Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I’d be the last shred of truth in the lost myth of true love.

I’d be the sweet feeling of release mankind now dreams of

that’s found in the last witness before the wave hits, marveling at God, 

before he feels alone one final time and marries the sea.

Imagine being loved by me.

“Talk” by Hozier

—————————

The first time Damian al Ghul takes a heart, he’s five years old.

His mother, Talia, wakes him with a soft, proud smile on her face. He is his mother’s greatest success—a child turned soldier by age three, taught to use his teeth to rip out someone’s throat before he was taught to smile.

“Beloved,” she murmurs, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her nails, freshly sharpened for the occasion, pierce his skin, and the blood floats above his face momentarily before he waves it away in annoyance. “It is time.”

Every prince is carefully chosen by Talia. She was a princess before she was a mother, of course, and Damian is used to receiving forehead kisses that stain his skin crimson. Talia has twenty-nine hearts buried—though if the stories are true she’s stolen many more than that—and each holds a story more impressive than the last. Damian has hazy memories of his mother, floating beside his bed, telling him tales of the surface to lull him to sleep. She tells him of their harpoons, of the barbed fishing nets and cruel eyes. She tells him that just because one has a heart, does not mean they have a soul. She tells him about the hearts she’s taken, buried deep and bloody beneath his grandfather’s throne. She tells him about the men she took them from. 

Damian remembers those stories now, as his mother picks dead scales from his tail, cooing over how grown up he looks. He allows her to fuss over him, knowing she, too, is nervous. There’s no telling what his grandfather will do if he fails to retrieve the heart—he’s seen what Ra’s al Ghul does to the arrogant mermaids who forget their place in a haze of greed. 

Damian’s lip curls in disgust. I won't fail.

After Talia is finished, she draws back and stares at her son, something unreadable in her eyes. 

The sharp scrape of metal on metal silences the room, and Damian lifts his eye to greet his grandfather. Ra’s al Ghul, the Sea King, smiles down at him, his teeth sharp and bloody.

Sirens, mermaids, and mermen alike have gathered to watch Damian accept the Sea King’s blessing and will stay here, in this very room, until the moment he returns. They cannot gain power or glory like this—only those who are royal by blood can take a heart in this way—and they jump at the chance to witness a claiming ceremony.

“Damian,” Ra’s al Ghul says, his eyes sharp and calculating. Everything is a test. Everything has a meaning. “Come here, child.”

“I am not a child, grandfather,” Damian says with a scowl.

Ra’s says nothing. Talia swims past Damian to join her father at the throne, the brush of her tail against Damian’s far from accident. There will be no speech; no kind words, no goodbyes or advice. Damian al Ghul stands alone from this moment on.

Everything is a test. Everything has a meaning.

Ra’s al Ghul grins. “Let the hunt begin.”

—————

Finding his prince is easy. Humans tend to embellish their ships with silver and gold, making spotting one incredibly simple. And mermaids, while skilled hunters, are more fish than human. When something shiny is nearby, they flock to it gleefully, circling until they can nick a jewel or two to add to their collections.

In this case, the treasure is the heart of a prince no older than five, same as Damian. Talia chose him, as she will with all of Damian’s prey until he is twenty, and made sure to tell Damian all about the prince’s father, who is a known siren hunter in this part of the sea. She tells him of scales picked one by one, of teeth ripped from gums, of lips unwillingly kissed. The prince’s death, she says, will be a lesson to the king and his hunters.

Damian hunts them for two weeks before he catches wind of a particularly gaudy ship in the eastern waters, and follows a small pod of mermaids to its location. By now, they’ve noticed their shadow, and whisper among themselves warily. It’s likely that they’re worried he’s going to steal their treasure, which is a valid concern—he might, if it pisses them off.

A few break away from the group to swim over to him, grinning wide enough to display their bloodied, pointed teeth. 

“Cursed prince,” one hisses. “Doomed heir.”

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Mermaids tend to live for thousands of years, and it’s said they have prophetic visions. It’s also said that they’re crazy and their prophecies are nonsense—Damian believes the latter.

They circle him, giggling and murmuring to themselves. Insolent, pathetic beasts.

“Cursed. Doomed, doomed son of the sea,” one chants, reaching for Damian’s necklace with slimy, webbed fingers. He swats it’s hand away, scowling. He doesn’t have the patience for their antics today.

“Prince of hearts,” another whispers, clicking its tongue. It stares, unblinking. “Do you know your destiny?”

A third giggles, twirling in a gleeful circle around him. Bubbles float up towards the surface. “Oh, to fail! You must fail, prince.”

Damian’s hand is on its throat before he can blink. His claws dig into the mermaid’s neck, drawing dark blue blood. Disgusting. “Shut your mouth before I cut out your tongue.”

The mermaid only cackles, lifting a hand to caress the side of Damian’s face. “Oh, son of the night. Son of the sea. Who are you without blood on your hands?”

“When the moon is out and you are both father and mother and son and prince and cursed and fated, who are you?”

Damian’s lip curls, glancing up to check that the ship is still there. “You forget your place.”

The three of them share a disdainful glance, their fish-like eyes cold and empty like the deep sea they call home. 

“Our place?” The first mermaid huffs. “Our place. Your place. Your place where? I wonder…”

“Who are you if you are not a son? So young. Cursed. Doomed. You are still so young, prince.”

“Only to meet his mother’s fate,” the second sighs. “Tragic.”

Damian doesn’t even realize they’re dead until he tastes the blood on his tongue. Their corpses sink to the seafloor, and Damian watches them go with a scowl. Disrespecting him is…acceptable, he supposes—he has no hearts, there is no reason to fear him quite yet—but his mother? The demon’s daughter, the princess of one thousand hearts? No, he would not let them spit on her name.

A splash above him quickly puts the mermaids in the past. The boy—his prince—is swimming twenty meters above him, giggling when curious sunfish nibble at his fingers.

Talia told him what has traditionally been done, of course. A song, laced with their greatest desires and the most beautiful face any human will ever lay eyes on, will draw his target beneath the surface. Then, after you have seduced them, trick them into thinking you are their one true love, and kill them at the last second.

To Damian, this strategy feels lengthy and unnecessary. Why draw it out when he can just… 

He swims up towards the boy, grips his bare ankle, and yanks him beneath the waves. The prince makes a small, surprised sound, flailing his skinny arms in a way that makes it incredibly difficult for Damian to keep his hold. Ugh.

“Stop moving,” Damian hisses, and, surprisingly, the boy does.

Though he can't breathe, the young prince looks as if he’s just found an air bubble, his jaw dropped and eyes wide. They are the same color green as his mother’s tail, and for a moment—just one—Damian hesitates. But then, his clawed hand breaks skin and bone, sliding straight through the prince’s chest, sending ropes of blood to the surface.

And Damian doesn’t feel a thing. A flicker of annoyance, when the boy sheds a tear. He was going to die anyway—why cry over a death that was fated to happen?

The boy’s heart comes out still beating. Damian stares at it for a moment, and decides that it is an ugly, pathetic little thing. It no longer has a body, so why is it still pumping blood into the water surrounding them? Why continue giving to something that has no use for you?

Later, Damian presents the heart to Ra’s, and feels stronger than he has his entire life.

—————

The last time Damian al Ghul takes a heart, he is freshly fifteen.

This will be his tenth heart. It shouldn’t be any different than the others, and yet…

Damian’s been circling the dock for hours, waiting for the telltale sound of feet pattering against the wood, headed for a midday swim. When he finally hears it, his lips twitch upward, betraying his cool and uncaring exterior in favor of excitement. 

Damian surfaces at the very moment a wave crashes onto the dock, using the momentum to grip onto the wooden planks and pull himself upward. 

“Holy crap!”

Startled, Damian loses his grip and falls backwards. He’s even more embarrassed when the voice is attached to an arm, and the arm has a hand that grips Damian’s wrist and yanks him upward.

Once Damian is mostly on the dock, he rips his arm away and opens his mouth to snarl at the hand that dared touch him. They lock eyes, and Damian nearly falls off the dock again.

His savior is not a siren’s definition of pretty. He doesn’t even look like a prince—Damian’s other kills had been decked out in gold and jewels, in the finest silk one can find and the heaviest crown they can bear. Surely this boy is not the prince he is looking for, not with his dusty button-down and dirt on his nose and dark curls and freckles and the bluest eyes Damian’s ever seen and—

Half-heartedly, Damian bares his teeth.

The boy doesn’t even flinch. “I…you… wow.”

They stare at each other for a moment; the prince’s face turning an alarming shade of red. Damian shifts uncomfortably. The prince’s reaction isn’t one he’s received before—he’s grown used to fear, anger, respect. Never…whatever little number the boy’s face is doing. Maybe he’s ill?

The prince coughs and looks away. “Do you, uh, look like that all the time?”

“If you have a complaint, human—“ Damian says, his eyes narrowing. The human words feel awkward and lazy on his tongue, a stark contrast to the sharp barbs of his mother tongue. It makes him feel disgustingly mortal.

“No, no!” The prince interjects, smiling nervously. He’s on his hands and knees, likely having panicked in an attempt to rescue Damian. Now, he leans back and kicks his feet out from under him, crossing his legs. “I just…are you a mermaid or something?”

Damian’s jaw drops, too disgusted by the prospect to speak. How dare he—

”You’re just, like, sparkling?” The boy continues, grinning. Damian’s heart does something strange. “Like Edward. From Twilight?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Damian says. “But your death is going to be slow and painful.”

The prince sighs. “You’re here to kill me.”

“Indeed.” 

The boy is quiet for a long moment, staring at Damian with an expression he can't read. In the distance, a mourning dove coos. Then, he says, “Okay. How?” 

“…how?” Damian asks incredulously. 

“Yeah,” the boy says, picking at something lodged in his teeth. “Like, how were you gonna do it?”

“I…I was going to…” Damian waves his hand between them, as if to convey him killing the other boy. “..rip out your heart.”

The boy laughs. “What, just like that? Reach in and pull it out?”

Damian stares at him, at a loss for words.

The prince scooches forward, stopping mere inches away from where Damian rests awkwardly on the edge of the dock. He grabs Damian’s hand, not even bothering to avoid his sharp nails, and places Damian’s palm on his bare chest. Damian fights off the weird thing his heart is doing and locks eyes with the boy, glaring. The prince’s eyes are pools of deep blue, like the Arctic Ocean, and amusement dances in his irises.

“Do it.”

Damian blinks. “Pardon?”

“Rip out my heart.”

And, well. Damian doesn’t need to be told twice. He curls his fingers and pushes, using all his might to dig a cavity into the prince’s chest.

Nothing happens. The boy sits as still as a rock buried deep in the seafloor, still smiling.

“You…” Damian murmurs, his hand falling into his lap. The boy doesn’t have a scratch on him, as unblemished as the day he was born.

“You can’t kill me, fish boy,” the prince says, suddenly very serious. “Not with any weapon you have down there, at least.”

Damian bristles. “I resent that name.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t exactly give me yours.”

“You do not know who I am?”

The boy grins. “I’m not exactly well-versed in mermaid lore.”

“I am not a mermaid. It is an insult to refer to me as such,” Damian mutters. After a moment, he lifts his chin proudly. “My name is Damian al Ghul. Son of the sea and heir to the throne.”

Unimpressed, the boy says, “So, if you're not a mermaid…?”

Damian huffs. “I am a siren.”

The boy grins. “Cool. I’m Jon. It’s nice to meet you, Damian.” 

He sticks out a hand, which Damian stares at with distaste. Perhaps it is some kind of human battle maneuver, and he is simply waiting for the right moment to—

“Jon! Dinner’s ready!”

Jon turns towards the voice, opening his mouth to call back. 

There’s more of them?

Damian realizes, suddenly, that if Jon is supposedly immortal, perhaps his pack is as well. Damian could maybe take on Jon, find some way to kill him, but multiple of him?

In a pathetic, desperate attempt to escape the prince he cannot kill, Damian whips around and dives back into the ocean, kicking his tail faster than he has in a long, long time. In seconds, he is far away from the dock, from Jon and his impenetrable skin, his heart pounding in his chest. He does not stop until he has returned to his grandfather’s castle, until he is safe from the insufferable, unkillable prince.

It is only when he has returned to his bed that he realizes the prince’s heart is still beating. 

Chapter Text

Damian finds his mother in her cave, picking dead scales off her tail using a spear, unbothered by the blood floating around her waist. He hovers in the entrance, unsure of what, exactly, the protocol is for a situation like this.

His mother loves him, this he knows. However, she has not always been gentle with him, and failure is not something she takes kindly to.

—————

A week before his seventh birthday, Damian is dodging his mother’s sword in one of the castle’s training rooms.

It’s been hours, but can’t leave until he bests her. Until he draws blood.

He counters the blow with his own sword, knocking hers aside with practiced ease, quickly swimming away from her next attack. He turns around just as she brings her sword down, breathing heavily. His shoulder stings from where she’d nicked him earlier, and he mutters a curse when it causes him to loosen his grip, leaving an opening for Talia to attack once again.

They trade blows, their swords singing as they clash together over and over again. Damian lands a hit to her side, and Talia sends him flying into the nearest wall. A piece of rubble lodges itself in his side. Damian flings his sword at her, wincing at the sharp stab of pain the movement brings. She manages to dodge, but only just—a small cut rests on her cheekbone, barely deep enough to bleed.

For a moment, Damian feels a rush of triumph flood through him, but then:

The fight doesn’t stop. Talia rushes towards him, weapon raised high, and Damian, swordless, rolls out of the danger zone before kicking off the wall and lunging away from her. Talia is faster, though, and knocks him to the ground, pointing her sword at his throat.

She won.

She always wins.

“I drew blood!” He argues childishly. “You said we would stop once I drew blood!”

Talia sheathes her sword. “Blood is not enough, Damian. You must go for the kill.”

Damian snaps his mouth shut and sits up, scowling. He presses a few fingers against the open wound in his side, hissing in pain as the edges of his vision blur with frustrated tears. 

His mother has never gone easy on him, but sometimes he wishes she would. Just once, he would like to win, even if it was forced. Just once, he would like her to be proud of him. 

Talia retrieves his sword and kneels next to him, placing the weapon to the side as she scoots closer. Gently, she moves his hand to get a better look at the cut.

His mother clicks her tongue, frowning. “You cannot leave yourself open like that. One day that blow is going to be fatal.”

“You did not give me many other options,” Damian mutters, watching as she rips a strip of fabric off her top to wrap around Damian’s waist. It’ll heal before tomorrow, probably, but keeping it bandaged will keep it from leaking blood everywhere and attracting unwanted visitors.

“But there were other options, yes?” Talia says, raising an eyebrow. “Do not sell yourself short, beloved. You are worth more than you think.”

—————

Even after leaving the water tinted crimson, Talia had patched his wounds. Stitched his cuts.

Failure may not be something she takes kindly to, but she still loves him. Talia may have been a princess before she was a mother, but Damian was her son before he was a prince. He finds himself hoping that, just this once, blood is enough.

Without looking up, Talia says, “You’re back early, beloved.”

Damian stares at her, his throat tight. He doesn’t know how to tell her, what words he should use to say…

It doesn’t matter. She knows. He can tell she’s figured it out the moment she glances up at him. Ever so slowly, she sets the spear down on the nest behind her.

He grew up in this room. Every little thing is familiar to him—the vanity built of coral and stone, the various glittering weapons hung on the walls. The soft sandy floor, where he used to bury himself in games of hide-and-seek, giggling when Talia yanked him upward by his sea green tail. The nest, made of the coziest seaweed and kelp one can find. His mother, at the center of it all.

Damian’s voice cracks when he says, “I’m sorry.”

Silence.

“You do not have his heart,” Talia says. It’s not a question.

She watches him for a moment. Her hair floats upward, winding slowly with the gentle current. Her face gives away nothing, lips set in a hard line. Damian fidgets with his fins, frowning. Finally, with great hesitance, Talia pats the spot next to her in the nest, inviting him to sit.

Damian does, drawing his tail to his chest. He rests his chin on the cold scales and makes a point to avoid eye contact. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Talia raise a hand, and fights the urge to flinch. He expects her anger. He expects her to hit him, banish him, something. Instead, she brushes a lock of hair behind his ear.

Oh.

“I have told you many stories, Damian,” Talia whispers. “I have been honest about every heart I have taken.”

Damian stares at her. Talia’s smile is so gentle, so fond, he has to hold back a sob. Her hand is still holding the side of her face, and she brushes her thumb over his cheekbone absentmindedly. He wonders if she’s tracing the scar that rests there, given to him by his grandfather all those years ago.

“Never have I told you the story of the man who took mine.”

He blinks, drawing back ever so slightly. Talia’s hand drops and she rises, picking up her spear to mount it with the others. With a flick of her hand, a tiny slot in the wall opens, revealing a shiny, round object Damian has never seen in his life. Talia smiles at it for a moment before swimming back to him and placing it in his hand.

It feels like a pebble, but more…artificial. Lighter. In the center, a strange symbol, painted yellow and black, stares back at him.

“A long time ago, I was tasked with killing the Prince of Krypton.” She laughs when Damian’s eyes widen. “Not that prince. Nor the prince before him, either. On land, they call him Superman.”

Wait.

Damian gapes at her. “But…if you were sent to kill the Prince of Krypton, you knew I would not be able to kill Jon.”

“Patience, beloved.” Talia sits in front of him, taking both his hands in hers. A long time ago, he could barely hold onto her pinky. Now, their hands are nearly the same size. “I hunted Superman for weeks. To this day, I have never met him—someone stopped me before I could.” She taps the pebble-like object in his hands. “Batman. The dark knight.”

In the back of his mind, he recalls the mermaids saying something, a whisper…

Son of the night. Son of the sea.

He wrinkles his nose. “Landfolk have stupid names.”

Talia ignores him. “He asked me why I had been following Superman. I did not give him an answer, and for reasons I could not tell you, I fled. From then on, each time I got close to killing the Prince of Krypton, he was always one step ahead of me. Sometimes, we fought. Sometimes…” She smiles.

Damian makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Spare me.”

“For months, we danced around each other. I bested him. He bested me.” Her smile wavers. “Each time I won, I found myself hesitating at the last moment. I could not kill him. I was…” She swallows. “I was in love with him. I forgot my mission. Soon, I was with child.”

Gross.

His mother continues, “I panicked. I told him what I was sent to do, and asked for two favors.” She picked the pebble out of his hand and pressed the symbol in the middle. Immediately, it began to glow, flooding the cave with light. “One of his mystical allies crafted me a false heart. When I presented it to my father, he believed it was Superman’s heart.”

Quietly, Damian asks, “And the other favor?”

Talia let go of his hand, rising with the pebble pinched between two fingers. “He promised me that in fifteen years, he would accept our son as his own, and that he would not contact me until then.” Her gaze is determined when she glances down at him. “I believe it is time for you to meet your father, Damian.”

—————

Damian did not pack. They had no time. After his mother was finished with her story, she had insisted that they leave immediately. Ra’s was not expecting him for another fortnight, but news of the Sea Prince’s return would spread quickly. Talia had shoved a short blade into his hands and gestured for him to follow before swimming out of her cave, Damian close behind. 

He did not know where they were going, only that his mother had not spoken since they left, and she killed anyone that passed them. 

He had a sinking feeling they would not be returning.

They swam until the sea grew cold and dark. The water was thick and polluted, and if it weren’t for Damian’s heightened senses he wouldn’t have been able to see a thing. Talia slows, turning to face Damian with a strange, sad smile.

In a swirl of sea foam, her tail disappears. Damian copies her, kicking his newly formed legs until his head is above water and he’s gasping for air. A few feet away from him, Talia surfaces and peels a few strands of wet hair out of her eyes. 

He follows his mother to the shore, where a looming city rests, dark and cloudy. Plumes of factory smoke billow into the sky, and he’s pretty sure there’s a building on fire to their left. Cars honk obnoxiously; people yell and curse. 

Damian despises every bit of it.

There is a man standing on the beach, dressed in all black. In one hand, he holds a bag of fabric. In the other, a towel. He watches them rise from the waves with an unreadable expression, raising an eyebrow when they reach the sand.

“You’re early.”

Chapter Text

Talia al Ghul is many things, but sentimental is not one of them.

Damian follows his mother onto the beach, watching as she takes the bag and rifles through it. The man says something to her under his breath, too quiet for Damian to hear. Talia nods, and the man glances at him with newfound curiosity.

 Damian doesn’t break his stare until he’s suddenly hit in the face with something itchy and cold. He peels it off his head with a scowl. It’s an ugly, human thing, with graphic print he can't understand and a poorly drawn design.

“It’s a shirt. Put it on,” Talia orders in English, tossing a pair of shorts at him. “These too.”

“I do not like it,” Damian mutters in stubborn Psardyn.

“Put it on or I will leave you bleeding in a shark’s den,” Talia hisses.

The man’s voice is deeper than expected, when he finally speaks. “We have other shirts at home, if you’d like to change. This is just for the car ride.”

Damian stares at him, still suspicious. Then, slowly, he pulls the shirt over his head. Next, his shorts.

“My name is Bruce,” the man says, kneeling in front of Damian. He’s got streaks of white in his hair and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

He looks kind, Damian thinks. It’s not something he’s used to.

“There will be time for introductions later,” Talia interrupts. “My father grows more restless by the minute. Beloved?”

Damian turns to face her, frowning. The shirt is two sizes too big and for the first time in a long, long time, he feels small. 

Talia does not kneel like Bruce did. She draws her shoulders back, and Damian subconsciously mimics the movement. “It is time to be brave now.”

Damian takes a step forward, hand on the hilt of his mother’s dagger. “What—?”

Talia’s expression softens ever so slightly. He is her weapon, but he is also her son. Even after cutting him open, she has stitched up every wound, has bandaged every cut. She is still his mother, even as she betrays him.

In Psardyn, she murmurs, “I will love you as long as I am breathing.”

And then she is gone, so quick Damian thinks he must have hallucinated her ever being there, and it is just him and Bruce, standing on a cold beach under an ashy sky.

Damian takes a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

—————

The car ride is silent.

Bruce lets Damian process, lets his eyes dance across every building and person they pass. Gotham is, he realizes, just as ruthless as the undersea, but not nearly as beautiful. His kingdom is made of basalt and coral, housing thousands of sirens and sea creatures alike. Gotham is built on brick and iron, gray and gloomy.

Son of the night. Son of the sea.

Damian exhales through his teeth. He keeps his eyes on the city when he asks, “Who are you?”

Bruce says, simply, “Your father.”

Damian lets him talk. Bruce explains how he met Talia. How she was forced to return to the sea, taking Damian with her. He talks about Batman, and how he became him. Then, he talks about his family. His parents. Alfred. His sons and daughter. Damian learns their names and immediately forgets them, listens as Bruce explains none of them are his biologically, but he loves them all the same. 

Eventually, they pull into a winding driveway that leads them to the biggest house Damian’s ever seen. He wasn’t aware humans could create something so beautiful. It’s gothic, all gargoyles and windows, and the rose bushes surrounding the manor are perfectly trimmed. Vines climb the stone walls, framing the front door. 

Once they’re parked, Damian struggles to open his door before Bruce, laughing, unlocks it. Damian briefly considers killing him.

Bruce leads him into the manor, commenting on a few paintings that Damian thinks are tasteless and gaudy. The interior is, impossibly, more beautiful than the exterior. Large chandeliers drape down from the ceilings, highlighting the carvings in the wooden trim. Bruce explains every room they pass by; every door. No part of the house is left a mystery. Damian marvels at the sheer amount of art adorning the walls as Bruce leads him into the kitchen.

There’s a boy sitting on the kitchen counter, bare chested. His torso boasts an assortment of scars and lean muscle that suggests hard work, but the rest of him is a sharp contrast of tired blue eyes and messy, untouched bedhead. The boy stops short when he sees Damian. “I—Bruce, is that my shirt?”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “He needed clothes, Tim. You’ll be fine.”

The boy—Tim—grumbles and leans back on his hands, wincing a little at the movement. Damian spots a bloodied bandage on his left arm and narrows his eyes. 

An injury is a weakness.

“Fuck, another one?” Another boy is standing in the doorway on the opposite side of the kitchen. He’s much larger than Tim, who looks as though he’s never heard of protein in his entire life, and looms over both Bruce and Damian as he nears. Though they apparently aren’t blood related, both Tim and this man have dark hair and blue eyes. This man, however, has a harsh streak of silver in his hair. The scar on his upper lip stretches when he grins down at Damian, all teeth. “Thought you’d learned your lesson, B.”

Damian holds his gaze, eyes narrowing. After a moment, the man shrugs and joins Tim on the counter. In one hand, he holds a sandwich, which he offers to Tim with a raised brow. Tim wrinkles his nose and shoves him away, clearly disgusted.

The older boy shrugs, taking a large bite and chewing obnoxiously loud. He turns back to Bruce. “Dick’ll be here soon, I think. Said he was having Wally run him over.”

Bruce nods, glancing down at Damian to add, “That’s Jason. Duke and Steph won't be home for a bit, you’ll meet Babs when we get you a phone, and Alfred’s probably preparing your room.”

Damian isn't sure why he’s supposed to care, but he hums in acknowledgement anyway. God, he hopes all those people don’t live here. Siren are solitary creatures, unused to being in a pod that isn’t your closest family and mate. 

Apparently, humans do not share the sentiment, he thinks dryly.

Jason, through a mouthful of sandwich, loudly says, “So, who’s the kid?”

Bruce begins, “Damian is—“

Damian cuts him off, raising his chin proudly. “My name is Damian al Ghul. I am heir to the undersea throne, grandson of the demon’s head and firstborn son of Talia al Ghul, the prince killer. Blood son of Bruce Wayne.”

After a moment of silence, Jason takes another bite and leans back in his chair. “So, you an Atlantean or something?”

Damian bristles. “Do not compare me to the Atlantean imbeciles.”

Tim whacks Jason with his good arm and hops down from the counter. “No, you idiot. You’re a siren, right?” At Damian’s hesitant nod, he explains, “There have been stories of sirens taking down ships for, like, ages. Just last year, a sailor who had been traveling in the northern pacific reported hearing weird noises before receiving a distress call from a few miles out.”

Jason snaps his fingers. “I remember that. The feds blamed it on his old age; called him crazy.”

Damian’s lips twitch upward, recognizing this story. A known rapist and trafficker, smuggling fifteen women across the sea, where they’d be sold to men who had nothing but the worst intentions for them. Talia had made sure his death was agonizingly slow.

Tim stares at him for a second, calculating in a way that makes Damian squirm. His nails bite into his palm, and he can smell the blood dripping down his wrist. Across the kitchen, an elderly man enters with his eyebrows raised.

“Master Bruce, I hadn’t expected you back so soon.”

Bruce smiles, the most at ease he’s looked since they returned. “Sorry, Alfred. Talia wasn’t exactly excited to see me.”

Damian snorts.

Alfred glances down at him, smiling warmly. “Master Damian, I presume.”

Damian nods hesitantly. Where he’d usually be quick to assert his power and title, this man is different from the others. He is kind, but firm, and Damian finds he does not mind Alfred in the slightest.

“I have prepared a room for you to wash up,” Alfred says. “Please let me know if it is not to your liking.”

Jason grins. “You got last pick, so. Don't expect the master bedroom.”

Bruce sighs. “Jason.”

“What? I’m just warning him. Since he’s, like, a fucking prince or whatever.”

“Jason.”

“Fine. Sorry.”

—————

Later, when Damian has bathed and dressed himself in the softest clothes he’s ever worn, he climbs into a bed far too big for him and the comforter is cold and the sheets are smooth and it is all so horribly wrong that Damian can’t breathe over the lump in his throat, can't see through the tears in his eyes. He throws off the blankets, runs to the bathroom, and fills the bathtub with warm water. Throws up in the sink, and stares at himself in the mirror until he throws up again. Has he looked like this the whole time?

The bathroom light bathes him in a rich orange glow, and for a moment he sees it so clearly—sees Bruce, in the curve of his jaw and the thickness of his eyebrows. Sees the part of him that is human, and wonders if this is the face Jon was stunned to silence by. Was it his father’s lips, or his mother’s eyes, that made the prince stop in his tracks and stare?

He falls asleep in the bath, fully clothed, and dreams of a boy with sea-blue eyes and freckles like constellations.

Chapter Text

Damian meets the others in a slow progression. Dick—his real name is Richard, and Damian cannot fathom why he would prefer Dick—comes as a pair with Wally, who enthusiastically introduces himself as Dick’s boyfriend. Dick himself is kind but firm, giving Bruce a look that implies a lengthy conversation is in his near future. They leave as quickly as they came, with promises to return after Dick’s done with work.

He meets Duke and Stephanie at the breakfast table, half-awake as he dodges an orange that hits the wall behind him with a splat. The orange’s owner, a blonde girl in purple pajama pants, is standing on top of the table like a softball pitcher. She gawks at him, poking the dark-skinned boy behind her. He looks up from his cereal, equally as shocked. Damian’s skin crawls at the attention.

“He looks just like Bruce,” the boy says.

“Right? I looked up and I was like, did B get shrunk again? But no, it’s just some kid.” The girl hops down from the table and crosses the kitchen to where Damian’s still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Tim, who looks like he’d rather fight a full grown, genetically mutated squid than be awake right now, mutters, “Be nice, Steph.”

Steph rolls her eyes and sticks out her hand, smiling. “He’s joking. I’m a delight.”

Damian stares at her hand, confused. Does she want something from him? Do humans trade upon first meetings? If so, Damian’s woefully unprepared. He certainly isn’t giving up his mother’s dagger.

Steph shrugs and drops her hand. “Not one for handshakes? That’s alright, neither am I.”

Gesturing for him to follow, she passes the dining table and leads him into the kitchen, where Alfred is standing over the stove. He greets them both with a smile, using a tool that reminds Damian of lobster claws to remove food from the pan and place it onto a nearby plate.

“Good morning, Master Damian. What would you like for breakfast?”

After twenty minutes of learning what bacon is, Damian finds himself at the table with an omelet, seated next to a quiet girl who definitely wasn’t there two seconds ago. She’s eerily silent, barely sparing him a glance. The others have left for school, and Damian is eternally grateful for the peace that falls over the dining room. Alfred joins them periodically, offering more orange juice and eggs, but aside from that the only noise is the scratch of pencil on paper.

The scratching stops abruptly, and after a moment the girl slides her notebook over to Damian.

My name is Cass. Your name?

Damian glances up at her, eyebrows raised. She’s staring at him with a small, shy smile. Cass points to him, and then presses her pointer and middle finger together on both hands, tapping them together. Then, she splays her fingers wide, and gestures in a way that implies she’s asking a question.

“She is using sign language,” Alfred, who has suddenly materialized behind Damian, explains. “Miss Cassandra does not speak in the way that you or I do.”

Damian nods, turning to face the girl. He is determined to learn this strange, new language. Using her notepad, he writes; I am Damian al Ghul. You will teach me your language.

Cass takes a moment to read his note. When she’s finished, she sets it down with a wide grin, nodding enthusiastically. She writes; Tomorrow!

In the end, Damian finds he does not mind the Waynes. They are many and they are…a lot, but it’s clear they love each other in a way that the al Ghuls do not. Blood is not everything, here, nor how much of it you have on your hands.

But Damian was born in blood, raised in it. Knows the taste of it on his tongue.

Here, amongst those who condemn killing, he does not belong.

—————

A year passes. Damian grows two inches, and learns what it means to be human. Bruce installs a pool in the backyard, and Damian spends the summer learning all the different ways to swim with human legs. Dick and Wally get engaged. Babs teaches him how to use a dastardly device called a cell phone. He discovers a love for watercolors, and spends his afternoons painting pictures of his home under the sea. It is…nice. 

Too nice. 

A curtain of normalcy has been drawn over Wayne Manor. They have not officially told them what they do when the sun sets, but Damian knows. He’d be an idiot not to. And yet, they seem set on pretending like none of it exists.

Sometimes, Damian is allowed to peek through the curtain. He and Cass compare daggers; Tim gripes about a case he’s working on at breakfast. But it is clear Damian is not privy to the most important things. To what connects them.

He is not family. Not yet.

Logically, he’s aware why they might want to keep him away from these things. He’s overheard Jason fighting with Bruce on multiple occasions on the matter. At the end of the day, however, it is not their decision to make. It’s Damian’s.

After months of restlessness, Damian cannot stand it any longer. The part of him that used to rip the heart out of a human’s chest aches for movement. He is tired of sitting by and pretending he is not who he is.

This is what he tells Bruce when he confronts him about it, and he’s not entirely happy with the answer. Damian is not allowed to join them during their patrols, or, Bruce says, Jason will kill him. But, he may begin to train with the others if he wishes, following a strict timeline preparing him for what’s to come. He must train his mind, first, before he trains his body.

Time moves quickly, after that.

Damian turns sixteen, and Selina Kyle gifts him a stray cat she stole from an arms dealer out west. He names the cat Alfred, and they become inseparable. Alfred even follows him to the weight room, where he trains with Dick to work on “centering his gravity” and other idiotic human skills. Jason begins teaching him to write, and he is frustratingly bad at it. Alfred the human helps him find his favorite dishes, and briefly teaches him how to cook. A hero called Black Canary visits occasionally to simply talk with him, which Damian finds tedious and unnecessary. It is all fine.

Soon he is seventeen, and he spends the majority of his time studying. He spars with Cass, and learns that she is a force to be reckoned with. He bickers with Tim, and gangs up with Steph to play pranks on him. Jason, when he’s around, forces Damian to do schoolwork, learning mathematics and human history. Duke steals art supplies from the academy and shows Damian all the different ways to be creative.

And he draws. Anything. Everything. The manor. Bruce. Alfred the cat. Alfred the butler. His mother.

When he draws Talia, he uses a mirror. He shares her dark skin, green eyes, and curved nose. While he overarchingly looks more like Bruce, he is still his mother’s son. (Eventually, he comes to accept the parts of him that are Bruce—his cheekbones, his hair—and draws those, too).

His sketchbooks are littered with memories. A hazy interpretation of his room, his mother’s eyes, the light dancing on the water’s surface. His scales. Damian refuses to miss them, because to miss the sea would be missing the bruises it gave him, and he cannot allow himself to fall to such a weakness. Under his skin, something itches. It calls to him when the moon is high and he can almost feel the water gliding across his body, weightless. On the bad nights, after everyone is out on patrol or asleep, he goes out to the pool and swims until his bones ache. He pretends he is headed home to his mother, a still-beating heart in his hand. He pretends he can taste the blood.

When the sun rises, he goes inside for breakfast. Alfred pretends he doesn’t know where Damian was, and makes him a cup of hot chocolate. And it is fine.

—————

Damian turns eighteen unceremoniously. 

It is a day like any other in Gotham—cloudy and cold. Alfred makes him his favorite breakfast, and he opens a few gifts from his siblings. His favorite is, by far, the drawing iPad from Tim. Not that he’ll ever tell him, of course. 

Dick says he’ll give Damian his gift later, after training.

Later, Damian is stretching in the sparring room, waiting for Dick to be done with a work call. Today, they’re supposed to work on his balance.

Dick finally joins him, muttering about one of his coworkers as he kicks off his shoes and joins Damian on the mats, one hand behind his back. Damian catches a flash of red, yellow, and green, and raises his eyebrows in question.

“Dami,” Dick says, uncharacteristically serious. “Can I talk to you?”

Chapter Text

“It’s yours, if you want it.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Dick’s smile almost makes it worth it.

—————

For the next year, Damian trains under Dick. He quickly learns that fighting is a lot like dancing, and dancing is a lot like swimming. He picks up on it quickly, and the familiar fluidity of a duel almost makes him cry. It is different than when he spars with Steph, who fights like she has fire in her veins, or than with Tim, who has every move calculated down to the twitch of a finger. With Dick, it is almost choreographed. There is no real intent to hurt. Just to coexist.

He doesn’t mind losing the first few matches. Dick is strong and well trained, but he is still human. Damian wins, eventually. 

The first drop of blood tastes like home.

——————

Two weeks to his nineteenth birthday, Tim invites him to Titans tower.

It is unlike anything Damian could have pictured. Big, white, and if it were not brimming with life and laughter, he might have hated it. It reminds him a lot of the batcave, if Bruce wasn’t so committed to his dark and dreary aesthetic. 

The first thing he notes is how homey it feels. A bag of open chips on the couch; gear strewn about the lobby. Dirty dishes in the sink. Tim told him about his team, the Titans, and how they live here, but up until now Damian had been reluctant to believe him. A bunch of teenagers, grouped up to fight crime? Unrealistic and unreliable. He’d said as much when Tim offered his spot on the Titans to Damian. 

They were older now, Tim had said, and it was time to pass it on.

Damian was growing tired of inheriting things. 

Still, he reluctantly agrees to meet the others and explore the Titan’s tower, a decision he’s coming to regret as he trips over a Superman hoodie. He recognizes the logo from the few times he’s (awkwardly) met Clark and Connor at breakfast and didn’t care enough to ask why Steph thought it was so funny. He picks up the hoodie and hands it to Tim, who smiles in a disgusting sort of way before throwing it over his shoulder and gesturing for Damian to follow him.

”You’ll meet Jon at some point. I think Kon said he had homework to finish before he could head over.”

(That name sounds familiar, almost. Like he dreamt it)

They enter a large room that smells so intensely of sweat and blood Damian wrinkles his nose, shoving down the part of him that is still so hungry for it, that chases salt on his tongue like air, like breathing. 

The floor is covered in spongy mats, and Damian struggles a bit to balance as he follows Tim over to where Connor and a girl are sparring. The girl is obviously winning, smiling with every hit she takes, even as blood drips down her nose and off her chin. 

Tim leans over—not down, anymore, since Damian hit that growth spurt three years ago—to whisper, “That’s Cassie. You’ll like her, I think.”

Connor put up a fight, but in the end it was no use. Cassie traps him in a headlock until he taps out, laughing, and it’s still a little strange to Damian after all these years, to see both competitors come out alive. He asked Dick about it, once. It’s fun, he’d said. Loosen up a little, D.

Tim pulls him out of his thoughts with a sigh that sounds a lot like Bruce. “I thought you weren’t cleared for training until tomorrow, Kon.”

Connor has the decency to look caught, sending a flustered glance at Cassie that makes her roll her eyes. “Uh, well. Technically…”

“Save it. I don’t wanna know,” Tim says, taking the opportunity to grab Damian by the elbow and pull him forward. Damian shakes him off. “This is Damian, er, Robin.”

They’d forgone secret identities with him, mostly because if they looked him up they’d find nothing. Tim trusted Kon, so Damian supposed he trusted him too. Cassie also seemed…alright.

The girl smiles, reaching out a hand for him to shake. He does, and gives her a curt nod. Kon does the same, even though they’ve met before, and grins a little before he lets go.

“You meet the others yet?”

Damian frowns. “I briefly met a neon green lizard in the lobby.”

“Ah, yeah, he does that. You’ll meet him later.” Kon tilts his head a little. “Jon’s—“

The doors to the training room burst open in a blur of blue and red, and suddenly there’s a boy in front of Damian with his back to him. He’s in civilian attire, a red hoodie and jeans, a bagel in one hand and a cat in the other.

“Sorry I’m late,” the boy says, shoving the bagel in his mouth. He turns and shoves the cat into Damian’s arms and those eyes look familiar, too familiar, but the boy isn’t looking at him anymore and is instead tying his shoe midair. Wordlessly, Damian scratches the cat under the chin, never taking his eyes off the boy.

The boy—Jon—continues to talk with the bagel in his mouth, muffling whatever he’s babbling on about, and begins to float aimlessly while struggling to double knot his shoelaces. He ends up completely upside down, and once his task is complete, he turns to face Tim and Damian at last. They both freeze, the bagel falling from Jon’s mouth onto the disgusting training mats.

The bluest eyes he's ever seen. Freckles like constellations. A prince he could not kill.

There are a thousand ways—a thousand emotions—he could use to describe this moment. He goes through them all in an instant, and instead settles on an open-mouthed shock, seeing it mirrored back at him on Jon’s face. The same face he saw at fifteen, only older. A sharper jawline. Fuller eyebrows. More freckles.

Kon breaks whatever spell had been cast by grabbing Jon and flipping him right side up with a teasing grin that speaks louder than words. Damian has never wanted to punch someone more in his life, and opens his mouth to say so when Jon interrupts.

“You’re less sparkly on land,” Jon says stupidly, and looks like he immediately regrets it. Kon covers his laugh with a cough.

Damian rolls his eyes, letting the cat hop down and make its way over to Cassie. “I was never sparkly. You’re delusional.”

Jon snorts, bending down to pick up his bagel. He takes a bite, and Damian grimaces. “I’m delusional? You’re the one who tried—and failed, might I add—to kill me.”

“I could try again, if you’d like.”

Tim clears his throat, loud and intentional. Jon jumps a little, the tips of his ears turning red. “So, uh, you two know each other, I take it?”

Damian grumbles, “Unfortunately.”

Jon, with a mouthful of bagel, says, “Kon, you r‘member the mermaid—“

“Siren,” Damian interrupts.

“Siren. Whatever. The siren that found me when we were on vacation, like, five years ago?”

Kon nods and a slow, mischievous grin sneaks onto his face. “Yeah, I remember. You wouldn’t stop talking about him for months.”

Jon turns red down to the base of his neck when Damian raises an eyebrow, amused. There’s some sputtering, a bagel thrown (“Dude, what the fuck!”), and finally, Jon continues his story.

“Anyway. This is him. And I’m guessing your mom is the one that tried to get my Dad, right?” Jon asks, finally turning to face Damian again. They get stuck like that, for a moment, and Damian says nothing. 

The others are saved from their tense silence by the doors to the sparring room slamming open, revealing what Damian assumes is the green lizard he met earlier, only now he’s a boy around the same age as Tim.

The boy jerks a thumb over his shoulder, his other hand resting on his hip. “Yo, they want us at the Watchtower. New guy too. Something to do with Atlantean politics, I think? Dunno. Sounded fun over comms, though.”

“Thanks, Beast Boy,” Tim says, patting Damian on the shoulder with an encouraging grin. Damian shrugs it off, scowling, but follows him when Tim leads them out of the room and towards the Zeta tubes. Beast Boy snatches up the discarded chips and silently celebrates when he finds some left in the bag.

Damian welcomes the distraction, even when Jon floats silently next to him the entire time. Damian feels his eyes on him, burning into the back of his neck, and fights a blush. It’s strange, seeing him after all this time. He is, so to speak…what was Steph griping about the other day? Some guy that ghosted her after what she thought was the best first date of her life. “The one that got away,” she had sighed, resting her head against Tim’s shoulder as he patted her back kindly.

Damian sneaks a glance at the prince, wondering briefly if he’s still invincible. He recalls Bruce mentioning something about a crystal that neutralizes Superman’s powers…perhaps it affects Jon in the same way. 

And for a moment, he allows himself to bask in that thought. Stealing the kryptonite, ripping Jon’s heart out of his chest, and returning home triumphantly. He pictures his mother’s smile, his grandfather’s nod of approval. He imagines burying it with the others.

The dream is clouded by a singular thing: he would never be able to sleep again, knowing what he knows now, with Jon’s beating heart underneath his bed. He imagines lying there and listening to it beat, knowing he succeeded, but at what cost?

The Justice League and Titans are good, as much as he hates to admit it. They are kind, heroic, and brave. They do their duty, and keep the peace. 

He looks away, and feels a flicker of anger stir in his chest. Why should he be torn away from his mother, from the ocean, for the sake of goodness? He misses his bed, his cave, the feeling of saltwater running through his hair. He misses the taste of blood on his tongue more than he’d care to admit.

They reach the Zeta tubes, and Damian smiles ever so slightly. He makes up his mind as Tim instructs him to get in, gently warning him about potential nausea.

Damian will be nineteen in December.

On that day, he will take Jon Kent’s heart out with his teeth.