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"I do not need help," Damian repeats, for what is the fourth time. The words are, as usual, accompanied by a scowl and narrowed eyes, which must hurt from how long he's been creasing them, and crossed arms resolutely over his shirt. The bloodstain across his abdomen has slowly been getting darker and spreading. Tim is kind of impressed he's held out this long.
A rogue slash wound. He's stubborn. Very. Of their patrols, tonight's isn't the worse, but it's one of Damian's first since Bruce's return. The rest of the family is around the Batcave. Tonight's a slow night, so only Bruce and Damian are still in costume - Tim's working on something on the Batcomputer, Cass by his side and Steph eating pancakes somewhere, probably doing something stupid with Jason. Dick's still in his own sister city.
"Damian," Bruce says, almost growls, also for the fourth time. He's resorted to practically begging, desperate undertone in his voice perfectly conveying his feelings. Damian scoffs, signature 'tt'.
"I do not see the point," he insists. "I am perfectly capable of treating my wounds by myself."
"And I am telling you, as your father, to take off your shirt now or I will tranquilize you," Bruce finally snaps, and Damian's eyes somehow become even narrower. But he turns on the table, and pulls off his shirt.
There's the crash of ceramic breaking. The only sound in the silence.
Because Damian's back is full of scars.
They all have scars. They're numerous. Points of pride, points of shame, reminders. Jason leaves his scars of his death on display. Scars aren't new to them. They fight. Their scars are earned, a trophy.
But Damian?
His scars don't look earned.
Unlike the other scars that the rest of them bear, his scars aren't random. They aren't littered carelessly. They're practically painted onto his back. It's beautiful, in an morbid kind of way. He has long scars and short scars, jagged ones and ones that curve like half-moons, ones that look burnt into his skin, like a hot poker pressed into flesh and kept there.
They criss-cross and they join, creating patterns, like abstract art. Pale lines on tan skin.
His scars could probably come close to the number Dick has.
Bruce inhales sharply. "Damian..."
"What?" the youngest snaps, and none of them dare to say anything. "If you will not stitch me up, I will."
Wordlessly, Alfred plucks the needle from Bruce's fingers and starts to stitch Damian's side after disinfecting it. His fingers are steady, a stark contrast to Tim's shaking. Damian thanks Alfred.
My god.
"Damian," Bruce clear his throat and tries again, "Who...did this to you?"
"I hardly need to remind you who raised me, Father."
He knew that Ra's was cruel, but this...this is too far.
They look intentional. The way they curve around each other. The purposeful arc of some, and the way that they look so close to touching but they don't.
"Damian...why?"
The youngest blinks owlishly. "Why what?"
"Why did he give these to you?" Bruce's hand hovers above his back, afraid to touch.
Damian is silent for a long moment. His back hunches in on itself. "Punishment," he says finally. "And trophies. Lessons. Rewards."
Another beat.
Things are falling into place. The way that Damian flinches away from raised voices and hands. The way he remains stoic when he does something wrong and so, so still. The way he refuses to meet anyone's eyes.
Fucking Ra's and his fucked up ideologies.
"Damian...that's fucked up," Tim says so, his voice hoarse and not quite cracking but close enough. "You know that, right?"
Damian studiously doesn't meet any of their eyes. Alfred cuts the thread, wraps it, and lets Damian put on his shirt before laying a thin hand on his shoulder.
"As ineloquently as Master Tim put it, he is right," Alfred informs him in soft tones. "Children are not treated this way."
"Damian, I am never, never, going to bring a blade to you. Or a hand. Or any type of weapon," Bruce promises solemnly. Damian nods tersely, but he still doesn't meet his gaze. "Damian, look at me." He does so immediately. Bruce winces. "Please. Believe me. I won't."
"Okay," Damian says. "Okay."
His tone is frail. No one protests as he slips upstairs.
"That's...fucked up," Jason says, voice equally as hoarse.
They watch the spot where he sat.
Tim really needs to kill Ra's, like, yesterday.