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Damian Al Ghul was trained to be the best. From the moment he was forced to take the life of an animal, then a person, he was not a child. Damian Al Ghul was incapable of becoming the soft, helpless child that everyone yearned for him to be.
Then, he became Damian Wayne, and Damian Wayne was expected to throw away his past, ridden with trails of blood, and blindly follow his father in a life of fighting crime. However, he could not kill, nor could he go off on his own.
Therefore, Damian was utterly confused.
His befuddlement only grew when he received a dog for his 11th birthday. He was beautiful and deemed the name Titus. Most importantly of all, Damian was not expected to take the animal’s life. Titus was there to play and pet, not a training exercise.
So compared to all the other various things that had changed for Damian, receiving pets was the best.
The rest of it was the worst.
Damian was used to fighting alongside Richard, not Father. It was yet another thing that Damian had to painfully learn how to navigate despite being given no instructions. Richard was less than helpful seeing as he was absent from the manor the majority of the time.
Occasionally, Damian would think about returning to Mother. He understood the rules with her. Father was confusing and that only served to infuriate him. However, then Damian would think about killing another animal as it looked up at him with unequivocal pain and he just couldn’t–
Damian would rather miss his mother than take a life.
This also meant that Damian would have to continue to figure out the puzzle he calls Father. It was as if Damian had obtained all of the right pieces but he was unable to figure out where they fit. He had the outline, and all the corner pieces done, but the inside of the puzzle was left a mystery.
It only grew more complicated from there.
“Robin!” Batman bit as Damian flung away from his father.
Damian ignored him as he locked onto his target. It was a man who looked sloppy, covered in dirt and whatnot. Really, whatever he had picked up from the streets of Gotham. Therefore, he looked awful.
Batman and Robin had been patrolling the skies when they came across a fighting ring. Specifically, dog fighting. Dogs, looking rougher than normal, were locked into rows of cages, bloodied and beaten, looking scared for their lives.
Damian saw red.
Father seemingly knew he was about to react with violence because as soon as they saw the perpetrator, Batman gripped onto Robin’s arm with as much force as he could muster without injuring him. Damian was more than used to a little injury and Father was going to have to have a tighter grip if he thought that he could hold Damian down.
Robin simply twisted away from the hand, which scrambled to grab ahold of him once more, this time with a vice-like grip, but Damian was already halfway across the room before he could. The man, the one that was forcing dogs to fight, seemed to notice the blood-thirsty look in Robin’s eyes and scrambled to get away. Batman had one last feeble attempt to keep him from running off by calling his name but it was useless. Damian wanted to pummel the man into the ground before returning to Father.
The scum of the earth tripped on a rusty piece of metal and Damian absently hoped that it cut him and gave him a horrible case of tetanus. Unfortunately, no blood or an obvious injury on the man was in sight so Robin was going to have to do it himself.
The perpetrator scrambled backward, away from Damian. Robin felt power licking his chest at the motion. Damian unsheathed his sword and slowly walked toward the man. His boots caused a ripple in the bountiful puddles strewn across the alley floor.
A gun was pulled on him as soon as Robin got close enough to stick out his sword and impale the man. He scoffed at the attempt to frighten him. This man was not only cruel but incredibly idiotic. Damian pitied his mother for creating such a disgrace.
“Stay the fuck back!” the man yelled. His hand had a slight tremble, but nothing too drastic to the point where it would affect his shot.
“Tt, perhaps I shall lock you in a cage and force you to fight your comrades instead of impaling my sword into your thigh,” Robin threatened.
The man responded with a string of words that he could never repeat in front of Pennyworth, lest he wanted his money to go into the ‘swear jar’.
A subtle click echoed throughout the alley. It was the inevitable sound of the trigger being pulled so Damian shifted his weight and prepared to maneuver out of the way when a Batarang was suddenly thrown directly into the muzzle, causing the gun to backfire. The man reeled back at the force and accepted his fate once Batman stalked into view.
Father did not spare a glance at Robin and instead walked up to the perpetrator and cuffed him before alerting the authorities. Damian silently followed behind Batman over to where they parked the Batmobile. Technically, their patrol was supposed to continue for another thirty minutes, and an hour at most.
Instead, Father drove him back to the manor with silent rage.
When they arrived at the cave, Batman loomed over him like a giant until he pulled his cowl off and Father was looking down at him with malice.
“You could have gotten hurt,” Father began.
Damian scoffed. “I am more than capable of fighting a measly scum like that man–”
“Damian,” his father bit. Damian's mouth clamped shut.
“Take off your suit and go to your room. I can’t deal with you right now,” Father instructed. Batman’s cape dragged on the floor as he walked over to type out his report.
Damian was left drained of hope at the thought of finally being passed the cruel punishments yet here he was, being sent into isolation.
“Yes, Father,” Damian recited like a soldier before changing and walking to his room.
He supposed that the punishment could have been worse regarding isolation. He didn’t have any food in his bedroom, however, he had various art supplies and other activities he could entertain himself with. His stomach may cramp with hunger but at least his brain wouldn’t rot because he was bored. When his mother sent him into isolation as a punishment, the rooms were dreadfully bare with nothing in them. Not even a bed.
He quietly shut the door to his room once he was inside and tried to plan out what his days would look like. He was fine on water for a couple of days if he preserved it. Without food, Damian would certainly be uncomfortable but he was able to last a while without it. Father did not give him a time span as to how long he should expect to be stored away in his room so Damian planned for the worst.
He decided to spend his time drawing since it always took up quite a big chunk of time, especially if he was working on something big. Damian felt himself fall into the rhythm of his pencil gliding across the page to try to distract himself from the thought of this becoming a usual punishment.
No matter how strongly he felt about it, Damian refused to cry. Despite his age, he was not a child anymore. Besides, it would be best if he reserved the natural water he obtained in his body lest he get more dehydrated.
An hour or so passed before a steady knock pattered on his door. For a moment, Damian’s blood ran cold and he paled. Isolation was not the punishment. His father was now coming to deliver a real punishment; one that would hurt and leave marks on his skin that he would be forced to see every day–
“Damian? Can I come in?” Father asked.
Damian thought it was odd asking for permission but he’d rather that as opposed to storming in. He responded in something in lew of a confirmation and his father instantly entered. Damian tried to read the expression on his face but it was flat as usual apart from his eyebrows drawn together.
“I know you’re upset but I’d appreciate it if you’d come down and eat something,” Father said.
Damian stared, aghast. “Eat something…?” he echoed.
Father nodded. ”Alfred made spaghetti.”
Damian was very confused.
Was this not supposed to be a punishment? Why did Father sound like he was the one who was trying to get on Damian’s good side? What good did isolation do when he was allowed to eat and leave the room?
“Alright…” Damian answered, trying not to sound stunned.
He followed his father down to the kitchen and reeled at the smell of food.
During the meal, Father lectured him on the dangers of parting from his side during patrol. Damian contently listened despite it being nothing but boring. Damian finished his food and sat quietly until his father was done.
“Would you like for me to return to my room?” he asked.
Father tilted his head just a fraction. “If you want to. I’ll be in my study.”
If he wanted to? Damian was confused and utterly doomed.
Damian tried not to wince as he nursed an angry gash in his side. There was deep crimson blood pooling at his side, steadily dripping from his wound. He misstepped, something Damian rarely did, and now he was paying the price. The knife that cut him hadn’t gone too deep but it wasn’t painless either. If he went untreated long enough, Damian would bleed out and be yet another dead Robin.
Father had instructed him to stay in the Batmobile while he dealt with a case he assured Batman could do alone. Damian did not see his reasoning, nor the appeal toward Robin. Who was he if Batman made him stay in the car? They were supposed to work together.
At first, even despite how disgruntled he was at the idea, he was going to stay in the Batmobile. After the odd not-punishment he received last time happened, Damian was not eager to relive it.
However, then he spotted a man crowding a woman on the street and she looked anything but comfortable.
Damian was Robin and Robin was supposed to help.
Father surely wouldn’t be upset with him for helping someone.
So Damian shot out of the car with his sword tightly grasped in his hand. He snuck up on the man, getting on his tip-toes to grab the perpetrator's jacket, and flung him into the wall opposite of them. He hit with a deep crack and Damian smirked in satisfaction.
After seeing the man on the ground, Robin began to help the woman, asking for her name and if she was injured; classic victim questions. She looked stunned but dutifully answered.
Damian must have hit his head–perhaps he was just stupid–because he didn’t notice the man sneaking up on him from behind. Robin also failed to assume that the man was armed. Damian felt a quiet breath brush his left side and spun into action. He twisted to take the man down yet again but instead, a sharp pain spread across his side.
Just to prevent the perpetrator from getting away, he stabbed his sword into the man’s thigh and sighed as he collapsed to writhe around on the ground.
His blood was a common sight to him but it was no less disgusting. Damian’s chest stuttered at the stained fabric quickly soaking up his blood and turning a deep red. It wasn’t supposed to cause panic because he was trained for this. He was trained to get hurt and know what to do without having a reaction. However, for some reason, his throat felt tight.
To his horror, Damian felt like crying.
He didn’t, of course. Damian couldn’t remember the last time he cried and he wasn’t about to make a new memory.
The woman was long gone when he turned back around. The man was still pathetically splayed on the ground while blood gushed out of his leg and mixed with the puddles on the ground.
“Robin,” Batman grumbled from behind him.
Damian gazed up at him. He expected a sharp rebuttal or perhaps a hit because Robin was not supposed to get hurt. Damian should have been better. Not only did he disobey orders but he also became injured so the only plausible reaction to that was a physical punishment that Batman could deal out right in this alley where no one would see–
“Let me see,” Father said in a voice nothing like Batman.
Damian parted his lips in confusion.
“This man was harassing a woman and I couldn’t just stay in the car and watch! You would have done the same–” Robin began to defend himself.
“You did good, Robin. Just let me have a look at your side,” Father soothed, crouching down in front of him.
Damian allowed Batman to get closer whilst also keeping an eye on the perpetrator cowering in the corner.
Father peeled Damian’s cape away from his body and delicately prodded at his injured side. Robin did not make a noise even though the action sent a sharp thrill up his side and straight into his throat which was desperate to make a wounded sound.
“You’re okay,” Batman comforted. Damian suppressed a frown.
“I know that,” he tried to bite back but it didn’t have as much bark as he wanted.
“Let's go,” Batman ordered, turning away to walk back to the Batmobile.
Damian obediently followed him but not without fury. “We still have at least an hour left of patrol!”
“You need stitches,” Father calmly informed, getting into the car while Robin slipped into the front seat.
Damian grumbled but didn’t fight back. He still wasn’t sure whether he was going to receive a punishment. His father told him that he reacted appropriately but he also got injured in the process which was not allowed of him.
During the drive back to the manor, his father asked him every so often how he was feeling. Damian’s response was the same every time: fine. When they were only minutes away, Batman informed Pennyworth of Robin’s injury to which the butler responded that he was getting the medical supplies ready.
Damian tried not to get blood on the seat.
While he was being stitched up by Pennyworth, Damian expected Father to head back out immediately, however, all he did was watch his son from the corner of his eye while he typed out his report on the computer. He tried not to pay any mind to the pain biting into him every few seconds. It wasn’t hard. Damian was used to ignoring the pain.
After he was wrapped up with a bandage, Pennyworth informed him that he was done being treated. Dread sunk into the bottom of his gut as he attempted to walk over to his father without dragging his feet. If he was going to be punished, now was a better time than any.
“Father,” Damian began in greeting, easily suppressing a flinch when Batman peered down at him, absent of the cowl.
“Damian, do you feel better?” Father asked, spinning his chair around entirely.
“I feel adequate. What would you like me to do?” Damian responded, trying to come off as polite as possible. His mother always went easier on him if he was polite.
“I’d prefer if you’d get some rest but I’m sure you could draw without straining yourself. I better not find you training.”
Damian blinked at him with a hidden dumbfounded expression. That was…not a punishment. Father had told him to rest . That made no sense! Robin had made a severe mistake during the patrol, not only disobeying orders but also getting hurt in the process. Batman would have never made a mistake like that and he certainly couldn’t rely on a partner like Damian.
Damian did not voice his problems aloud. If anything, he should be grateful Father was pitying him.
Damian pattered up to his room confused as ever and snuggled into bed.
He fell asleep watching his door.
Damian’s side was almost completely healed, the only thing left behind being a muted scar painted across his side. His body was a canvas, his scars the paint.
Damian was an art gallery.
It was his first day back from school since the injury.
To Damian, school was a waste of time but Father insisted he go despite him already having a post-secondary education. The rest of the snot-nosed brats he had to exist around hated him just as much as he did them. He was far superior to all of them.
Finally, after painfully having to stay lucid throughout three classes, he got to art. Art class was his favourite. No one was expected to talk to him and he didn’t have to talk to anyone. Sometimes kids would even come up to him and compliment his drawing.
Damian idly sat there, ready to ink his pencil sketch. He was very interested in exploring new materials and his art teacher–the only competent teacher in the school–even encouraged him when trying new things. Damian was allowed far vaster materials as opposed to the other students who got simple paint or pencil.
He outlined his drawing with an ink pen, gliding it across his page in a mesmerizing manner. It was a drawing of Titus and Father, both looking bold. Damian intended to gift it to his father when it was finished.
Damian spotted devious eyes glaring at his drawing belonging to the boy beside him. He was incredibly arrogant and Damian’s least favourite person in the whole class. It was simply bad luck that he had to sit at the same table as him.
As if in slow motion, Damian saw the thought scrape across the boy’s brain as he reached for the cup of water in front of him. It was a brown, murky colour.
Then the boy poured it on Damian’s drawing.
It quickly covered his page while some even managed to dribble on his lap. Damian’s jaw hung slack with shock. Titus and Father were no longer bold. They were unintelligible ink blobs spread across the paper.
The boy had a mischievous grin on his face.
Suddenly, Damian lunged across the table, uncaring if paint covered his front side, and grabbed the boy’s drawing. It was a dastardly thing. Damian assumed it was a pig but it could have also been his mother. Maybe it was supposed to be up to interpretation.
He held his hands at the top of the paper and slowly ripped the drawing in half, grinning wider as the page split in two.
Now it could be a drawing of his mother and a pig.
The boy’s face was red, either with embarrassment or anger, Damian didn’t care.
“Damian!” the teacher gasped, running over to him. “Why would you do that?!”
Damian scowled. Did she really care about the boy’s disastrous lines compared to his masterpiece that now looked closer to a swamp?
“He poured water on my paper!” Damian fought.
The boy feigned a frown. “It was an accident! I tried to say sorry but he grabbed my drawing and ripped it! It was a portrait of me!”
Ah. Damian could definitely see the resemblance.
On the other hand, the boy was a disgusting liar. Of course, because everyone in the school seemed to be against him, Damian’s favourite teacher believed the boy over him and sent Damian to the office.
Where they were going to call Father.
When Damian was first placed in the school, they had to put ‘problem child’ next to his name for every teacher. The only reason he was still at the school without being expelled was because his father was Bruce Wayne and essentially owned the building.
Father arrived in a suit, very obviously coming from work.
He went into a room to talk to the principal and came out with a stern look on his face. He silently signed the papers to take Damian home and motioned with his hand for Damian to follow. Without making a fuss, he trailed after his father with a quick pace.
He got into the front seat at the same time his father did and looked at his lap. The car still didn’t start.
Damian fastened his seatbelt and even then, Father hadn’t even put the key in.
“Want to tell me what happened?” Father asked, not quite scolding but still firm.
Damian shrugged. “The teacher told you what happened.”
Father hummed. “Well, I want to hear it from your perspective. Obviously, something set you off.”
Damian was suddenly humiliated to admit the outburst originated not only because the boy ruined his drawing but the artwork was supposed to be a gift. That was why he had gotten so angry.
“He poured water on my drawing. Not spilled. I saw him pick it up and pour it on my paper,” Damian confessed, keeping his hands under his thighs. If he freed them, he would start fiddling with them.
“And you wanted to get back at him so you ripped his drawing,” Father pieced the last part of the story in, seeing if Damian wanted to change anything about it.
Damian only nodded.
Father hummed. “What had you drawn?”
Damian whipped his head over to face his father. How could he have possibly known that it was special?
“You and Titus. I was planning on giving it to you when it was done.”
Father was silent long enough that Damian met his eyes.
“Oh,” his father responded.
There were a few times his father was shocked and this was apparently one of those times.
“That was very sweet of you Damian. I’m sorry it got ruined,” Father comforted.
Damian flushed. He hadn’t expected to get praise after he mauled another student’s drawing.
Only then did Father begin to drive. They stopped at WE so his father could grab some of his work and bring it back to the manor. Damian expected a punishment. Perhaps his art supplies would be confiscated or his meals. In the end, nothing happened.
The next morning he woke up to a new canvas outside his door.
Damian spent his weekend outside, observing the animals. Pennyworth kept a beautiful garden that he took very good care of. All kinds of creatures flourished within the flowers and Damian loved it.
While living with Grandfather, he was never able to observe nature to an extent as deep and methodical as this. If he truly wanted to, he could bring his sketchbook and entertain himself for hours by drawing the vegetation around him.
He was resting on Titus, his head propped up by the dog’s torso. Titus didn’t care. He was happy as long as he was with Damian.
The sound of purposeful footsteps came up behind him but Titus didn’t startle so Damian stayed still. His father sat beside him moments later, letting his gaze travel where Damian’s eyes fell. Father had never come outside with him before, despite how much Damian did it.
“You sit out here a lot. I thought I would try to see the appeal,” his father said, idly petting Titus.
Damian did not look at him. “I like to remind myself that nature is not a tool but a gift.”
Father hummed in question so he continued.
“Mother made me look at a living creature and wanted me to mould it into a tool, whether that be a weapon or a punishment.”
“Punishment?” Father prodded.
Damian tried not to shiver under the gleaming sun. It wasn’t often Gotham saw the sun.
“If I could not kill animals, how could I kill people?” Damian whispered like a secret.
He expected his father to lash out. His most important rule was to not kill and Damian had broken it more times than he could count. Father was well aware of this but Damian was still hesitant to bring the topic up lest Father get mad.
“Damian–” Father began before he was cut off.
Damian’s voice was weak, just short of a whisper. “I wish to never do that again. I truly did not like it, Father. The animals were innocent. They had done nothing and I-I–”
“Son–”
“I murdered them,” Damian confessed, voice laced with nothing but guilt.
Damian did not cry even though that was all he wanted to do.
Father sat up and left.
He looked at the flattened grass next to him before returning his gaze to a flower. It was blurry due to the water pooling in his eyes.
He refused to let a tear fall.
Damian woke up at two in the morning.
Well, he was actually already awake because no matter what he did, sleep could not find him. He tried lying down and forcing his eyes closed, watching a movie, listening to music, and even getting up to draw. Nothing worked and Damian was getting impatient.
What did a vigilante do when they couldn’t sleep?
Fight crime.
Damian got out of bed and slipped on his suit. It was one of his old ones because the new one was in the cave and Father would surely find out Damian had snuck out if he went down there.
He rewired the sensors on his window easily and hopped out. He rolled to reduce the impact on his legs when he lept out of the window. He hadn’t tried an escape attempt in months, therefore Father was not expecting him to try and leave.
The traps were disabled and Damian snorted at the stupidity.
He quickly made it to the streets of Gotham and maneuvered around the rooves as if it were a dance. The nice thing about Robin was that the criminals always expected Batman to be lurking nearby so they refused to try anything risky. Damian took them down easily.
He ended up flying passed a mewling box of kittens. At first, he was relieved to see they still had a mother but with a closer look, she was not breathing. She had died lying beside her children. His heart ached for them.
Damian stroked the mother’s face methodically whilst frowning. She was soaking wet but her kittens were still trying to curl up to her for warmth. He gingerly grabbed the box containing the kittens and held it to his chest. It was dirty, soaked to the bone, and practically falling apart.
He yearned to keep them but Father would never allow him to. He already had Titus.
Instead, Damian opted to take them to a Wayne shelter. Damian had insisted his father donated to or bought some kind of facility to aid animals in need. His father quickly obliged and immediately looked into funding animal shelters.
Damian was grateful that he had thought of the idea before he met these kittens. If he hadn’t, they would have nowhere to go.
The workers at the shelter must have been startled to see Robin carrying a box of kittens mewling and whining against his chest. To their credit, they only blinked in surprise once before taking them from him. Damian gratefully nodded and handed them over.
He finally noticed exhaustion tugging at his limbs and deemed himself tired enough to return home.
Father was sitting on his bed when Damian returned. His blood turned cold.
His father had just found out that he betrayed his trust yet again. All Damian did was disobey him and now he could surely expect a punishment. Running away was bad. Father hated it so much when he did that.
“Damian,” Father bit, voice full of anger. “Where did you go?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Damian supplied, taking off his domino.
“That’s not what I asked,” Father rebutted.
Damian shrunk under the deadly gaze. “Just around Gotham.”
“Do you know how dangerous that is? How hurt you could have gotten?” His father’s voice rose.
“I am able to handle myself.”
“You keep saying that, Damian. What happens when you aren’t?”
Damian stayed silent.
“What am I supposed to do with you?” Father asked.
Damian froze. This was it. This was when he finally got punished the way he had expected every time he did something bad.
“Please don’t take away Robin,” Damian pathetically begged.
“What?”
Damian continued. “You can hit me or limit my food but just–you cannot take away Robin. It is all I have.”
When he met his father’s eyes, he realized he must have horribly miscalculated. They were absent of anger but now instead filled with something akin to pain.
“...what?” Father repeated.
“For my–my punishment,” Damian ground out and to his horror, felt a tear slip down his face.
His body was trembling, either with fear or cold, he couldn’t tell. Damian cried for the first time and it would forever be held in his memory.
“Oh, Damian,” Father whispered, slowly approaching him. “I would never hurt you. I need you to understand that. You will never be hit or forced to kill or anything of that nature.”
“But what about–what about the isolation?” Damian managed to ask despite his throat feeling so constricted as if it was about to pop. His cheeks were soaking wet now, just like those cats.
Damian had never seen his father look so sick before.
“Isolation…?”
Damian nodded, hiccuping. His chest was hurting. “When you s-send me to my room.”
Father paled. He was as white as a sheet. “I–” he began, heartbroken, “I don’t send you to your room to isolate you. I would never. ”
Damian frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Father looked so impossibly sad that it was getting hard to continuously look him in the eyes.
“Sweetheart,” Father started. He had never called Damian that before. “I send you to your room when I want to prevent myself from yelling at you.”
“Why would you want to prevent that?” Damian was confused.
He sniffled, rubbing his cheeks raw. He was sure they had a red flush to them and his eyes were probably swollen to the touch.
“Because it can be scary. I don’t like to scare you, buddy.” Another new nickname.
“Oh.”
Father crouched down to his level. “Can I give you a hug, Damian?”
Damian bolted into his father’s arms. The hug wasn’t anything like Richard’s. It wasn’t confining and octopus-like. It was warm and comforting. He could smell his father’s cologne which instantly soothed him. His father meant safe.
“I’m so sorry for making you think that those kinds of punishments were even tolerable in this house. I can’t imagine how scared you must have been.”
Damian huffed but it came out more like a sad sigh. “I was not scared.”
“You are so brave. I love you, Damian. I know I don’t say it enough. Dick reminds me all of the time.”
Damian actually did manage a huff this time. “Richard wears his heart on his sleeve.” His voice was watery.
That was the first time Father had ever seen him cry. He sat on the floor of his bedroom, wrapped tightly in his father’s arms.
Damian Wayne was eleven when he finally began to think like a child again.
“I love you too.”