Chapter Text
Unlike the rest of Father’s brood, Damian held himself to a certain standard.
While Thomas and Cain hemmed and hawed over the best choice to take up the cowl, Damian took action. He knew there was no other among the family that could carry the weight of the entire city alone— save for, perhaps, Cain— and it was absurd to expect Gotham to wait as they dallied over a choice.
So, as was expected of him the moment he stepped foot in Wayne manor, Damian went out to continue the legacy of Batman.
The brood would understand. Perhaps. If they didn’t, Damian would simply argue until they did. So. You know. That solved that.
It was different, leaping over the rooftops in heavy kevlar as opposed to the loose armored design of League uniforms. Blade, the name Damian had rightfully chosen for himself after joining Father, was always meant to be small, fast, and light. A quick end to whatever fight Batman may be facing.
Blade had always been Batman’s right hand. Damian had made it so. And Damian, dressed as the Bat and watching over his birthright, had no Blade of his own.
So, to catch sight of a small shadow trailing after him was both unsettling and endlessly aggravating.
As Damian ventured through Gotham, he kept an eye on his tail. Skilled as they were, Damian only caught sight of them once per district. Only one with as much training as the Wayne’s could accomplish such a feat.
Which identified the shadow as one culprit in particular.
The next time Damian saw a glint from a nearby roof, he adjusted his grapple to swing up onto the building. He landed heavily, and only just kept himself from stumbling. Damian refused to be embarrassed, as Father had long ago taught him that experience was the best teacher. He would get the hang of swinging under a heavy cape soon enough.
Once on the roof, Damian looked right at the small silhouette cowering behind the building's AC unit. They were mostly hidden, save for the fact that a pair of small red sneakers were poking out.
“Bird,” Damian called sternly. He thought of Grayson’s quiet confession, mum called me her Robin , to keep himself calm. He would not be like Grandfather, he would not be like Grandfather, he would not— “You’ve been discovered. Come to me and I may be lenient.”
If Grayson was in any way intelligent, he would understand that even if Damian understood his desire for bloody vengeance, the other members of the family would not.
It seemed Grayson was, indeed, smarter than Damian gave him credit for. Soon after Damian spoke, the red shoes were tucked away. Damian waited a handful of seconds before stalking forward.
He stood in front of the AC unit, and loomed. Father had done his fair share of looming, and Damian knew he was doing an excellent impression. “Explain to me your thought process,” He demanded, quiet but scathing. “‘ Oh, I will waltz into danger and prove to you that I can follow orders by doing the exact opposite and dying a horrible gruesome death ’”, he mocked, “was that it?”
“No,” came a small, petulant voice. Damian almost preened. See, Father? He knew exactly how to deal with children.
“Come here, then,” Damian said. He planned the route back home in his mind. A quick return to drop Grayson into the loving arms of Father’s collection of orphans and he could return to the city. There would be no need to stay.
There hadn’t been any need to stay since Father—
Damian’s thoughts cut off abruptly as the figure shuffled its way out from behind the unit. He was small, with what appeared to be a dreadfully expensive camera hanging from his neck, and had a patchwork red hat to match his shoes. He was, in essence, perfect for sneaking.
What he was not , was Grayson.
Damian felt every part inside of him lock up as he stared down at this… this… “Who are you.”
“Who are you? ” The child snarked. He rested small hands on his hips and said, matter-a-factly, “I’m not sure what your deal is, but whatever it is, it’s annoying .”
Damian could say the same about him. “That’s rude,” he said simply. The child was not wearing his hat properly. The fuzzy ball at the top kept flopping from side to side as he waved his arms about.
“You’re rude!” He huffed. His gesture was so wide Damian wondered if he was trying to encapsulate the entire city within the statement. “And you’re definitely not Batman.”
Damian bristled. “Oh?” He took a step forward, and stared straight down at this obtuse excuse for offspring. “And what makes you say that?”
The child sniffed petulantly and crossed his arms. Instead of taking a step back, he met Damian’s stare with his own. “Because Batman is kind.”
And Damian… well. There was a small part of him— the one he buried as soon the Justice League delivered the morbid news— that shook. There was a smaller part that shattered.
Damian had spent the months since his Father’s death rebuilding the walls that he had painstakingly dismantled over the years. A Blade cannot be nicked by tragedy. A Blade cannot be worn dull with emotions.
But Damian hadn't been Blade for quite a long time.
He sighed, and kneeled down in front of this small child who held the same concerns as the rest of the Wayne’s.
Will you? Thomas had asked. Will you be kind to them?
Damian had indignantly refused to answer. Of course he would be kind as Batman! Father had swiftly taught him the advantages of kindness and gentleness and softness within months of living at Wayne manor. Damian would be kind. Damian could be kind.
But not, he realized, without a bit of effort.
“I apologize,” he said, voice much quieter. “You are correct. Batman is meant to be kind, and I have spoken to you quite… poorly.”
The child scrutinized him for a moment. “Are you going to apologize to whoever you thought I was?”
Damian fought another sigh. “Yes,” he lied.
“Okay,” the child returned. He shuffled in place and lifted his camera. “Can I have a photo?”
“Hm,” Damian said to stall for time. Would Father have allowed this? “No.”
Rather than deflate in absolute devastation, Damian watched as he bit back a smile. He schooled his features into some semblance of calm and said, “That’s okay. I should get home now.”
He tried to slip around, but Damian held out an arm to corral the child back. “And where, exactly, is that?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Because in just a brief moment of contact between his arm and the child’s shoulders, Damian had been able to discern that this child was much smaller than previously expected. The sweater swamping his frame had made him appear much larger.
This child was either missing essential nutrients necessary for growth, or was far too young to be out in Gotham alone.
Damian wanted to ask, Where are your parents?, but he had asked himself that too many times before to feel entirely comfortable hearing it aloud.
“In a house,” the child said. “Like everybody else.”
“Not everyone has a house,” Damian countered.
The child nodded. “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “You should really go check on them. I'm sure they’re cold.”
Huh. “You must be too, then,” he said, because the child was only wearing a sweater. Granted, it looked quite warm and didn’t really raise any concerns, but there was something about this situation that left Damian feeling wrong-footed.
The two stared, unblinking, at each other for a second that stretched into a minute. “Let me go,” the child said flatly, “or I’ll scream.”
“What’s your name?” Damian asked.
“Alvin, next question.”
“Do you have any parents?”
“Yes.”
“Are they alive?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do they know you’re here?”
The child opened his mouth to answer, then frowned. “That’s a suspicious question,” he said instead.
Damian wondered why he was bothering so hard to be nice. He grabbed one of the child’s hands in his own and could feel the chill of small fingers through the leather.
“Come along,” Damian said. He knew exactly what Father would do in this type of situation and didn’t see a point in waiting— after all, Father had done it many times before. “Firstly, we will make sure you are not secretly suffering from frostbite,” impossible, technically, in these temperatures, “and then we will return you home.”
“Is this a kidnapping?” The child asked.
Well. Damian saw no reason to lie.
“Perhaps,” Damian answered. It would depend, of course, on how well he argued. Damian was well-versed in challenging his family and coming out as the victor. It had gotten boring in the manor without any decent rivals.
This child, suspiciously neglected in the middle of a dangerous city, skipping around unsupervised to follow a vigilante, seemed to have potential as an excellent opponent.
“I can still scream,” he reminded as Damian lifted him into his arms and readied his grapple.
Be like Father, Damian told himself. “I have earplugs.”