wanted him dead? Do you know how much Ivy held back just because she didn't want to upset Harley, still believing that bastard had a heart?”

“This isn't...”

“I'm not done yet! Do you think Dick just accepted everything and continued on as if nothing happened? What do you think would have happened if Joker was in the same room with Alfred holding a shotgun?” she asked, leaning forward.

Dick hadn't said anything to him. Alfred's only words were, “Master Bruce, you should see this,” when the news channels first reported Joker's death. Selina tried to talk to him, but hit a wall, so she took matters into her own hands.

“If you were to say right now that you didn't even want to kill him, I'd start wondering who the hell I ended up living under the same roof with, Bruce.”

“He was insane. Maybe in Arkham...”

“No, I will talk to you, not your damn code, whether you like it or not,” Selina interrupted. “Talk to me.”

Bruce fell silent.

It was not only Jason whom Selina understood too well; she could drew answers from Bruce that he wouldn't want to know just as well.

“Did you consider Jason a monster every time he argued with you?” she asked.

No, he just started doubting whether Jason could be fixed. And he made sure to let Jason know.

“Leave him out of this,” Bruce said heavily.

“I won't leave him out, because this is about him!” Selina replied.

Bruce ran his hand through his hair, lips pressed together.

“I still don't understand what you want me to say, Selina. It was wrong. None of this was right,” he said.

“I want you to understand that the monster you fear would have just become docile if his death,” Selina's voice trembled, “didn't change you. You are his father. You're a living person, Bruce. Even if sometimes you are an incredible moron.”

Bruce looked away.

“But you didn't come for me or Ivy,” Selina said.

“I couldn't. Not after we buried him,” he said quietly.

That would have been right thing to do. But even the thought of it felt like the most wrong thing in the world.

How could he? How could he after seeing how Jason's death crushed Selina?

How could he after failing to save him? After allowing him to run away, being all alone by himself, knowing how lost he was? How could he, when he pieced together everything that happened to him that day?

“And not when I...” Bruce paused. “Selina, I don't know if I could stop myself if I saw him.”

Bruce knew; the answer was in his unhealing knuckles.

He heard Selina easily hop off the table. She stopped right in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders, and spoke much softer:

“I know, Bruce.”

Bruce felt like she really did know, heard the truth behind his words.

“I should have saved him. Then none of this would have happened,” Bruce said.

Selina lifted his chin with her index finger, looking into his eyes.

Bruce was expecting accusations. Anger.

But all he saw in her eyes was endless weariness and the same burnt wasteland that remained within himself.

“You did everything you could. I know that,” she said.

He shook his head.

“It wasn't enough.”

“Jason wouldn't blame you.”

“That doesn't change anything.”

Selina sighed.

“But for ‘Arkham’ and ‘wrong’ he would have broken your nose. And I wouldn't have even try to stop him.”

“And you shouldn't have.”

Selina shook her head.

“You are still an incredible moron,” she said and leaned in, embracing him.

Bruce pulled her onto his lap, holding her close to his chest. Desperately needing her warmth and knowing he hadn't deserved it for a long time.

But she nestled closer and froze, resting her head on his chest. Bruce closed his eyes, listening to her soft breathing. Feeling the beating of her heart. Not understanding why Selina couldn't see the same and still stayed by his side. Refusing to admit how guilty he was. He demanded too much and gave so little. No wonder Selina understood Jason better. No wonder he ran to his mother, hoping for something better. Ran away from Bruce.

He let him down.

“I miss him so much,” Selina said softly.

“I’m sorry.”

“Moron.”

Bruce fell silent.

“The only one guilty of his death is dead. And you are alive.”

“I am,” Bruce confirmed.

Even if the only hint of life he felt was someone else's heartbeat.

The heartbeat of the woman he also let down.

The heartbeat of his son he will never hear again.

Chapter Text

Mother told Damian that everything went well.

A short conversation over the phone had eased part the worry partially—but not completely. Damian knew that his mother withheld a lot during their calls. Unless absolutely necessary, the details were always saved for a face-to-face conversation.

Even with their level of protection it was a sensible habit. But it did nothing to reduce his anxiety. It turned ordinary hours or even days into heavy anticipation.

Mother told him she would be back by midnight. But by half of an hour before that, Damian was already waiting for her in the courtyard, staring at the locked gates of the castle. As if his impatience mattered.

Jason sat on the grass next to him, leaning against an old beech tree. He had tagged along as usual: in the few days that Damian's mother was absent, he hardly left his side. Damian expected as much; Jason had always sought his company. When Damian started helping him instead of his mother...

It was probably only a matter of time. Maybe Jason was also troubled by the absence of someone familiar. He also could have just sensed Damian’s worry.

Damian looked at Jason. He had been observing a firefly that had landed on his fingers for several minutes already. In the darkness of the night, its yellowish light seemed particularly warm and captivating.

Damian sat down next to him, gazing at the insect.

“Mother says even flies struggle to survive in Gotham,” he said.

He had never been to Gotham or even anywhere close. Damian rarely visited cities in general and even less frequently stayed for any significant period. Almost all of the League's hideouts he lived in were located in some remote areas. The closest city to the Swiss castle was at least twenty minutes away by car, and Damian couldn't imagine why he would need to stay there for longer than a couple of hours.

He only traveled to distant cities, sometimes to other countries, for missions. Just like his mother did.

Damian stared at the gates again.

He didn't know exactly what was throwing him off balance. His mother was not defenseless; she knew what she was doing. She had secured involuntary allies and didn't confront anyone serious. The attackers were just an ordinary German gang: bloated, desensitized to danger, and arrogant. But ordinary.

For this mission, she didn’t even have to draw her blade. She had played the simple role of a rich damsel in distress, targeted for her wealth.

But the three deaths bothered Damian. Perhaps it was the audacity that put him on edge. Damian was used to caution, to long and calculated plans, and behind such audacity, there had to be something more significant than mere foolishness. Something the League hadn't anticipated.

Only his mother had foreseen everything; otherwise, she wouldn't have reported her success.

Damian shifted his gaze to Jason, who had lost interest in the firefly and was now looking at Damian's right leg.

Hell.

Damian clenched his lips, immediately halting the unconscious tapping of his toe.

“You did not see anything,” he warned.

As if Jason would tell anyone. Even if he could, who would he tell that to? The League didn't show much interest in them. After he broke the nose of one of the warriors, there was mild wariness, a readiness for attack. But nothing more.

Damian sighed, glancing back at the gates.

“I do not like waiting,” he explained for some reason. “It is pointless and distracts from everything.”

But Jason had already returned his focus to the firefly, which had decided to move to the back of his hand, right onto a dark scar. Jason slowly turned his hand, prompting the insect to return to his fingers. Despite the slowness, the movement looked almost ordinary. Healthy.

Damian noticed such displays from him more and more often. Jason often retreated deep into his thoughts, ignoring everything around him. But each time, he came back he… seemed to be back a little bit more. A little closer.

Even if he remained silent.

Mother said that speech is extremely complex. There could be both physical and psychological barriers to it. Damian assumed that it was the latter: Jason didn't try to produce even sounds.

He communicated through gestures, reacted to touches, not always obeying them blindly as he did at the beginning. He even started seeking them himself. But even an attempt at speech never came out.

Although recently, his intentions had been becoming more and more obvious even without words.

Jason slowly extended his hand with the firefly towards Damian. Just as slowly, he curled his fingers, transferring the firefly to Damian's shoulder.

Some aspects of his behavior still remained a mystery.

“I am not sure what this could mean,” Damian murmured, gazing at the soft light of the insect.

He almost began to think out loud, attempting to guess, when he felt a hand on his head. Damian froze.

Even through the heaviness of the awkward fingers and the stiffness of the motion itself, the touch felt gentle and careful. Jason tousled his hair, running his hand through it.

He was definitely patting him.

Damian looked at his face, not entirely believing. He had never encountered something so explicit from Jason. And so unexpected.

He responded to some touches. Sometimes, he sought them. But he almost had never initiated contact first.

The smile, which Damian had seen only twice before, added to the peculiarity. As the overly attentive gaze.

Damian raised an eyebrow. The vague intention suddenly became as clear as glass.

“I'm fine,” he said displeasingly, looking back at the gates.

Jason continued caressing his hair.

“Unbelievable,” Damian murmured.

He didn't need comforting. And he certainly couldn't have imagined that Jason, of all people, would decide differently. Damian didn’t expect he would pick up on his agitation: it was clearly difficult for him to keep up with everything that was happening around him.

But Jason caught the signs. Just as Damian caught that the tips of his fingers were icy cold.

Sighing, Damian transferred the firefly to Jason's leg. He took off his bisht and draped it over Jason's shoulders. The night chill didn't bother him too much, probably due to the movement that warmed his blood. Jason, on the other hand, barely moved. He didn't move his shoulders, turned too smoothly, and hardly moved his fingers. He lacked the small gestures that warmed anyone else.

Receiving Damian's bisht over his own, Jason froze, looking confused. Damian chuckled, which prompted Jason to look up.

“What?”

He looked almost... displeased.

“Ah, laughter is forbidden. I will keep that in mind,” Damian nodded.

And again, the same look: definitely displeased.

“I'm appalled. Not sure how I dared,” Damian quipped.

Jason turned away. Very... demonstratively.

Damian never fully understood how he could distinguish these faint hints. They were barely noticeable, yet at the same time so obvious.

It became even more evident when Damian noticed small gaze as Jason discreetly watched his reaction.

“Unbelievable,” Damian said, laughing once more.

Before he said more, familiar light tapping made him instantly alert, as the gates opened slightly, brightly illuminating courtyard with headlights. His mother had arrived.

She drove past to park on the underground castle’s floor. Damian spotted her behind the wheel, met her gaze, and greeted her with a short nod. She responded.

“Finally,” he said, watching the car moving away.

His mother walked into the courtyard a couple of minutes later, and Damian carefully examined her, ensuring there were no signs of battle. Dressed in city clothes, she appeared to be an ordinary woman. Slightly extravagant due to the heavy jewelry, but she aimed for that image.

There were no surprises.

“Hello, Damian. Hello, Jason,” she said, approaching them.

“Hello, Mother. Did everything go well?” Damian asked after all.

“Of course.” She frowned slightly and came close to Damian. She began to carefully tidy his disheveled locks, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Not sure if I want to know exactly what you have been up to while I was away.”

Damian nodded towards Jason. Mother raised an eyebrow, shifting her gaze to him.

“It is not what I expected, but definitely better.”

“I am lost at your expectations, Mother.”

“Do not pretend. You remember perfectly well how exactly you used to explore every corner of the castle.”

“When I was ten years old or less,” Damian remarked, somewhat displeased.

“Old habits never die simply,” a subtle smile appeared on her lips.

“Unbelievable,” Damian rolled his eyes.

“Quite believable, actually. Jason,” she called, extending her hand to him.

He lifted his head much slower than just a moment ago. He glanced indifferently at her palm. Damian sighed.

“He was way better a mere minute ago.”

“He is unwell?” his mother asked, gently supporting Jason under the elbow and helping him to stand up.

Damian frowned.

“Is that one of your jokes?”

His mother raised an eyebrow, seeming genuinely puzzled.

“Not sure what made you think I am joking”

Damian looked skeptical.

“Fine,” she shook her head. “Let's go. It is getting late. And quite cold.”

Damian, just now remembering that he had given his bisht to Jason, averted his gaze.

“Definitely,” he agreed, leading the way into the castle.

Still, he had walked slow enough to hear the soft footsteps behind him.

Chapter Text

Ever since Jason had returned to life, Talia had been trying to find a connection between his condition and anything that was known to medicine. She had found some similar symptoms, but there was always something that made no sense in the context of illness she’d been looking through. Whether it was atypical symptom or the lack of typical.

Talia had checked her father’s notes, but couldn’t find anything substantial enough to work with. Ra's al Ghul almost never focused on the effects of the Pit, preferring to write down events that had led him to use it in the first place.

Talia had only guesses. And she knew the cost of making a mistake.

She was reading another paper on aphasia, when a brief knock on the door interrupted her.

“Come in,” she looked up.

Her son came in.

“Damian,” she said warmly. “Are you alone?”

"I am," he nodded.

Lately, she rarely saw him alone. Before he had used to refuse to acknowledge anyone but her, and that had given Talia a lot to contemplate. He was her heir, and he was ready for everything. For everything, except for creating personal connections necessary to a good leader.

But it seemed that even that problem was gradually being resolved. Talia barely remembered her initial concern with Damian's jealousy over Jason. But Damian had been able to rise above it, and Talia couldn't help but think of it with quiet pride.

“What brought you here?” she asked, nodding towards the couch.

After slight hesitation, Damian sat down. He looked at Talia with the heavy doubt of a grown child, admitting that he needed an advice.

He had grown up so much and Talia couldn’t even understand when it happened.

“I was thinking about your words on his speech. Jason’s,” Damian explained, even though Talia didn't need any clarifications.

“Have you come up with something?” She put aside papers, preparing to listen.

“Yes, I thought that he might react to something familiar. If my face reminds him of his father…”

Talia shook her head. “He reacted poorly when I tried to show him a photo of Bruce,” she reminded him.

“I remember. But I was thinking about the voice,” Damian explained. “He… doesn't react when you remind him of Gotham or when you mention Wayne. Maybe a conversation would be helpful.”

Talia had been thinking about it—of course she had. She had also been contemplating what and how often Jason thought about everything that happened to him. How he perceived his place in the castle.

He didn't seem anxious or lost to her. But that didn't necessarily mean he was calm. Or that he would remain calm later.

And yet...

“I do not think this is the best idea,” Talia shook her head.

“Why is that?” Damian asked, crossing his arms on his chest.

“It is quite simple. Bruce doesn't trust me. If he finds out that Jason is alive, he'd consider it less risky to take him away than leave him under my care. I have no doubt he only wants what's best, but his intentions and actions have a very unpleasant tendency to clash.”

Damian frowned, his expression darkening further.

“Not trusting you. That is absurd.”

“It is not. I bear some responsibility for what happened in Qurac. He knows I had no ill intentions, but he would not forget the consequences they led to.”

Damian squinted, becoming even more somber.

“The greater blame lies with him if he couldn't take care of his enemy when he had the chance.”

He was trying to protect Talia from the blame, and she smiled faintly. Despite understanding her part in Jason's death – heavy and senseless as it was – she said:

“If there is even only a little part of a man I once knew remains, Bruce understands that”.

Damian fell silent, clearly searching for a counterargument.

“It is reasonable...” she began.

“There is nothing reasonable about it!” Damian burst out in irritation. “You still care about this man. Trust is the least that he can repay with.”

Talia chuckled softly, shaking her head.

“You are upset about this, my son, but I haven't heard such naive words in a long time. You are much smarter than that, Damian.”

He scowled even harder, clearly hoping to come up with some devastating argument, but not finding one.

“What about the records?” he asked instead. “Wayne is a notable figure in Gotham. He speaks a lot publicly.”

“We can try,” Talia nodded. “I am unsure on how it will affect Jason. What do you think?”

“I wanted to ask you about that,” Damian replied.

Talia smiled gently.

“I should be asking you, my son.”

“Why is that?”

“You already understand him much better than I do.”

The irritation disappeared from his face, replaced by skepticism. As if he hadn't considered this before. Talia had long noticed how evident the subtle displays of Jason's emotions were to Damian. Most of them eluded her. Damian not only understood Jason's state of mind, but he could almost carry on a conversation without any verbal responses.

Talia couldn't do that.

But she could see through Damian's thoughts. She immediately noticed the change in his gaze, how it became more serious. He felt the weight of the decision and was ready to take on a new role, to take responsibility for someone's well-being.

Talia's lips twitched in an involuntary smile.

“Yes. I think we should give it a try,” he finally said.

Talia couldn't help but notice how his hand, resting on the armrest, tightened slightly.

“Everything will be fine, Damian. We know what to expect, and we will be able to stop him.”

Damian sighed.

“I know. But I don't want to cause him unnecessary pain.”

Talia nodded with quiet regret. Jason probably couldn't escape pain. Whether it was from attempts to help him recover or from the pain of being separated from those who remained close to him.

Talia regretted knowing so little about his relationships with the other family members and couldn't risk turning to them. Maybe things would have turned out a little differently if she could.

“Healing always brings pain in the beginning,” she said.

“I am aware. It does not mean I have to like it.”

“Neither do I, Damian.”

Damian hesitated but chose to make a step forward.

They chose the record together. It was one of probably hundreds. Bruce Wayne often spoke publicly, and every word of his was captured by cameras. Talia paid little attention to this aspect of his personality, knowing how false it was.

Talia could only catch glimpses of something familiar in Bruce's mannerisms, mostly unconscious ones. Something in the way he held himself, nuances in his gestures and expressions, and a distant shadow in his intonation. Bruce was playing a role in front of the public, concealing his true self.

Talia had never been interested in lies, even if they reminded her of the past. Damian, too, seemed to be affected by this act. After viewing yet another recording, he switched off the image, listening only to the audio.

Talia understood that Damian made a choice when he replayed the same record. In it, Bruce was answering a question about city planning. It fit perfectly. Bruce was not addressing the public, his voice sounded natural, he didn't try to divert attention with any joke, and no one interrupted him.

The recording lasted for twenty-eight seconds.

“This one might work,” Talia nodded.

“I agree,” Damian said.

He began transferring the recording to his phone.

Talia involuntarily remembered how Jason had harmed himself. His swift movements didn't align with his usual heaviness or the absolute indifference in his gaze just a moment before. She hadn't expected anything like that and it got him injured.

This time she was prepared, and Damian was right there with her, equally prepared.

But as they walked into Jason's room, Talia couldn't shake off memories of him digging his fingers into his eye sockets. Only a second was enough for a blood vessel to burst, coloring his eye with a crimson hue. It had healed for so long.

And it was the reminder of necessary caution.

Jason reacted to their presence, raising his head. His gaze slid between both of them, finally settling on Damian. He had noticed Talia's presence before, sometimes responded to her voice, but he clearly preferred Damian, just like in the beginning.

Damian handed the phone to Talia and sat down next to Jason, carefully taking his hands in his own.

“It is alright,” Damian said reassuringly. “I will stop it if you don't want to listen.”

Talia didn't know if those words were a mere formality or if Damian was responding to something she couldn't hear.

“Play it,” he said.

Talia approached closer, ready to help if necessary, and pressed the play button.

“...no one will deny that Gotham has its share of problems, even when...”

Jason sharply turned towards the voice, trying to locate its source. His gaze settled on the phone.

His relaxed demeanor vanished, replaced by something stone-cold. His gaze became focused, yet burdened. Closed off.

For a brief second Talia felt like she saw fear.

“It is alright,” Damian said softly, trying not to interrupt the recording.

Jason turned to him, leaning in and shaking his head abruptly. He took a deep breath, lifting his shoulders.

"...we plan to focus on..."

He started raising his palms, in slow movements that didn't resemble self-harm attempts. Still, Damian preemptively covered his hands with his own, ready to catch them at any moment. Talia was also ready to turn off the recording and help in a second if something went wrong.

Jason brought his hands to his face, cupping them over his ears, as if trying to shield himself from the sound. The message was clear.

“Turn it off,” Damian said just as Talia was about to press the button.

Bruce's voice abruptly stopped.

Jason remained still, continuing to hide from the sound. He closed his eyes as if trying to escape the memory of Bruce's voice.

Talia didn't understand. They were close—that much she could say with certainty. And she knew Bruce well enough not to believe he could harm his own son. That he could harm a child at all.

Children had always been his soft spot.

“Jason,” Damian called, “it is alright. You won't hear it again if you don't want to.”

Jason didn't respond, still closing himself off from the world.

“I might have made a mistake,” Damian covered Jason's hands, gently stroking the back with his thumbs.

“We had to try.”

“Or we should have just given him enough time.”

“If we had just given him time, he might still not be walking, Damian. You know how healing works.”

“I know.”

Treatment rarely went smoothly or without pain. It was all for the distant prospect of getting better. A cruel concept, like much anything in life. Cruel, but usually effective.

Without opening his eyes or removing his hands, Jason leaned in, resting his head on Damian's shoulder. It was as if he sought peace in him. Or protection—Talia still thought about that glimpse of fear.

After hesitating for a moment, Damian embraced him. And Jason held on tighter, like a drowning man.

“No more Wayne,” Damian promised, hugging him even tighter.

Talia noticed a strange irony: Bruce was the only unreliable thread that connected them. Damian's biological father, whom he didn't know, and Jason's adoptive father, whom he couldn't hear.

Talia watched as Damian comforted Jason, softly assuring him that everything would be fine. That he wouldn't hear that voice again. And she saw that they were already connected by so much more than an unreliable thread.

Chapter Text

The recording was a mistake.

Jason started seeking Damian's company more often; it didn't bother Damian. What bothered him much more was that even after four days, Jason still expressed too many signs of distress.

When something troubled Jason, he withdrew further into himself. His detachment intensified, and there was a growing sense of absent-mindedness in his gaze. He moved less frequently and with more effort. He responded less to the words.

The only sign left in the past was his desire for solitude.

But Damian still couldn't help feeling he rushed things. He made everything worse, although he wasn’t sure how bad it had become.

Yet, for some reason, Jason continued to find him safe. Perhaps that's why he wanted to stay close.

Damian could only indulge him, trying to correct his mistake.

“Why does he bother you, but our similarity doesn't?” Damian quietly asked when Jason sat on the couch next to him, practically leaning against his shoulder.

They were in the library, and Damian was reading a book about the history of the States. Specifically, a chapter dedicated to Gotham.

He had become accustomed to noticing traces of his bloodline in history: Ra's al Ghul had been involved in numerous events under different names, shared with both his mother and himself. But that was one exceptional individual.

The Waynes, whose blood flowed through Damian's veins, had worked on Gotham for generations. As did the Arkhams: another part of his bloodline.

Still, Jason had a much deeper connection to Gotham than Damian ever did. Damian wished he could ask him about this city in person. His mother had answered his questions, but she felt too much like a guest never finding her true place there.

Her true home was with the League. As was Damian's.

Damian immersed himself in reading again, hardly paying attention to the weight against his shoulder.

Long minutes passed in absolute silence until Damian felt a slight shift in weight on his shoulder. Jason gently rested his chin on Damian's shoulder.

Damian froze, afraid to disturb the moment. He wanted to acknowledge it, but he didn't know how Jason would react. He didn't know what exactly Jason was expecting.

Remaining motionless was incorrect, normal behavior was much more appropriate: Damian was sure of that. Maybe he should take a step forward, stop living in the past and pey more attention to the present.

He raised his hand, placing it on Jason's hair, and softly ran his hand through it. Damian wasn't particularly fond of physical contact, he felt he had outgrown it. Yet, Jason seemed to be seeking it.

Immediately, Damian felt a response: the weight on his shoulder grew slightly heavier. Jason lifted his head a little, nudging Damian's hand. Damian thought of cats expressing their affection in such a way.

“It seems you like this,” he couldn't help but smile.

Damian glanced over, noticing that Jason was looking at the open pages of a book. Damian wasn't sure if Jason understood German or had enough concentration to read at all. But his interest in the book was evident.

“And books,” Damian chuckled. “There are some in English here, but I am not sure how much. I do not think English textbooks will interest you,” Damian said, running his hand through Jason's hair again. “But it will be quite amusing if it turns out you have understood Arabic all this time. Though your native language should still be easier.”

There was no immediate reaction, but for Jason even this was significant. It was certainly more than he had expressed over the last four days.

Damian continued to gently caress his head.

“My mother taught me English when I was a child. It is a necessary language. But I did not use it very often, except for studying and necessary practice. In the League, we mainly use Arabic. I believe I have talked in English with you the most.”

He had learned from many foreigners, and English was a necessary means of communication, but he never spoke to anyone just like that. Though his conversations with Jason were more like monologues.

Damian’s fingers encountered something uneven, and Damian frowned for a moment until he realized those were scars.

Jason instantly tensed, and Damian shifted his hand.

“I apologize, it was accidental.”

He started touching even more cautiously, trying not to disturb the scars. Damian couldn't fathom how much heavier it could become for Jason in the future, if even an accidental touch in this state elicited such response.

Damian had seen his scars. He had asked his mother about his death, regretting a bit that he had never shown any interest in it before. Although his mother's words had been sufficient. She said that the beating had been so severe that he could have died from the blows alone. And even if he had survived, some of the injuries would have been beyond the skill of the most adept doctors. Damian had no doubt in that: even the Lazarus Pit didn't heal everything.

His mother had also said that the torture had no purpose. It was not for information, not for a revenge. It was a simple desire to inflict pain. Not even on Jason himself, but on his father.

“I don't understand how your father... Never mind,” Damian interrupted himself with a sigh.

He decided not to dwell on the past, not to inadvertently remind Jason of something he wasn't ready to hear. It would only lead to more anxiety. It was unnecessary for Jason.

Besides, he couldn't answer Damian's question.

How could one forgive something like that?

One question poisoned the Wayne image more effectively than any venom.

His mother had tried to explain that it wasn't about forgiveness. That Jason's murder was not forgiven. But Damian truly didn't understand. Wayne's rules and his worldview were alien to him, but the facts remained. He would have allowed that man to live. The responsibility had fallen upon his spouse.

Damian closed the book, setting it aside.

He truly didn't understand. And he was grateful to his mother for not being able to understand. After that conversation, for the first time, he thought that the web of lies had made some sense after all. Children easily learn even the most harmful habits of their parents.

“How about I find something in English,” Damian suggested, diverting his thoughts from the heavy ones. "I haven't read anything aloud to anyone yet."

Slightly shifting to allow Jason to change position, Damian got up, meeting his gaze with a hint of confusion – a new sign of worry.

“It is alright. I will be right back,” Damian promised, running his hand through Jason's hair, noting how noticeable it was how much he leaned into that touch.

He really liked it.

Moving away from the couch, Damian stopped near a bookshelf with a couple of shelves of English books. He thoughtfully looked at the spines, immediately ruling out textbooks and non-fiction.

He wanted to know Jason's taste but, for now, he could choose for himself.

He dismissed a few books he hadn't read yet, and the choices became quite limited. Damian settled on an anthology of English poetry. Taking it off the shelf, he returned to the couch, opening the book and flipping through the long preface.

Damian expected Jason to remain somewhat distant for a while, but he almost immediately leaned against Damian's shoulder again, looking at the text with evident interest.

“Alright. Let us give it a try,” Damian suggested.

And he began to read.

Chapter Text

Sometimes he tried to listen.

The words ceased to be a storm, sweeping everything in their path; they quieted down, and a shade of meaning appeared in some of them. Instead of the previous destruction, they added something new, connecting scattered fragments in his mind.

Distant images that had been elusive before started to take shape, turning into something substantial. The fog of uncertainty dissolved, no longer trying to suffocate every feeling in thick fog.

He memorized the images. He memorized the names.

He memorized them, learning to listen without losing himself in a thousand sensations.

Jason was his name. Its roots started somewhere immeasurably far, uttered by hundreds of voices, each concealing a story. Pleasant or bitter, simple or extraordinary, detestable or desired.

Talia was vaguely familiar, tinged with a hint of danger. Caution firmly established next to this name but gradually yielded to a soft tranquility that always accompanied it.

Damian was so paradoxical. Familiar, yet utterly new. Already known, yet surprising every time. Stern, yet full of warmth. Intriguing in every detail.

He loved listening to Damian; his voice supported, held him firmly by the hand, preventing him from stumbling on the ruined path.

In the desert...

He remembered the endless sands, the scorching heat, and the evil whistling wind... he remembered. The vivid sun that forced him to squint.

I saw a creature naked, bestial,

Searching for something. Seeking for someone among the sands. Desperately wishing to find and equally desperately trying to lose. To escape from something. From someone. He had found and had vanished, but it all ended so wrongly.

Who held his heart in his hands,

He remembered the heavy heartbeats gradually fading. The weakening pulse, the haze, and the smell of blood.

And ate of it.

An old wound in the heart consumed him. It deprived him of everything and refused to close, oozing with bitter decay.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

Bitterness, every word was full of bitterness, each one got off the tongue, guided by that bitterness.

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

And this bitterness drew him in, never letting go.

“But I like it

He knew these words.

He knew them from somewhere even before they were spoken.

“Because it is bitter,

He had known them for so long; they were a part of him.

“And because it is

"My heart,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

“My heart.”

It was only two words from the last line of the poem. Just two simple words, but Damian held his breath, listening intently, not interrupting.

Even his thoughts seemed too loud.

Jason spoke.

No, there was much more behind it. Jason didn't just speak; he remembered. He knew this poem. He knew the exact moment, the brief pause that matched the words, and he was able to capture it.

Damian had been waiting for him to say anything for a long time. And he felt like a heavy weight suddenly lifted from his shoulders, a burden that had been imperceptibly pressing him down until this moment. He hadn't known if Jason would ever talk. But there was no doubt left now. Jason's voice sounded hoarse, ragged, and faint from prolonged silence. But it was there, and Jason wanted to use it.

Even if he fell silent again for now.

“That is correct. Do you like Crane?” Damian cautiously asked.

Jason took a deep breath, as if he was about to respond, but instead he dryly coughed. Damian quickly got up, poured water from the pitcher on the table, and handed Jason a cup, supporting its weight with his own hand as Jason drank.

This reaction was natural after a prolonged silence.

“And now I know how to get you talking,” despite everything, Damian's voice held a slight triumph.

It was literature. Or was it just poetry? Now Damian, knowing what he was doing, could try both. Just two options instead of endless attempts to find anything useful.

Damian hadn't thought that the poem would be the cause of Jason's first words. He just wanted to speak aloud, like on any other day. Only the topics for monologues were not endless. For Damian that was especially true; he wasn't used to empty conversations.

But the idea of literature began to seem obvious. If Jason was drawn to something familiar but not personal, was there a better choice than art?

Damian didn't understand why he hadn't thought of it before. He remembered the day when he finally understood what Jason's reluctance to move meant. Only that mistake was much more serious.

When Jason pulled away from the cup, Damian placed it on the small table next to the couch and sat back down beside him. He gently touched Jason's hair, feeling how Jason leaned more heavily against his shoulder.

Damian realized he was smiling.

“I wonder how you would react to something popular today. I am not well-versed in modern culture,” he admitted, feeling some regret about it for the first time in his life. “But I am much better in classic literature. Perhaps that will do for a start. Then you can add something and tell me.”

Damian spoke without a hint of doubt; just two words were enough to break any of it into pieces. They were enough to imagine how to help Jason speak more. Enough to imagine the conversations that would happen sooner or later.

Damian just knew this.

“Is this your favorite, or do you just have a good memory for poetry?” he asked, trying to guess. “I would not be able to finish many poems. I also remember some of the prose, but not word by word. What about you?”

He studied Jason's face, trying to find a clue. But all he saw now was Jason slightly closing his eyes from the touch to his hair. Damian chuckled softly.

“Alright, that is enough hints for now. You have already told me a lot,” he said, taking the book that was open to ‘In the Desert’.

After hesitating for a moment, Damian read it again, slower, with more distinct pauses. He watched Jason's reaction in each one, not expecting, but hoping that he would want to and would be able to continue.

This time, Jason didn't say anything.

Damian sighed. He shouldn't expect everything at once – nothing with Jason happened that quickly – but he still wanted to hear him again. To make sure that the words spoken weren't just a coincidence.

He scolded himself. Of course, they weren't. Two distinct words, the ending of the poem spoken precisely at the right moment. Too much for a mere coincidence, and at the thought of it, the corners of his lips persistently rose.

“And this is only the thirty-second page,” he pointed to the printed number. “Maybe you will remember something else?”

‘In the Desert’ wasn’t the most famous poem by any means. But Jason remembered it anyway. How much more could he recall?

Damian felt the urge to read everything available in the library.

“Do you want to take a look yourself?” he offered, sliding the book onto Jason's lap.

Jason lowered his gaze to the pages, peering into the text. He squinted slightly, blinking slowly several times, clearly trying to concentrate. Damian didn't see the right eye movements across the lines; Jason's gaze froze at one point.

But Jason shifted his hand slightly, his index finger stopping at the title.

Damian immediately recognized the attempt to trace the line. And just as quickly understood the meaning of the heavy sigh after which Jason stopped looking at the book.

“You will get there,” Damian promised. “Then you can choose something yourself. Here or online, the selection there is definitely more interesting.”

Damian couldn't imagine how it felt like to be so cut off from the outside world. He didn't know if it felt like something natural or like an impenetrable wall. Was there fear that everything would remain the same?

Jason certainly felt irritation and showed it quite often. But the signs of worry and its reasons were less obvious.

“You will manage. You are already doing great,” Damian said warmly, hoping that these words would reach Jason fully.

He wanted to believe that his condition felt better than it looked. That it was not endless bewilderment, but something closer to quiet indifference. But Damian couldn't know for sure. He only had a faith that everything would get better. And he could try to share a part of it.

That was not much. But that was something.

Memories of the first encounters with Jason, meetings without the slightest interest and support but with gnawing irritation, started coming more frequently. And each one Damian wished to erase from memory. Not only from his own.

Damian missed the moment when this stranger barged into his life and turned it upside down, suddenly becoming significant. Significant, for how else could he describe him? A friend?

He poorly understood friendship. His experience was too limited, and he had never really thought about it before. Damian always had enough conversations with his mother. Sometimes he interacted with teachers, but he always remembered their roles. From them, he wanted solely knowledge and experience. He didn't want to get to know them.

With Jason, it was pure curiosity pulling him.

Damian sighed.

“Should I apologize now or later?” he asked himself more than anyone else, having grown used to practically thinking aloud in Jason's presence.

He felt a light touch to his hand.

“What?” Damian met his gaze.

And he saw a faint smile on Jason's face. Jason had only raised the corners of his lips, but peaceful and warm sparks reflected in his eyes. He didn't want apologies. Perhaps he didn't remember those days, or maybe he didn't understand what Damian was talking about.

Damian understood the unspoken words too well.

“It is an outrageously easy forgiveness,” he said.

Jason smiled wider.

“If you would not stop laughing at me, then you will have to apologize soon,” Damian shook his head.

But his lips twitched into an involuntary smile.

Chapter Text

The next time he spoke three hours later.

They've been in the library the whole time. At first, Damian slowly read the same poetry collection. Afterwards, he decided to bring all the English fiction books he could find and list titles to Jason, checking if anything would caught his interest.

He ignored everything.

Gradually, Jason stopped reacting even to Damian's words, whether it was about the poem read, a book, or some random nonsense that came to mind. It seemed like Damian had never talked this much in his entire life. And certainly his speech had never been so purposeless.

But Jason closed off. His head still laid on Damian's shoulder, but he stared blankly in front of him. All the subtle movements and gestures disappeared as well.

Damian often noticed how Jason closed off, as if hiding inside his head. It was especially obvious after he listened the recording with Wayne's voice. But even without that, Jason retreated within himself constantly, just not as deeply.

“Are you okay?” Damian wished he could get an answer.

And, to his surprise, he got one.

“Tired.”

Damian nodded, not fully understanding the answer. He had noticed Jason in this state so many times, but he had never thought about tiredness due to inconsistency. Sometimes this tiredness appeared in the morning. Sometimes it barged in the middle of a conversation for a few hours and then left just as unexpectedly. Damian rarely saw connection between it and the events of the day.

He wished he understood what was going on. But Jason probably couldn't explain it better at this point.

“It is quite late already,” Damian said instead, looking at the twilight sky outside. “I will take you to your room.”

He had to remind himself of patience, of the significance of the first words and the one that followed so soon. His mother would say not to rush.

And Damian slowed down.

Rising together with Jason, he guided him to his room. Jason nearly hung on his arm, allowing himself to be led. He barely lifted his feet, sometimes scuffing the stone floor. He didn't look at the path, his gaze was fixated somewhere in an empty point instead.

Damian hadn't seen Jason like this for a long time. It was as if just three words had truly squeezed everything out of him.

He couldn't talk for several months. Probably, such an impact shouldn’t be surprising.

Guiding Jason to his room, Damian helped him change and sat on a chair by the bed. Jason almost immediately lay on his back, closing his eyes. But his eyelashes twitched slightly, his breathing remaining too frequent and shallow for sleep.

Usually, he fell asleep right away.

This time, after a few minutes, Jason opened his eyes and turned his head, locking eyes with Damian. As if making sure he hadn't gone anywhere.

“I'm here,” Damian said.

The corners of Jason's lips twitched, and he closed his eyes again, inhaling deeper and calmer this time. Damian didn't move until his breathing became slow and silent.

Quietly rising, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

In the corridor, Damian's hurried towards his mother's study. He had to scold himself to slow down the pace, recognizing his impatience. His swift steps almost seemed to be a mirror to his racing thoughts. He knew he shouldn’t give them away for anyone to read like that.

Knocking and not waiting for a response, Damian turned the doorknob and entered. His mother, who had been speaking on the phone in English, gave him a puzzled look, but he hardly paid attention. He imagined how her expression would change when she hears the news.

Damian sat on the couch, waiting for her conversation to end, inadvertently noting the useless formalities that dragged the talk. Impatience made him want to reprimand himself.

After saying her goodbye, his mother hung up the phone and looked at Damian. She hadn't managed to say anything yet, because Damian spoke first:

“He spoke.”

She smiled.

And simultaneously, Damian noticed the same relief in her that he felt himself. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, a barely noticeable tension left her face. It was as if they both hadn't fully believed that would happen.

“And what did he say?” She tilted her head.

“He finished the poem I was reading to him. Later he said he was tired,” Damian explained.

His mother chuckled softly, covering her mouth with her hand.

“What is it?”

“Your father used to have a serious interest in literature. It looks like he kept this interest and passed it on,” she explained.

Damian hummed, not knowing how else to react. His mother was probably right, and Jason and Wayne's shared interest made sense. But he didn't like thinking about Jason's father; especially after the recording.

“It almost looked like Jason was afraid of him,” Damian said. “Or afraid of his voice.”

“I noticed that too,” his mother nodded. “But Bruce would never harm him. I think there is another reason. Probably it is the circumstances in which he last heard Bruce's voice.”

There was no doubt in her voice, and Damian acknowledged that her explanation made sense. But for some reason, he felt a petty desire to object, to engage in a pointless argument. As if he knew Wayne no less than his own mother did.

But he hadn't stayed with him for years. He hadn't observed him from a distance later.

And the decision about his son hadn't belonged to Damian either.

And he never did ask about another decision.

“Why did you even try to bring him back?”

The smile on his mother's face faded as if at the snap of fingers.

She crossed her arms over her chest, turning towards the window. She remained silent for a long time, staring in the night. Damian himself froze, sensing that he had asked the right question.

“His murderer crossed their path in Qurac because of me,” she finally said, turning back to Damian.

Damian raised an eyebrow.

“Guilt guided you.”

“Part of the responsibility lies on me, even if my hands are clean. I knew about the Joker's obsession with your father, but I thought I could control the chaos. Some lessons need to be learned again and again.”

Damian nodded, accepting the response – a part of it.

“You still care about his father.”

She hesitated again before answering.

“I care for him enough to not wish harm upon him and his children. But not enough to let him meddle in our affairs.”

“Why?”

He wanted to understand. To see how a man who seemed to be a collection of absurd beliefs could interest. To understand how he was able to preserve a trace of sympathy in his mother even sixteen years later.

Unexpectedly, she smiled warmly.

“Not everything has a rational explanation, Damian. It is both the strength and the weakness. You care about Jason yourself. Why? Answer that question and try to see the answer from the different perspective.”

Now it was Damian's turn to delve into his thoughts. The answer wasn't on the surface. He had an attachment to a person with whom he had almost no connection. Jason didn't have Bruce Wayne's blood, yet he considered him a father. Damian had Bruce Wayne's blood, yet he didn't consider him a father. An absurd situation.

Damian nodded slowly.

“Absurd.”

“Absurd. But human,” his mother smiled once more.

Damian chuckled softly. It seemed he understood.

Chapter Text

Jason spoke very little.

His sentences were usually limited to one or two words, and on most days, he rarely said more than five of them. And each one seemed to come with a physical effort. Jason's voice sounded uneven, it broke off and faded into a rasp after just a couple of syllables.

After each attempt, he needed water; and every time, he looked excessively irritated. Once he said a short “Doesn't help” to Damian, conveying his frustration more accurately.

But more often, he started expressing himself non-verbally, and truth be told, Damian found that quite sufficient. Jason's emotions were always vivid. From irritation to calmness, they were all too easy to see. Damian, who had known nothing but the detachment of the League’s people, struggled to adjust. In the past, he might have considered such openness as lack of self-control. However, in Jason's openness, he saw something utterly natural, something he could only accept as a part of him and observe.

He liked this contrast.

Despite that, Damian continued doing everything that had led to Jason's first words. He didn't rush it; not just because there was no need. He remembered too well the heavy emptiness that had completely seized Jason's eyes only five months ago.

In five months not every physical wound could be healed. For someone brought back from the other side, that span might have seem laughable. It might have, if anyone had known anything about resurrection. For now, their knowledge was limited to Jason. Jason, who after those first words had firmly decided that the gradual approach wasn't meant for him.

In recent days, he hadn't let Damian turn some of the read pages, pressing down on them with his fingertips. He would scan the text intensely and only then he lifted his hand, signaling to turn the page.

Despite the intensity in his gaze, Damian could clearly see that the written words didn't come easy to him. Yet, that didn't stop Jason.

On one of those days, he was once again focused on the book, his lips moving slightly. Damian patiently waited, having learned this habit quite well. Initially, Jason would look at the text, but soon his brows would furrow. Then his gaze would shift to shorter paragraphs or headings, but even those seemed to challenge him. Finally, an annoyed exhale would escape his lips, and he would allow Damian to turn the page.

This routine repeated several times a day.

“Take your time,” Damian said after another attempt. “You are already progressing very quickly.”

“Not enough,” Jason objected.

He stared at the book as if it was a mountain peak he was determined to conquer.

“It is plenty, and you have time,” Damian reminded him.

Jason frowned discontentedly, unimpressed by his words. Once again, he displayed irritation, something completely unfamiliar to Damian. It was open, yet not menacing; directed not at him, but at the world around him.

“Calm down,” Damian chuckled.

Jason looked as if he was ready to bite, and it made it all the more amusing.

“I'm terrified,” Damian said very seriously, nodding. “Will you allow me to finish reading, or do we have to settle this with a duel?”

Jason's lips moved soundlessly, too weak to make out the syllables. But Damian was ready to swear Jason hadn't planned on saying anything flattering.

With someone in the League, such a conversation would indeed have escalated into hostility or at least rivalry. But Jason only a seconds later gestured with a nod of his head towards the book, silently asking Damian to continue. As if nothing had happened.

And Damian resumed reading.

Jason didn't interrupt him anymore, either absorbed by the plot or preparing for a new attempt. For a deceptively long time it seemed that everything was fine.

“You are a silly little boy,” said the Lord of the Flies, “just an ignorant, silly little boy.”

Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing.

“Don’t you agree?” said the Lord of the Flies. “Aren’t you just a silly little boy?”

Simon answered him in the same silent voice.

Jason shifted slightly, and Damian heard an unusually sharp exhale.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Jason nodded.

Simon’s head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him.

“What are you doing out here all alone? Aren’t you afraid of me?”

Simon shook.

“There isn’t anyone to help you. Only me. And I’m the Beast.”

Simon’s mouth labored, brought forth audible words.

“Pig’s head on a stick.”

“Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!” said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter.

“Head,” Jason muttered, his voice sounding dull and detached.

Damian had never heard him speak like that before.

Never before had Jason pulled away or straightened up so abruptly. And never had his fingers started to tremble.

“Ja…”

“Laughter,” he interrupted with a hoarse word.

“Oh,” Damian managed to say, suddenly realizing his mistake.

Choosing this book had been a mistake. Believing Jason’s nod while knowing he was always eager to push himself a little further, had been an even bigger mistake. Now it wasn’t ‘too little’; it was way too hard.

“He died. And I died. I... died?” Jason asked, sharply turning towards Damian.

The blood drained from his face, leaving it completely white. The only living spot remained his widely open eyes, in the depths of which Damian could see disbelief, confusion and fear.

“Jason, you're alive,” he said firmly, placing his hand on Jason's cold palm.

“Am I dead?” Jason repeated, not hearing Damian, and staring through him into the past.

Damian knew all too well which past he was seeing. Which past intensified the tremor in his fingers, allowing it to crawl up his arms, farther, to take over his whole body. He knew, because of which past Jason’s breath became uneven and too fast.

“You're here, you're alive,” Damian stubbornly repeated.

Jason placed his hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“Dead.”

At the almost soundless word, the hair on the back of Damian's neck raised.

“Jason. Jason,” he called, trying to get his attention. “Look at me. Look!”

Jason shifted his gaze to him, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“Good. Right. Now breathe with me,” Damian exhorted loudly.

“I...”

“Later. Regain your breath.”

The inhale came out ragged, more like a series of sharp inhales, but he was trying.

“Okay. Good. Now, breathe with me,” Damian repeated.

Jason no longer tried to speak. He looked at Damian, gripping his wrist too tightly, perhaps hard enough to leave bruises. Damian didn't interfere, keeping his breathing steady and slow, watching to make sure Jason didn't lose track.

“Right,” he encouraged when the first inhale came out almost smooth.

He faltered a few more times, but each time he came back. And throughout all of it, he didn't break his gaze from Damian. Heavy, lost, and shaken.

“You're here, Jason. And no one will touch you again, I swear,” Damian said softly.

Jason didn't reply. But the tremor in his body didn't disappear, the shock didn't leave his widely open eyes, and Damian painfully wished he could somehow convey a piece of his own calmness.

How could he assure him that nothing like that would ever happen again?

He wanted to know the right words and the right gestures, but he doubted if such things existed. What could you say to a person who remembered their death? Who remembered such a violent death?

“It is okay,” Damian repeated, and these words felt like the most powerless thing in the world.

Powerlessness didn't leave him as he continued to be there for Jason, making sure his breath didn't falter again in fruitless attempts to catch as much air as possible. As he held his hand, saying useless calming words.

Only by night this state subsided, but never went away completely.

At the moment when it quieted down, Damian led Jason to his room, laying him down on the bed and staying by his side. The panic was receding painfully slow and it could return at an instant. It began at an instant, because the minute before nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Mere seconds before it, Damian believed that Jason was alright.

Damian couldn't leave him alone with it; he couldn't and didn't want to.

Even when Jason managed to fall asleep closer to midnight, Damian stayed in his room, simply closing his eyes and leaning back against the chair's backrest. Jason's sleep was restless. Through half-sleep, Damian heard the rustle of movements. He heard quiet exclamations.

But he woke up to a loud scream.

Chapter Text

The gunshots sounded like thunder in the lifeless night at the port warehouse.

Clinging to a cable attached to one of the beams, Bruce jumped over a container, taking cover behind it. Bullets tore through the metal walls with a heavy rumble, getting stuck inside somewhere, and Bruce shielded himself with his cape from stray fragments and ricochets.

In the silence that followed, he heard faint footsteps, eerily resembling those of humans. Two pairs of them.

When Bruce intercepted a message about the delivery of new weaponry, he had not expected two androids, for each of which any engineer would sell a soul. He still needed to find out where the Mask had gotten the money enough to buy not one, but two androids, and what he intended to do by bringing them to Gotham.

Bruce heard the androids spreading out, with only one of them getting closer. If it weren't for the warehouse's concrete floor and high ceilings, creating a quiet but reliable echo, he would have been in a much more difficult situation.

In the meantime, Bruce removed an EMP grenade from his belt, preparing for a throw while simultaneously calculating his escape route.

As soon as he spotted the glint of metal in the dark space, he threw the grenade and immediately started climbing up the cable towards the heavy tarpaulin slings hanging from the sturdy balks. There he could easily disappear into the shadows.

But right after his throw the android fired at the grenade, knocking it off course. The electromagnetic pulse struck uselessly several dozen feet off its intended target.

Bruce squinted, formulating a new plan.

The android's reacted instantly; any throws without adequate distraction were useless. But it was worth trying to lure it toward the mine.

Surveying the warehouse, Bruce selected one of the corners created by the containers for the setup. He saw several blind spots, even though he understood that androids were too complex for such plan to work out.

Nevertheless, he remained vigilant, ready to take action when he suddenly heard a calm electronic voice.

“Error. System reboot.”

Bruce froze, listening intently.

Weapons of this class never experienced system errors without a good reason. Bruce hadn't even managed to damage any of the androids to suspect a hardware malfunction.

New shots rang out, none of them reaching anywhere close to his cover. They all hit the metal, ricocheting with a heavy clang. The sound was entirely different from the bullets that had torn through the thin walls of the containers.

One of the androids attacked the other.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Bruce moved to the other side of the warehouse to see what was happening, to understand it better.

The defending android took cover behind one of the containers, waiting out the gunfire. The attacker, on the other hand, acted more... recklessly. Too human-like.

Bruce suspected manual control was remotely hijacked by someone. Most likely, someone had tried to steal them; or at least one of them. The unknown person had clearly figured out the Mask's delivery.

“I've intercepted control. It's safe here, Batman,” a new voice announced.

This voice was clearly human. Despite slight distortion from the speaker, Bruce could detect a hint of excitement in it. Maybe he was witnessing someone's first attempt at battle, or maybe he was walking into a trap.

A nearby surveillance camera rotated quietly, almost as if in response to his concerns. The lens focused on him.

“You don't need to worry. I'm an ally.”

Bruce shifted his gaze from the camera to the android, suddenly feeling a dozen eyes on him. Given how well the unknown person had controlled both, his intuition might have been accurate.

“Who are you?” Bruce asked, knowing his position was already compromised.

He didn't know who had the motives and resources to do this. The voice didn't reveal much – it was an ordinary male voice, perhaps entirely synthesized electronically.

“An ally,” after a prolonged pause the unknown person repeated.

“Do allies have names?”

“I... Anzû. You can call me Anzû.”

“I've never heard that name before.”

“I don't often make appearances.”

“And what made you show up now?”

Another pause followed.

“Your presence,” the simple response came.

This conversation didn’t appear to be a trap. Anzû hadn’t presented anything that might have piqued his interest. He stumbled over basic questions and didn't even try, or perhaps couldn't, hide it. Or perhaps someone was simply inept at setting traps.

Or, perhaps, someone was genuinely trying to rid Gotham of another problem. But Bruce had no interest in allies.

Bruce didn’t object if Anzû could handle his job alone, as long as he didn’t interfere or cross any boundaries.

“I'm not looking for allies or help,” Bruce said.

“I understand. But right now, we share a common goal. It would be reasonable...”

Bruce severed the camera's wires with a batarang, disconnecting it from the network.

“I understand,” Anzû repeated. “Allow me to confirm my intentions.”

Bruce was about to ask Anzû about his plans, when he saw the android come to life. However, instead of launching an attack, it approached the disabled android, looming over the heap of motionless metal.

Bruce frowned, observing the scene. With each passing second, he understood less. One thing remained certain was that this Anzû—whoever he was, didn't inspire trust. Not in the slightest.

“Self-destruct system activated,” the android spoke again in the same steady electronic voice it had used to report errors.

“You have thirty seconds,” Anzû simultaneously announced.

With a sharp breath, Bruce vaulted up the balk towards one of the windows, securing a cable to the neighboring building’s roof.

“Twenty.”

He flung the window wide open and, hooking the rope onto the roof's edge, jumped down.

“Seventeen,” Anzû’s voice echoed.

Bruce climbed up using the cable, taking cover behind a brick parapet on the roof to shield himself from potential shrapnel.

“Nine.”

Bruce froze, continuing to count down, listening intently. Immediately after reaching zero a heavy explosion rumbled, causing the windows of the warehouse shudder.

With little trust in his ‘ally’ and how he might use the self-destruct system, Bruce descended via the cable back to the warehouse, glancing at the floor from the beams.

Scattered remains of two androids littered the area.

Bruce descended further to ensure nothing useful remained for recovery. Anzû might have used the self-destruct as a ruse. His motives remained unclear. He could be a rival to the Mask or attempting to gain Batman's trust.

At the sound of a faint hum, Bruce swiftly turned, batarang poised.

His tension eased almost instantly as he realized it was just a surveillance camera positioned above the main entrance.

The camera briefly flashed red before powering down.

Regardless of Anzû's intentions, his final 'word' was a silent farewell.

Chapter Text

The electronic display counted down in reverse, and Jason knew he had to stop it. But he couldn't locate a single wire.

Upon opening the black casing, he found an ordinary plastic box with no visible wires or power source, yet it had a functioning electronic display. It couldn’t have worked.

However, the seconds on the display rapidly approached zero.

“Report,” a familiar deep voice echoed.

Jason turned around to face a tall, dark figure. The black cape concealed details, but the pointed ears of the mask and the voice left no doubt. Yet, Jason felt like something about Batman was off.

He chose to disregard his intuition.

“B, something's not right. It's wrong,” Jason tried to explain.

Batman approached, leaning over the clock.

“Wrong?” he asked, picking it up.

Jason shivered as he sensed an unsettling indifference in Batman's tone. Something was definitely amiss.

“Yeah, it...”

Batman tossed the clock aside and stared at Jason.

“B?...” Jason quietly asked, taking an involuntary step back.

“A lot of things are wrong here, Jason,” Batman noted. He extended hand to catch Jason by the collar, firmly gripping the fabric. Jason jerked back, but the costume tightened around his throat as Batman hauled him along.

“What the hell, B?!” he yelled, struggling to break free.

“Did you truly believe I'd never find out?” poorly contained anger simmered in Batman's voice.

Jason's heart skipped a beat. No.

“Let me go!” Jason exclaimed.

He wriggled, kicked, and even attempted to bite Batman's fingers closing around his throat, but Batman continued to pull him relentlessly, as if untouched by the struggle. Jason struck repeatedly, desperately fighting to buy himself a few seconds of freedom to escape this madness.

Batman effortlessly lifted him into the air, dismissing Jason's futile attempts to break free or land a blow.

“Bruce!” he cried out, trying to reach the man behind the mask.

He tossed Jason to the ground, knocking the air out of his lungs. It wasn’t the ground.

Jason felt the steps beneath his hands.

No.

Jason shook his head in desperation.

“This... this was a coincidence,” he forced out.

“Liar!”

He was getting closer, and every step sounded like thunder.

“I didn't mean to!” Jason yelled, backing away.

“Liar!”

“What else was I supposed to do?!” Jason pressed his back against the concrete wall of the stairwell. He had nowhere to run.

Batman leaned in, his face devoid of anything human. This was probably how Gotham’s criminals saw him.

No trace of Bruce. Nothing human.

Jason used to laugh at sensational articles that portrayed Batman as a demon, a vampire, or some other unearthly entity. He thought it was all nonsense, the stuff of urban legends.

But at that moment, hearing this icy, burning voice, a chill ran down his spine, and he began to understand the terror that enshrouded him. The fear that the criminals of Gotham felt when they knew he was lurking in the shadows, ready to strike.

“You were supposed to die,” the words cut through the air like a blade.

“No!”

“Jason!” a new voice echoed, distant and faint.

“No!” Jason opened his eyes, gasping. Batman dissolved, and so did the eerie stairwell, replaced by the reassuring, familiar semi-darkness. “No...”

“Jason.”

He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder but jerked away from it, bouncing off until his back met the wall.

Damian reached out to him, looking concerned, and he frowned.

Only then did everything slowly begin to make sense.

A dream, a nightmare—another one, not the first, and likely not the last.

Jason wearily closed his eyes.

“A nightmare,” he muttered quietly, despite the heavy irritation in his throat.

Aftertalking in his dreams, the sensation felt particularly intense, but Jason hardly paid attention. His heart raced within his chest, each beat a heavy drum in his ears, making every breath a hard-won struggle.

In comparison, the irritation in his throat seemed insignificant.

When he opened his eyes, he met Damian’s gaze. He looked at Jason with the same silent attention as before. He was in his room again, as if determined to wage war on his own need for sleep.

During the day, Jason noticed reddish veins in Damian's eyes. Tonight, even in the dim half-light of predawn, Damian looked unusually tired.

“Go to sleep,” Jason said, lying on his back.

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. Jasonhad grown accustomed to this expression, even if every time it seemed like Damian couldn't decide whether he was surprised, annoyed or skeptical.

“I appreciate your concern, but it is unnecessary.”

“Sleep.”

“Unbelievable. Now you're trying to order me around in my own castle.”

Jason managed a weak smile, lacking the strength to engage in an argument. Damian extended his hand, gently ruffling Jason's hair. Jason leaned into the touch almost involuntarily; it was too comforting. The warmth of someone else's fingers served as a reminder that he was indeed alive, that the dream was just that – a dream. Just like any other of them.

“This will pass. Like everything else,” Damian reassured him.

Jason didn't know. Nightmares were beginning to feel like an intrinsic part of his sleep, as natural as breathing when he was awake.

“It will pass,” Damian repeated.

Sometimes, Jason felt as if Damian was able to hear his thoughts. He was grateful for that - it allowed his vocal cords to rest. Without attempts to communicate, even using as few words as possible, it was way easier.

Damian made a lot of things easier. But not for himself.

After a moment's consideration, Jason turned to his side, nearly burying his face in the wall. His bed was a tad too narrow, but it was definitely more comfortable than the chair Damian had spent who knows how many nights on.

“Sleep,” Jason repeated.

“Has anyone ever told you that your stubbornness is insufferable?” Damian asked, sighing heavily. “I am perfectly capable of assessing my own needs, Jason.”

Jason exhaled sharply, expressing his frustration.

“Insufferable stubbornness,” Damian repeated.

Despite the remark, Jason heard Damian rise from his seat. Then he sensed a slight shift in the mattress as Damian lay down, conceding, it seemed. Jason contentedly closed his eyes.

“Don't even think about it,” Damian warned.

Jason let out a soft snort.

“Unbelievable.”

Jason froze, trying not to move or disrupt Damian. Damian didn’t move as well.

“I don't know exactly what you dream about,” he spoke unexpectedly. “But you do know that he's dead, right?”

Jason felt an unpleasant chill gripping on his skin.

“Who?”

“The... the man. Who attacked you,” Damian spoke cautiously, but it didn't help. “Joker.”

“Oh,” was his first responce.

He didn't appear in his dreams too often.

“That’s good. Probably.”

“Probably?” Damian asked.

“Good,” Jason corrected himself. “Dead?” he asked.

Jason swallowed hard, trying to push away the haunting memories that threatened to flood his mind. These memories weren't dreams; they were all too real. He found confirmation in the fresh scars on his skin, in the body that often rebelled against him. He sensed it in the hushed conversations between Damian and Talia.

What he couldn't grasp was why he was still alive.

And why was Joker dead.

He remembered the closed door and the roaring fire, an inferno that devoured everything in its path. Joker's maniacal laughter echoed in his mind, chilling and deafening. The sickening crack of bones shattering under relentless blows.

He remembered his desperate urge to sink his teeth in. To tear apart. To beat until the bones of his hands cracked, until the breath ran out. It was so vivid, yet do helpless.

But for some reason, it came true.

“He's definitely dead,” Damian confirmed.

His sleepy voice felt like a warm ember in the midst of a storm. Jason trusted him without the slightest doubt. He knew he could trust him. And he wanted to trust him more than anything else in the world.

“Good. Great,” Jason said.

Damian chuckled softly.

“I prefer that over 'probably',” Damian said.

Rolling his eyes, Jason nudged him with his elbow.

“The audacity,” sighed Damian.

But there was a smile in his voice.

Chapter Text

Jason loved the nights.

Darkness felt familiar and soothing, yet somehow alien at the same time, like an old friend with new secrets. Jason was accustomed to the dust that seemed to always linger in the air, becoming an essential part of every building, every person, and of the city itself. He remembered vividly the perpetual clouds and the light pollution that hid the stars and sometimes even the moon.

The clarity of the night in the secluded mountains belonged to a different world entirely.

Yet, there was a common thread—silence.

Jason slowly walked along one of the castle walls, savoring the tranquility of the night. He never had enough. He couldn't quiet the thoughts swirling in his mind, he couldn't escape the scents that filled the air, he couldn't help but feel the slightest movement of the wind against his skin, he couldn’t escape the light that always seemed too bright.

The nights were more merciful.

Yet, almost silent footsteps on the soft grass still seemed like thunder.

Jason turned around, seeing Damian approaching hurriedly.

He always seemed unsettled when Jason ventured out into the night; it was entirely understandable, given how often Jason got too distracted by any minor thing. Distracted— if it could even be called that.

At times, Jason felt as though he was slipping away from the world around him. He retained full memory, his behavior was perfectly reasonable during those episodes. But it seemed to him that someone else controlled his body, and he was merely an observer.

An observer, who wasn’t even eager for control. Sometimes, it was good to leave all sensations to someone else. Even if that ’someone else’ was himself.

Damian slowed his pace, stopping nearby but a little beyond his usual distance. He met Jason's gaze, squinting slightly as if pondering something before eventually stepping closer. Jason sometimes wondered if Damian chose to make so many subtle movements consciously, forcing Jason to read into each one. Or perhaps he was simply too accustomed to guessing if Jason was too deep in his own mind or as aware as he could be. Damian seemed to understand this aspect of Jason almost better than Jason himself.

After guessing correctly once again, Damian closed the gap, his curiosity evident in the tilt of his head.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Jason took a deep breath of the night air, gazing at the silent stars overhead.

"Quiet," he explained.

Damian nodded, saying nothing more. His presence was comforting, and his words rarely made things worse. Still, he respected Jason's desire for silence, a quality that made his company all the more soothing.

The others, even Talia, seemed sharp-edged, ready to etch themselves into memory with their words and actions. Damian resembled a quiet morning mist, quietly veiling anything distracting, leaving only silence.

Yet, he got lost even when Damian was the only person nearby.

Jason felt as though he blinked and suddenly found himself in the castle corridor, with Damian leading him once again.

There was no gap in his memory: Jason remembered reaching the gate and stopping, staring at the dark patterns on the edge of an old tree trunk. He remembered getting lost in them, seeing something distant yet familiar in the random patterns. He remembered Damian talking and his voice fading into the distance, leaving behind only a vague echo.

That's when he took Jason's hand and started leading him back into the castle.

Despite remembering every detail, Jason struggled to reconcile any of these memories with his sense of self.

Next he’d almost lost the remainder of the night and a fragment of morning the exact same way. Jason found the clarity again as he scooped up a spoonful of soup and felt the vivid scent of tomatoes and salt.

Jason froze, momentarily enraptured by the overly bright color of the soup. Red. He always liked red.

"Are you alright, Jason?"

Jason lifted his gaze to Talia, who sat across from him. Memories of her were slightly muddled, just like his feelings. He liked her—she never seemed too intrusive. Her soft voice prevented his thoughts from tangling painfully. But something half-forgotten demanded caution. It spoke of danger. Jason couldn't understand where this shadow had come from.

He never saw any reason for caution. Talia never rushed him. She never demanded anything. Even after asking the question and never receiving the answer, she just smiled warmly.

"Yes," Jason replied belatedly, trying the soup for the first time.

And in that moment, the taste eclipsed all else. Jason recognized most of it, but at the same time, he felt an entirely new nuance. Perhaps it was a seasoning he’d never tried before. Or maybe it was the unfamiliar cooking method.

The taste was vivid enough to overshadow Talia's presence.

"Excellent. I'm glad to hear you," her voice conveyed warmth despite it all.

Jason tried to recall if he had ever spoken to her before. Each word still scraped against his throat slightly, reverberating too loudly in his own head, sending vibrations tingling through his teeth.

It was almost painful. Though much, much better than before.

"It's difficult to talk," Jason said, feeling compelled to offer an explanation .

Both she and Damian enjoyed conversations with him, no matter how one-sided they sometimes seemed. In part, Jason liked that too; he wanted to talk. Words served as anchors, allowing him to grasp onto events, voices, associations brought by the word. Yet, just as easily, words turned into burden, bringing along too much.

"I understand. Take your time, there is no need to rush," Talia reassured him.

There was no urgency. But Jason didn't want to stop himself. He wouldn’t dare to even try to slow down, fearing that someday the confusion in his mind would simply stop dissolving. That any progress would disappear—leaving him just as he was.

Leaving him estranged from everything he held dear. From...

Jason winced as the bright sun hit him directly in the eyes, causing an unpleasant sensation somewhere deep inside his skull. He lowered his gaze to the ground, to the even layer of grass, shying away from the glaring light.

But even so, it was still too much. And Jason once again felt everything—even someone’s heavy gaze.

One of the warriors observed him intently. His face seemed vaguely familiar, but Jason doubted he had seen him before. Perhaps in a not-so-large castle, eventually, all faces became familiar.

"That is the one you’ve defeated without weapons and in just a few seconds," Damian chuckled.

Jason didn't remember anything at all. He didn't even recall why he was fighting someone in the castle in the first place. He wasn’t even sure he could do that physically.

"Me?" he asked.

Damian nodded.

"It is a pity you do not remember. That duel was quite impressive. And you acquitted yourself splendidly," Damian's lips curled into a satisfied smile.

"Duel?" Jason echoed, his brow furrowing in confusion.

The notion of duel didn’t make any sense. Maybe it happened a long time ago, before...

"Not precisely. The duel was mine, but it seems you thought I was being attacked," Damian explained.

Jason nodded, feeling a chilly unease. Despite the explanation, he still didn't remember anything at all. The story could have been about someone completely unrelated. Not a single word echoed in his memory, not even the faintest echo.

How much more could he have lost?

"He thoroughly deserved it, I assure you," Damian said.

Jason didn't remember the reasons, if there were any.

"Why?" he asked.

"Excessive pride, given his lack of talent."

Jason sighed, shaking his head. He expected to hear something like that.

"You?" he asked.

"I am the best. I am Al Ghul’s heir, it is expected of me."

The overly proud response oddly blended with the mundane tone. Damian could have used the same tone to explain how water is wet. Jason couldn’t hold a short, but strained chuckle, painfully echoing in his throat.

Damian raised an eyebrow.

"Careful. I might interpret that as doubt," a smile on his lips betrayed the joke.

Much like the gentle touch to Jason’s hair.

Jason squinted slightly, almost forgetting about the sparring. The League warriors around Damian seemed like distant shadows, which Jason could easily ignore. When Damian wasn't around, Jason could barely keep up with even simple observation—there was too much going on during training.

But he still watched, trying to keep track and organize everything in his head. Somehow, it seemed... important. Often, behind irrational emotion, there was a hidden piece of something important—Jason tried to follow it, no matter how nonsensical it seemed.

"Do you want to try?" Damian asked.

Jason furrowed.

"I'll be your partner. You have nothing to worry about," Damian explained, accurately interpreting his hesitation.

"I don't have enough control."

Partly, it wasn't true, but Jason certainly had lapses in control. Even if Jason acted as his usual self during each lapse, everything felt alien.

"Do you still forget a lot?" Damian asked.

Jason shook his head.

"I remember mostly. Like a dream."

Damian's face softened slightly, and he nodded.

"I understand. The mind and body are intricately linked; training might be beneficial," he explained. "We can stop at any moment."

Jason furrowed. He used to train a lot. For hours each day—building strength, reclaiming muscles once ravaged by malnutrition, improving his endurance. He remembered his strength well and knew how much he had lost.

It was not the strength that he wanted to reclaim most of all.

Jason stared at Damian, who was arranging the books in his dimly lit room.

Hours passed—again.

Once again, Jason recalled every detail—from his movements throughout the castle to individual words. He even remembered his own reactions, mostly reduced to facial expressions and gestures. He remembered exactly what he felt in those moments.

Yet, despite this clarity, the experiences remained disconcertingly alien, sending shivers down his spine at the mere thought of his lapses. They were frequent, they poisoned most of his day, yet he couldn’t get used to them. Nor did he want to.

He wanted to rid himself of them as soon as possible. To stop feeling like a guest in his own body.

To eliminate the possibility of breaking someone's nose for an utterly foolish reason.

"I want to try," Jason said.

Damian looked at him questioningly, but nodded a moment later, perhaps recalling their prior conversation.

"Excellent," Damian smiled satisfactorily.

Chapter Text

Damian explained his plan to his mother and noticed a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze.

She frowned slightly, lips parting as if she was about to speak, but stopped the last second. She left the decision in his hands.

Damian couldn't remember the exact moment when he began to understand Jason better than her. Somewhere along the line, every nuance of emotion on the once entirely unfamiliar face suddenly became clear. Just as new words of a recently learned language began to easily form into coherent sentences, so did Jason's mannerisms became transparent. The sense of alienation vanished.

Damian wondered if his mother understood this.

"I want you to be present," he said. "In case Jason loses control. I do not want to cause him any harm."

"A good decision. I will observe and intervene if necessary," she nodded.

Involuntarily, Damian recalled their recent attempt to help Jason, which started similarly. Their idea involving Wayne's voice hadn't ended in a complete disaster, but it hadn't brought anything good either.

This time Jason was able to make a conscious decision for himself, but Damian still doubted whether they should try. Even if he made the initial offer.

He understood too well the urge to push beyond one’s limits, to grasp for more than would be wise. No progress existed without challenge. Damian constantly did this to himself and was quite annoyed at his mother’s attempts to stop him.

It was strange to find himself in her position.

"Thank you, Mother," Damian nodded.

She nodded back.

"You are making the right choice."

He sighed heavily, the weight of his mother's lingering doubt now settling upon Damian's shoulders, gnawing at his resolve. Despite her reassurances, he couldn't shake the vision of everything spiraling out of control.

He remembered the wild gleam in Jason's eyes the day he tried to defend Damian. For a fleeting moment, Damian felt that Jason was truly ready to attack, no longer distinguishing between him and the warrior.

It was irrational. Even in that state, Jason never tried to harm him. He was, in fact, protecting Damian. Since then, he had become much closer to reality even in his worst moments. Damian had no reason to anticipate any dire consequences.

And yet, the doubt lingered.

"I am uncertain if pushing him like that is the correct approach," Damian finally admitted.

"You do not wish to harm him, and that is yet another commendable action," his mother smiled. "Your doubts only speak of your concern for him. Your persistence in moving forward despite them shows your determination. Responsibility always carries such weight."

"I know," Damian pressed his lips together. "But it feels… Different this time."

"The responsibility for others is even more challenging. But you carry it with grace, and it fills my heart with pride."

Damian looked away, momentarily at a loss for words.

His mother never traded in empty flattery. She meant every word. And each caught Damian off guard.

"I appreciate your words," he said dryly, clearing his throat immediately afterwards.

"As you should. I cannot express enough how much your actions warm my heart. I am proud of a man you are becoming."

Damian felt the blood rush to his face.

"That is enough, Mother."

"Very well," she smiled, her gaze brimming with understanding. "Call me when you decide to proceed with the training ."

"I will. Good night, Mother."

"Good night, Damian."

After bidding his mother goodnight, Damian headed to Jason's room.

Quietly easing the door open, he slipped inside, the darkness enveloping him as he allowed his eyes to adjust. Casting a quick glance around the room, Damian noted that nothing had changed since he left.

Jason slept on his side facing the wall, stubbornly leaving a portion of the bed unoccupied even in his sleep. Damian shook his head in bemusement.

Sleeping on the chair wasn't terribly comfortable, but Damian hardly considered it a serious inconvenience. Jason behaved as if Damian couldn't sleep at all because of him.

He slept mostly normally—except for waking up every few hours. Nightmares plagued Jason every day since he remembered his death, he screamed or tossed feverishly during every one. After every one, Damian would take him by the hands and talk, reassuring him that everything was over a long time ago.

And each time a quiet anger awoke within him, the source of which Damian didn't fully understand. Whom was he angry at? At the dead man who did this to Jason? At the Pit and its interference with the mind? At the very fact of the consequences?

Damian didn't know, but while calming Jason after another nightmare, he thought that he might try to help with the latter.

Perhaps the chance of Jason getting better worth the risk.

As they made their way to the training hall the following morning, Damian persistently shut down any lingering doubt. He and his mother could minimize any harm if it came to that. In that fight, Jason showed his strength and skill, but much time had passed since then.

During all this time, Jason moved little. He lost a bit of weight but gained height, and clearly hadn't gotten used to these changes, giving Damian a reliable advantage. Even in the worst-case scenario, he should be able to stop him without harming him.

Damian suppressed any shadow of doubt, clearly seeing that Jason himself didn't know if it was a good idea. He didn't need to feel any doubt from Damian.

Awaiting them in the training hall, his mother also maintained quiet composure. Her demeanor seemed certain and unshaken and Damian hoped he mirrored her composure.

"Hello, Damian. Hello, Jason."

Jason greeted her with a short nod, which was a good sign. The haze was absent.

"Choose your weapon," Damian offered, gesturing towards the array of weapons on the rack.

Jason cast a disinterested glance at the weapons.

"Hands," he said.

"Very well," Damian nodded, stepping back a few paces for distance.

He observed Jason as he would observe any opponent. In the months at the League, Jason had outgrown Damian in height a bit, yet he lacked the bulk of his former physique. He was weaker than he used to be, and it meant that he won’t be able to fight the same way as before.

Despite Jason's progress, remnants of awkwardness and sluggishness persisted in his movements, manifesting subtly even in gestures—a fact that clearly irked Jason as he stubbornly tried to bring them under control.

Damian understood him all too well. He himself would do anything and take any risk for complete control over his body.

As Jason assumed a fighting stance, his focus sharpened, anchoring him wholly in the present moment. Gone was the detachment and disorientation, replaced by unwavering concentration. Damian felt as his earlier doubts begin to disappear.

Jason initiated the first move.

In his movements, Damian saw a reliance on brute strength. There was a hint of recklessness, partially tempered by his skill. Yet, underlying it all, there simmered a palpable frustration.

Damian wondered what Jason was like at his peak. If the same frustration existed then, Damian would have simply allowed Jason to exhaust himself. It would likely prove to be a simple task.

After the first blow missed its mark, Jason struck again, and Damian easily dodged, seizing his arm and knocking him to the floor. He expected Jason to spring back up immediately, but instead, he sat on the floor, frowning.

Getting up, he assumed his fighting stance again, attacking once more. And again, he let anger guide his every strike. Damian had never seen anyone so skilled yet so easily frustrated.

Even though the skill had dulled, Damian saw the foundation upon which Jason relied. He saw his habits. And through them, Damian understood how far Jason was from his former self.

After another fall, Jason sat on the floor, breathing heavily.

Jason sank to the ground, chest heaving with exertion. Fatigue was already beginning to set in, unsurprising given the prolonged absence from any training. Jason's movements within the castle had been limited to mere walks—definitely not sufficient to maintain any strength at all.

Of course, he was weakened. And the beads of sweat on his forehead clearly confirmed it.

"Are you okay?" Damian asked.

Jason nodded.

"Need a moment," he explained, catching his breath.

Damian decided to make use of the short pause.

"You're angry," he noted, offering his hand.

"Always was," Jason explained, accepting the help and getting up.

Excess anger was always considered a flaw in the League—one of the main ones. Allowing it to dictate one's actions in combat was a surefire path to defeat.

Damian could have dealt with Jason's anger, but he doubted it would be useful at the moment.

Anger was never something simple. Even Damian himself could succumb to it, despite being in better shape, despite the years spent on mastering it. Jason still hadn't recovered from what the Lazarus Pit had thrown at him. Maybe all he had was sheer rage.

And it definitely needed something in return. One couldn't simply leave anger without giving something in return. Damian himself had chosen stubbornness in his time—a trait far more useful in battle.

"Go on," Jason said, his breath still ragged.

Damian smiled. Stubbornness. Just like him.

He liked that.

Stubbornness, unlike anger, could take one much further.

Chapter Text

With a sleepy yawn, Tim stretched and rubbed his eyes wearily before refocusing on the monitor. The surveillance footage from the bank's cameras displayed on his screen, revealing minimal activity as of yet.

"Four individuals passed by the main entrance," Tim reported, his voice altered to sound at least ten years older than his actual age, "They are heading towards the vault."

It was their fifth collaborative operation, and only after the fourth, Batman had reluctantly agreed to establish permanent contact. Tim had anticipated this mistrust, but its persistence left him questioning if he had done something wrong. Or if Batman knew about him more then Tim hoped him to.

But at least the communication issue had finally been resolved.

"Understood," came Batman's short reply, followed by a heavy silence.

Their exchanges often followed this pattern. Batman gave only the most brief and precise answers, unless he was trying to pry something about Anzû's identity. Tim didn't quite understand why he expected something else—or what exactly he expected.

Batman fought crime. Anzû helped him. That was the entire reason he intervened in the first place.

"I could lock the main door," Tim suggested as he observed Batman disappearing into the shadows of one of the corridors, stealthily avoiding detection by the intruders. "Defense mechanisms should be sufficient..."

"Negative."

Tim rocked back on his chair, continuing to monitor the movements of the robbers who remained oblivious to the imminent threat.

"Or perhaps I could hack into their communications," Tim proposed.

"Anzû, radio silence," Batman commanded abruptly, cutting off any further discussion.

Tim leaned back in his chair, propping his elbows on the table as he contemplated the situation.

It wasn't ’negative’ after all.

Drawing closer to the monitor, Tim scanned closest to the bank networks. One connection belonged to him and Batman, another appeared to facilitate two-way communication—likely linking Batman to his hideout. However, the third network featured six communication points: four for the robbers, one for the driver, and presumably one for their coordinator. It was a perfect match.

With a satisfied smile, Tim swiftly assessed the security measures before proceeding. In a mere minute and a half, he successfully infiltrated the network and began broadcasting robber’s communication.

"All clear," was the first words he’d intercepted.

"You were told it would be this way."

"As if..."

"What's this?" Batman sharply asked.

"Their negotiations," Tim replied.

"I need silence."

"Understood," Tim complied, deactivating the communication link.

The work turned out to be useless. With nothing immediate required of him, Tim found himself thinking of new ways to intervene.

As the robbers passed Batman, concealed within the shadows, Tim could have closed the vault door and triggered the alarm, ending the robbery. Instead, he watched as Batman emerged from the shadows, swiftly neutralizing two opponents before they were able react. The third assailant nearly evaded Batman's strike, but the fourth, acting on instinct, lunged forward and drew his gun, resulting in a deafening gunshot.

Batman intercepted the bullet with his cape and swiftly lunged forward, knocking the opponent off his feet.

And in that fleeting moment, Tim felt a sudden certainty wash over him—an unsettling feeling that everything was about to spiral out of control.

Batman struck once; and one blow would have been enough. But then came a second. A third. He raised the hand for the next blow without even thinking of stopping.

"Batman, that's enough," Tim said.

"Don't interfere!" he almost growled.

Despite the distance between them, Tim shuddered.

"He is incapacitated," Tim said slowly, trying to maintain composure. "There were two more on the communication channel, probably the driver and the coordinator."

Batman froze with his fist hovering over the motionless robber, and Tim nervously rocked back. He had heard tales of Batman's growing ruthlessness, and now he witnessed it firsthand. Gotham whispered rumors that without Robin, Batman transformed into someone unrecognizable.

Tim didn't believe it, but he still watched the clenched fist with a pounding heart. The seconds stretched on, each one feeling like an eternity as Tim stared at the flickering screen in the dimly lit room, his gaze darting to the timestamp, as he checked if the footage was progressing at all. The scene seemed frozen, suspended in time.

When Batman moved, Tim almost jumped in surprise. Batman emerged from the corridor so abruptly that made the heavy echo of his footsteps resonate even through the speakers.

Tim exhaled slowly. He had been right about Batman. He hadn't changed.

Switching to the external cameras, Tim watched as Batman opened one of the windows on the second floor. With a practiced efficiency, he surveyed the parked cars below, swiftly selecting one as his target. Leaping onto the roof, he delivered a powerful blow, shattering the windshield before forcefully subduing the driver and hauling him outside. Right after Batman grabbed the sixth man, dragging him the same way.

Having secured both captives with handcuffs, Batman deactivated the speaker without saying a single word. Tim reclined in his chair, exhaling softly into the silence.

"Goodbye," he murmured into the empty room.

For a while, Tim observed Gotham’s night through through the surveillance cameras. Tim made no attempt to seek out Batman again; he had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't in the mood for conversation. Perhaps it was best to await the next night or the next significant operation.

Yawning, Tim rubbed his nose wearily, knowing he won’t be able to fall asleep that night. Too many thoughts swirled in his mind, as was always the case after any encounter with Batman.

Despite this, he rose from his seat at the computer, pacing the room quietly. It calmed him. Counting the steps aimlessly prevented him from delving too deeply into memories, replaying them and all the possible scenarios over and over. He wasn't sure how much time he needed that time: sometimes, it was minutes. But it might be hours as well.

An imperceptible knock on his window barely registered over the sound of his own footsteps, but Tim heard it, despite being deep in his thoughts.

Startled, he jerked towards the door, instantly feeling a chill. He was on the second floor, aware that the rest of the house lay shrouded in darkness, save for one dimly lit room—the one he currently occupied.

He was about to flee the room and started considering the best way to call out to the neighbors when Batman quietly glided into the room through the opened window.

Tim tensed, his gaze locked onto Batman. Neither of them moved, both stared intently at each other. Batman’s expression softened slightly, though Tim remained uncertain of what to expect.

"Don't be afraid, I won't harm you," Batman's voice sounded way calmer than through the speaker. "Do you mind if I take a look around?"

Tim shook his head silently, still unable to utter a word.

The man scanned his room, lingering momentarily on the computer setup. He drew closer, examining the monitor before resting his hand on the back of the chair, silently evaluating its height. He turned towards Tim.

"So, you're Anzû," he said.

"Yeah," Tim replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

Batman approached and crouched down beside Tim.

"I'm sorry I was abrupt earlier."

"It's nothing," Tim said, still pressing his back against the closed door.

"Did you set all of this up yourself?"

"Yeah. It's not that difficult. If you know what to do," he explained.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Batman's lips, and Tim managed an uncertain smile in return.

"You're doing a good thing. A good thing, but very dangerous."

"I don't even leave the room."

"But I managed to find you. Others will too."

"I didn't give the communication channel to others," Tim said.

Batman didn't disclose on how exactly he had found him. However, it was Tim's only guess at the moment, and it seemed plausible. If he were in Batman's shoes, he would have pursued leads through the communication channel as well. Tim felt confident that he hadn't left any other traces. .

"And could you have found yourself without the communication channel?" Batman questioned.

Tim pondered. He tried to be extremely careful, but he might miss some detail. Even if he did everything perfectly, he would eventually reveal some of his habits. Possibly, more than one. They could become clues.

"Not soon, but I think I could," Tim reluctantly admitted.

"And I can't let anyone reach you."

"I could use your systems," Tim suggested. "Even I couldn't hack them."

"No. I won't put you in danger," Batman refused, shutting down the proposal immediately.

"Then I'll do everything myself, as before," Tim insisted.

"Then I'll have to talk to your guardians," Batman stated.

He didn’t say 'parents'. Of course, he knew whose house he broke into. And he knew what happened to his parents. Not just as Batman, but as Bruce Wayne, who had personally interacted with them on several occasions.

"Firstly, you still have to find them. Secondly, I know who you are too," Tim blurted out before realizing he should have kept this to himself.

Batman lowered his head, frowning.

"I won't tell anyone. If you won't," Tim added quickly.

"Maybe you just think you know," Batman replied.

"Bruce Wayne," Tim confidently stated, hoping that would end this part of the conversation.

But Batman just chuckled, shaking his head.

"Interesting assumption. Is that the first name that popped into your head?"

A wave of frustration washed over Tim. Did Batman really expect to confuse him like this? Tim was used to people being skeptical about his abilities due to his age, but Batman managed to surpass them all in just a couple of words.

"After everything I’ve done already, do you really think I'm that stupid?" Tim questioned.

Any signs of amusement vanished from Batman's face, as if switched off with a snap of fingers.

"I don't think you are stupid, Tim," Batman responded.

"Then you must understand that it's not just a guess. I have enough evidence and it would require something way more complex to deceive me."

"As you say," Batman still believed that he could used uncertainty, and it annoyed Tim. "But what did you mean when you said I would have to find your guardians first?"

Tim crossed his arms over his chest.

"Exactly what I said. I don't know where they are right now."

"Are you alone here?" Batman asked.

"Yes, and I am absolutely fine with that," Tim repeated. "They don't bother me, and I don't bother them."

Batman gave Tim another long uncomfortable look.

Tim managed just fine on his own. He was better off without the useless daily routine and formal questions, without the need to fake a familial bond with people he never cared about and who never cared about him. He didn't need anything else.

After pondering in silence for a while, Batman reached for his mask, slowly removing it. Revealing his face.

Tim knew he would see Bruce Wayne. But at the same time, he saw someone entirely different. This person seemed even older than Wayne. And he looked very, very tired. 

"Why?" Tim couldn't help but ask, puzzled by sudden Batman's unmasking.

"So you know I'm taking you seriously," Batman replied. "You still shouldn't be alone, no matter how adapted you are. If it wasn't me who broke into your window, what would you have done?"

"I would have run to the neighbors. I don't understand how the guardians would have helped here."

"Their duty is to give you a chance to reach the neighbors if something like this happens. Or help you hide. Or..."

"I understand, Mr. Wayne. But I have no way or desire to convey this thought to them," Tim said, shaking his head.

"Perhaps I have a way," Wayne said.

Tim tilted his head in confusion.

"If you still have a desire to use my systems," Wayne explained.

It took a moment to process his words.

It took a little longer to convince himself he hadn't misheard.