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Damian knew he was different from the rest of his father’s wards. It was apparent from the moment he stepped into the manor that he was different. That was to be expected; the issue, however, is that he isn’t different in the way he wanted. He thought, because he was the blood son, that he would automatically get a certain amount of privilege for being his father's heir. But as the days pass, it becomes more and more apparent that the Wayne manor works differently from the League.
Damian is different; that much is clear, but he now sees that that isn't a good thing. How different he is, as it practically glares at him every day. He sees the way his father interacts with the others, forcing himself to compare it to the distance and near distaste that his father takes on when talking to him.
He saw it after patrol when his father gave the others a soft smile, but when his eyes turned to Damian, it would melt away, his eyebrows furrowing as if he were picking apart everything wrong with his son. Damian felt stuck in his gaze, forced to freeze on the spot, thinking back to every mistake he could have possibly made on patrol that night. Even if he can’t find a mistake, his father still looks at him with a disapproving look.
Damian was treated as an enemy in his home. While his father and Grayson tried to cover it up, his father's other wards did not. Todd was wary of him, never quite letting Damian out of his sight on the rare occasions that they were in the same room. Drake has been downright hostile since Damian tried to kill him, which was understandable at the very least.
So he could only watch as his father interacted with the others. He watched as Grayson somehow managed to make his father chuckle after a gruesome patrol. He watched as his father read the books Todd left on his desk, later discussing the plot with the man. He watched as Drake and his father spent long nights in each other's quiet, comfortable presence, softly whispering occasionally.
Damian watched as the ease that his brothers created left his father's shoulders the moment he walked into the room. He watched as the others dove into an awkward silence the moment he tried to talk. He watched as Drake and Todd rolled their eyes when he mentioned anything about his role in the family.
The worst part about all of this is that it bothered him. He was raised better than to allow such a small thing to trouble him. He was created as a weapon—a means to an end. Living with his father was simply a way to expand his training.
Yet he felt the sharp teeth of disappointment dig into his skin at every wrong turn. He wanted to be better, so he would be better. There is no place for him if he can’t adapt. He has been trained for this his whole life, and he refuses to fail now.
Damian becomes a shadow; he barely talks, and is only seen when he is needed. He becomes elusive. Melting into corners and hiding from view. He observes his peers, watches to see what makes them tick. He needs to understand how to fit in with his father's hoard of children, needs to find out how to become better.
So it's instinctive for him to pause his step when he hears his name in conversation. He had just come home from school, his backpack still resting on his shoulders as he made his way towards his room. The sitting room doors are shut as he walks by, but that does nothing to block the voices that sit behind them.
“He’s scary, dude, like next-level creepy.” Todd’s voice rings through the hall.
“You don’t get to complain. It's not like he has tried to kill you multiple times.” Drake grumbles. It is enough to tell Damian who they are talking about. Damian had apologized for that. He hasn’t even tried to murder Drake in a good few months.
“I get to complain all I want when that demon is creeping around. He was just standing in a dark corner yesterday, watching me work for hours. It's like he is tracking every mistake I make.” Todd complains.
Damian can feel something twisting in his gut. He didn’t mean to creep Todd out; he was just trying to figure out what the man was doing. It was no different than what he had been doing to all of the residents of the manor. He was just trying to learn; clearly, that wasn’t right.
“You guys have to remember, he is just a kid.” Grayson comes to his defense, but it is short-lived.
“Yeah, an eleven-year-old raised by assassins, totally a normal kid.” Todd’s voice is monotone and filled with sarcasm.
"Yeah, true,” Grayson says with a soft chuckle. Only then has Damian heard enough. He turns back towards the stairs. It takes all his might to return to his room in an orderly fashion; the only clue to his panicked state was his raised heart rate and slightly shallow breaths.
His best is not good enough. He needs to be better.
In the solitude of his room, he plans. Damian knows that his father pays the most attention to him during patrol, which gives him the perfect opportunity to show them all how much he has changed. He will be better.
Night came faster than he wanted it to. Damian was in the Robin suit far too soon. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be Robin; that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It's just that tonight has to go perfectly for him to prove himself.
Damina stifles his worries. He knows better than that. He is better than that. He straightens his posture and prepares for a long night as his father's wards scramble around him.
Their mission wasn’t anything extraordinary tonight; it was a run-of-the-mill drug bust, something they deal with far too often. Damian wishes his father would just allow them to catch the gangs in a manner that would prevent them from coming back to the crime. But that is not his place to criticize, especially if he is trying to get on the man's good side. So he keeps his thoughts to himself, following after the others as they leave the cave.
He follows every order. If Batman says duck, he ducks. If Red Robin says jump, he jumps. No complaining, no pointing out more effective ways, just mindless complying. He is doing well too. Batman hasn’t said one thing to him; hell, even Drake has yet to comment. But, of course, he has to mess it all up.
It happened so fast that he barely had time to think before he jumped into action. The snipper was hidden away from the view of the others; his barrel pointed directly at Drake's chest. Damian acted out of impulse, shoving the vigilante away as the gun went off. The only problem was that he shoved Drake right into the drug deal that was going on, spoiling their location. And the fact that the bullet meant for Drake's heart went into his shoulder.
He ignored the throb as more guns fired from the gang below. They were hurled head-first into battle. Slowly, he takes down the men one by one. Tying each one up for the police to deal with later. By the end of the fight, he had almost forgotten about the bullet that was currently lodged in his shoulder. Too high on adrenaline for his pain receptors to really work.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Drake yells the moment they touch foot in the Batcave. “You ruined the mission, you gave away our position, and you almost got me killed! I thought you were over all this shit! Clearly, I was wrong.” Drake’s shouts fill up the cave. He doesn’t give Damian the time to explain himself, as every time he tries, Drake shuts him down with another scream.
“I was trying to help!” Damian whispers; it doesn't help to pause Drake’s shouts.
"Damian, what you did was reckless and immature. I thought by this point I could trust you with the mantle of Robin, clearly, I was wrong. You will be benched for the foreseeable future.” Father's voice echoes across the room. It's final, leaving no room for explanation or complaints. So Damian listens. He walks up the stairs, ignoring the growing pain that festers in his shoulder, his cape just covering the wound.
He takes the walk of shame to his room. Entering the bathroom, he painstakingly patches the wound himself with the small first aid kit he has under the sink. It takes him far too long to dig the bullet shell out of his shoulder. Carefully poking through the skin as he stitches it with steady hands.
He failed again.
He tried so hard, and he still failed. He needs to be better. Needs to train harder and listen more; he needs to be the Robin Batman needed, the son Father wanted. He needs to try harder, even though his body aches and his shoulder feels as if it's betraying him.
He looks longingly at the bed, pushed into the corner of the room. Even though his body cries for rest, he can’t. He needs to train. He listens through the door, lying in wait. So he hears what he has been waiting for. The last door in the hallway shuts, and with that, his own door creaks open. He tip-toes down the hall and towards the Batcave.
From the moment he is on the training mat, he starts his exercise, and he doesn’t stop. He cycles through every training he could possibly remember. From the ones that the League had practically drilled into his mind to the newer, less practiced methods he had learned in Gotham.
He doesn’t stop when the stitches in his shoulder snap. He doesn’t stop when the blood drips down his arms and starts to puddle at his feet. He doesn’t stop when his skin breaks and pulls. He doesn’t stop when his body cries for a break. He doesn’t stop when his head spins.
Damian keeps fighting until he can’t stand, his legs giving out as he falls into a small puddle of his own blood. He sits there, gasping for a breath that feels as if it never enters his lungs. His vision grows fuzzy along the edges. He thinks that maybe he can hear a muffled voice, but the shrill buzzing in his ear makes it hard to decipher.
Finally, he lets himself crumble as the darkness takes over.
…….
Damian wakes up sore. His body feels as if it is filled with lead, and his shoulder aches. But still, he forces himself to sit up and take in his location. Cold white walls and beeping machinery surround him. He is in the infirmary.
To his left, Grayson slouches, passed out in a chair. He wasn’t supposed to be home this week. He was supposed to be in Bludhaven. Damian can hear the heart monitor speed up.
Was Grayson here to scold him? Is this a punishment? He doesn’t understand why the man would come all the way out here just because Damian messed up.
He can only stare at the man as he rises from his slumber. He watches as Grayson startles awake, his eyes immediately going to the loud machine before they flicker to him. Damian slows his breathing; he is acting up; he is being weak.
“You awake, bud?” Grayson asks, blinking at him.
“Tt obviously.” Damian does his best to sound level, if not annoyed at the question. The only issue is that only when it comes out of his mouth does he remember he is supposed to be on his best behavior. Grayson was a part of the conversation about him just the other day. He didn’t want to give the man more of a reason to hate him.
“Okay, that's good,” Grayson says softly. The man sighs deeply. “Then I can ask you why you didn’t tell anyone you got shot, and why you decided to train with said injury?” Grayson questions him.
Damian doesn’t know what to say. He stares at the man debating in his head. He has never been at a loss for words in this way.
“I messed up.” He finally settles on after an uncomfortable silence.
“What do you mean by that? What does that have to do with any of this?” Grayson asks.
“Doing the mission, I messed up. I put the others in danger, so I had to deal with the consequences.” He explains further. Damian isn’t sure what Grayson doesn’t understand.
“Can I ask you why you did that? Were you really trying to hurt Tim?” That gets a sharp shake of Damian's head. “Then what happened?”
“There was a sniper on the roof; I shoved Drake out of the way, but the gun had already gone off, and I wasn’t fast enough to dodge the bullet,” Damian admits. “I understand if I have to be punished for this.” He throws in. Grayson stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide.
“Damian, do you think Bruce would punish anyone else for taking a bullet for Tim?” Grayson asks again. Damian was getting tired of the constant questions. All he wanted now was to take his punishment and go back to bed.
“No.” Damian gritted out.
“Then why would you?” Another question.
“Because I am different from you all.” Damian answers sharply.
"No, you are not.” Grayson defends.
"Yes, I am!” Damian fights back. “You all know I am! That is why you call me a demon. It's why Father never looks at me! It's why I get in trouble for things you wouldn’t! I am the blood son; therefore, I am held to a different standard.”
All is quiet for a moment. Grayson just stares at him. Domain feels heat crawl to his face; he shouldn’t have said anything. Yet now he has ruined everything. His mother would be so disappointed in him.
“Fuck, kid.” That is all Grayson can say. The man takes another deep breath. “Do you really think that?”
“I have heard you all say it.” Damian says it with a small nod.
“We really messed up, didn’t we?” Another pause. "Damian, you are not a demon. You are not any different from Bruce's other kids. I am sorry that we made you think that you were. I know you had a rough start here, but we didn’t make it any easier on you.”
“You don’t have to lie. I know the truth.” Damian tells the man.
“I am not lying. Listen, I know Bruce can sometimes be emotionally constipated, and I will talk to him about this, but he loves you just as much as everyone else in this family.” Grayson stands up, grasping on to Damian's hand, and gently squeezes it once before he speaks again. “Just give me one second; I will be right back.”
Damian watches as the man rushes out of the room, left to sit with everything Grayson said. Could it possibly be true? Even though Damian was trained to recognize lies, he was unable to do so this time.
He doesn’t get as long as he wants to ponder this new development. As Grayson comes back shortly after, Father trails after the man. Damian straightens his back, trying to look more presentable. Only to pause at the devastated frown that reached his father's face.
“I am so sorry, son.” Father takes a seat right in front of him, grabbing his hand. The man rubs soft circles on his palms as he stares at Damian.
“It is alright, father.” Damian responds automatically. He is getting too tired for this. There have been far too many emotions in such a short period of time.
“No, it's not, but I will make sure that it gets better. For now, you need to heal. Why don’t you go to sleep for a bit, ok, chum?” Damian nods slowly, laying back down.
"Goodnight, Father,” Damian mumbles as he closes his eyes. “Goodnight, Richard.”