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The streets of Gotham are colder than Damian thought they would be. Then again, he hadn’t had a lot of expectations as to what Gotham would be like, just that his family would be there.
Family is a strange word. Back in the League, it meant a bloodline. There was a strict hierarchy to follow, and you rose in the ranks through blood and violence. That isn’t the case here; Damian learned after being reprimanded time after time by his father. The social hierarchy he had been raised in was no longer relevant, he is no longer the perfect revered son, incapable of wrongdoing. And now his every move is scrutinized by those he is supposed to call family.
Then again, that isn’t anything new— he was used to his grandfather and mother judging him, but he had thought the Waynes were supposed to be better than that. He had thought— well, he had thought.
Swords cut through flesh easier than Damian thought they would. He knows it is supposed to be easy, he’s trained for this for his entire life, but he almost wishes killing someone was harder.
But then he sees his mother smile.
Hit lists start coming in daily. He finds that he’d slice through a dozen throats to see his mother smile again. Soon, though, she stops watching over his kills, and his blade grows heavier and blood falls thick.
He still can’t seem to wash off all the blood; it stains his clothes, his skin, his sheets, his mind. All he wants is for the blood to go away.
That’s how the panic attacks start, with violent scrubbing at stained hands. (It takes years for him to see paint staining his hands instead and resist violently scrubbing it away.)
He is supposed to be a leader, a hero. So why does he still spend every night scrubbing at phantom blood on his hands?
He isn’t the leader his mother and grandfather raised him to be; he left the League behind years ago. Instead he leads a team of heroes and pretends that he is one of them. But he knows he is just an imposter who covers his hands in red paint to hide the blood staining them.
Damian wakes up on his eighteenth birthday to hear his phone ringing and sees Talia’s name flash across the screen. Damian panics for a brief moment, then glances down at Jon peacefully sleeping next to him and remembers where he is. His own apartment, years and miles away from the League, a man grown from gentler hands than he deserved.
“Hello, Damian, it has been quite a while since I’ve heard from you.” Talia’s voice sounds the same as it always has, like a gently flowing river hiding sharp rocks just beneath the surface.
Damian suppresses a groan, wondering why she had to call today of all days. “Mother. What do you want?”
“Is it not enough to simply wish my son a happy birthday?”
Damian rolls his eyes. “Talia, please just tell me what you want so I can say no and we can both move on with our lives.”
“Very well,” Talia’s voice has turned sharp and cold, like the deadly pull of an undertow. “There’s an up-and-coming threat to the League, and we require you to snuff it out. We have reason to believe he’s taken to Gotham’s underbelly. The Demon’s Head has requested you personally.”
“Have a good day Mother. I know I will.” Damian hangs up the phone with a satisfying click and rolls back over to see Jon’s eyes blinking open. “Go back to sleep, beloved, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Jon mumbles softly, but extends his arm to allow Damian to tuck beneath it, and the two of them fall back asleep, safe and together.
“I love you Damian.” Jon’s voice is soft but strong, like the beating of a thousand butterflies’ wings lifting him up.
Damian freezes, unsure how to respond.
Jon continues on despite Damian’s silence. “And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way yet, and this doesn’t have to change anything, but I wanted you to know.”
“Why?” Damian blurts out. “I’m a killer.”
“I know.”
“And, what, you don’t care?” His panic is sharp, carving his consonants to a point.
Jon doesn’t flinch, just holds his gaze steady. “I love you Damian, every part. I love you when your hands are stained with blood and when they are stained with paint. I love you when you are breaking down and when you are building me up. I love you when you are fighting a war and when you are loving your family. You are my friend, my partner, and my boyfriend. I love you, Damian Wayne.”
Damian pauses for a long time and rubs his hands, scared that he will get hurt again. That he will hurt again. But in the end, he decides that the chance is worth it, at least for Jon. “I love you, too, Jon, no matter what.”
“I’m proud of you, son.” Bruce’s voice echoes throughout the cave, deep and calming. It’s the voice Batman uses around scared children.
Damian wishes he wasn’t treated like a cracked piece of glass, or a weapon seconds away from being triggered. He doesn’t respond as he stalks to the showers. He wishes the Robin uniform were darker— it would make it harder to see the blood stains.
Maybe the blood stains are why he is still watched, still seen as a weapon. It doesn’t matter, he’ll just keep scrubbing away, waiting for his own blood to replace the blood of others. It doesn’t matter, nothing does.
Damian is having a panic attack. It is his birthday and he is having a panic attack. He didn’t mean to, but Tim had suggested an in person version of Among Us where the imposter has to cover their hands in paint and touch crewmates to “kill” them.
And Damian was chosen to be the imposter.
Damian is the imposter.
Damian is the imposter and his hands are covered in blood and they want him to kill again.
Damian is the imposter and they want him to kill and he can’t breathe and the walls are closing in and his hands are covered in blood and there isn’t anywhere for him to clean them and everyone is looking at him and he can’t breathe so he runs.
He runs. He runs until there is nowhere else to run to, and then he breaks down in sobs and rubs at his hands until they burn.
Damian, freshly eighteen, looks at those surrounding him, his friends, his family, and he knows they love him, even with his past. He jokes around and rough-houses without fearing he will hurt someone. He eats cake, pets his animals, and listens to his loved ones wish him a happy birthday.
He realizes that he can be a part of this family and they will continue to love him despite his flaws. He knows now that he is not the only one with a complicated past, with the blood of countless innocents on his hands, but that he is still trusted to be a hero.
At the end of the night, he goes back to his apartment with Jon. And laying there next to his lover, he realizes for the first time in a long time that he finally feels clean. And so Damian Wayne, newly an adult, goes to sleep with paint-covered hands and knows that he is loved, no matter what.