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The way Damian felt anger had changed since he came to live at Wayne Manor. Before, he was able to express it during training, or when fighting those of a lower rank. Now, he didn’t know how he could possibly express it. Violence was frowned upon in this world, but Damian had no idea what to do without using it to decompress.
He eventually resorted to letting it simmer within him, like a pot full of water. He knew that, at some point, if he kept going like this he would boil over, but he didn’t know how to do anything about it.
Sometimes, when Damian felt angry, he felt hot inside. Not the nice, warm feeling that he felt when Richard praised him, or the feeling he felt when the sun was out and he could sit outside with Titus and Alfred and simply be. No, this was a raging fire within him. He felt it in his stomach, building slowly until it reached his throat and he felt as though he could scream bloody murder at the world and it would still not be enough to expel the feeling. Sometimes, it reached his eyes, and he felt himself almost tearing up in pure unadulterated rage.
He never allowed these tears to spill over, of course. Though Richard (and, occasionally, Alfred) had tried to teach him that tears, crying, or emotions other than rage, in general, were simply human, Damian still saw them as a sign of weakness. Deep down, he worried that if Father saw him crying he’d be punished, or worse – sent back to the League.
He didn’t feel anger as much these days. Surrounded by the incessant happiness of Jon and the never-ending kindness of Richard, he found it hard to come up with anything to be angry about.
However, it still lingered. No matter how happy he was, there was always something that could set him off. And he constantly fretted that, if something did anger him, everything he’d felt since moving to Gotham would explode out of him.
That thing, tonight, was Timothy Drake.
Drake had tagged along with a patrol that was supposed to be a night just for Damian and Richard (strike 1). He’d completely blocked Damian from spending any quality time with his Batman, instead practically taking over the patrol and bouncing ideas and jokes off Richard with no regard for Damian. Richard, observant as always, had seen Damian sitting moodily, and had attempted to include him in the conversations that had been going on, but Damian was never one to intrude. He sat back and watched as his favourite brother, his Batman, a man he sometimes (read: constantly) wished was his father was taken away from him all night by Drake.
That wasn’t to say that Damian hated Drake. In fact, he believed that they’d managed to build up some semblance of a relationship. Not brothers, by any means. But they were civil, and neither made murderous or downright rude comments to the other anymore.
Which was why Damian was so… upset? angry? In truth, he didn’t know how he felt. But he knew that his relationship with Drake played a part. He felt almost as if Drake was attempting to steal Richard from him. The family had all been informed that he and Richard were the only scheduled patrol tonight, after all.
Later in the night, the three were perched on a rooftop. Damian had told Richard rather excitedly about a site he’d been gathering intel on for a while, almost proud of everything he’d accomplished, and Richard had decided that they’d go together and check it out.
Leave it up to Drake to ruin it (strike 2).
Of course, he hadn’t told Drake about his mission. Damian couldn’t really blame him, he knew this, but it still frustrated him that weeks of reconnaissance had been ruined by Drake rushing into things. It was then that he felt the anger bubbling up inside him.
The mission, of course, went sideways. Drake and Richard both ended up injured (neither fatal, or even enough to get them benched) when they were initially there for surveillance. Father, of course, reprimanded him. He’d bristled under his Father’s words, tensing in a way that he knew Richard would take note of. He was dying to spill everything, to tell Father that it wasn’t his fault – it was Drake’s. He held his tongue, though, not wanting to ruin the relationship he had with his brother, however minuscule it may be.
Then, later, Todd appeared out of nowhere. Damian’s heart had dropped instantly upon seeing him an Drake sat together. The two always knew which buttons to press in order to rile him up, and he’d been trying so hard to keep everything in all night. He walked straight past them, something he was sure they’d noticed if Todd’s quick shushing was anything to go by, and went straight to his room.
Breakfast was sure to be an interesting affair.
A fitful nights’ sleep was what greeted Damian. The adrenaline of the mission, fear of his own anger exploding out of him, and probably just his trauma in general mixed together to form a cesspool of confusing, albeit terrifying, dreams. He could remember three in total. One where he was chasing around his brothers, screaming and yelling curses that he wouldn’t dare even mention in front of Alfred and seemingly trying to kill them. That one left him awake for a couple hours before he succumbed to sleep and the second dream arrived. In this one, he was stranded. There was no-one around. No buildings, no civilians, and more importantly: no family. He yelled, screamed, tried to activate all his comms and all the stupid buttons on his suit that would alert someone, but to no avail. Must have been the consequences of the first dream. He was completely and utterly alone, with no knowledge of where he was or how he got there. Just as he began walking outside of the area, he woke up.
Damian fell asleep again, almost instantly this time. In the third dream (or at least, the third he could remember), he was sat at breakfast. The whole family was there; Richard, Todd, Father, Drake, Brown, Cain, Gordon, Thomas. Hell, even Wally West was there for some reason. And, his titans were in the background, lurking in a way he had taught them (a wave of pride washed over him at the thought). But this breakfast was no familial affair. Instead, everyone was staring at him. Nobody touched the food in front of them, nor the drinks. Even Alfred was paused near the doorway. Every single person in the room was staring directly at him. Damian disliked eye contact on a normal day, but this was downright awful. He turned to look at each and every one of them, taking a moment in case there was something they wanted to say or do. None of them moved a muscle until he got to Drake, who opened his mouth, breathed, and then -
Damian woke up.
There was no sharp intake of breath, no jump. He just simply woke like he would on any other day.
The most unsettling part.
He made his way to breakfast, finding himself the second to last person at the table (Todd was always the latest when he stayed over). Nobody was staring at him this time, thank god. Richard greeted him with a tired yet still cheery, “good morning, Damian,” as he ate his toast, and his father acknowledged him with a grunt and a nod of the head as he read whatever he was reading on his tablet.
Damian sat down warily opposite Drake, still reeling from the dreams but also the anger inside him. It was still rising, still bubbling, but felt more… sad, now. He couldn’t quite put a name to the feeling. Whenever he thought of the events of the previous night, he almost felt disappointed, and the burning feeling of tears was never more present.
He nodded at Drake, not trusting himself to speak for fear of his voice betraying his thoughts.
Todd appeared a few minutes later, his usual obnoxious self, teasing Drake and Richard and making subtle jabs towards Damian, who simply put his head down and tolerated it (strike 3). Except, it didn’t stop, and soon Drake joined in. The two were obviously ganging up on him, and no one was stopping them.
The anger was rising.
He felt himself get red in the face, trying oh so hard to keep everything in, but he couldn’t stop it.
“Will you shut up!” he yelled, slamming a fist on the table and shaking everyone out of their sleepy morning stupors.
Father let out a warning, “Damian.”
Damian looked at him, tears brewing in his eyes and face red, and left. Left the table, left his family to revel in his outburst, and all but ran to his room. He heard Richard call after him, and Father telling the rest to simply “let it go”.
Did Father not realise that he was drowning? That every movement was a desperate cry for help because he simply did not know what to do with himself now?
No, he did not.
In fact, it was Drake that came to his aid fifteen minutes later with a surprisingly soft knock at his bedroom door and an even softer, “Damian? Can I come in?”
With a deep breath, Damian allowed his brother in. Drake moved slowly, almost as if he saw Damian as a wild animal ready to strike at any moment (which he truly felt like he was). He sat on the bed, still a distance away from Damian, and asked him a simple question: “what’s up?”
Damian, face red from holding in his tears for almost two days straight, head minutes away from exploding with everything he was feeling, broke down. He began rambling to Drake, who, to his credit, did nothing but listen.
“I’m so angry – all the time. At the League, I could hit things, break things, stab things or people to get my anger out. But here – I have no idea what to do. I feel as though I’m not allowed to vent my anger onto anything or anyone, but without that I’ll just explode. As I did downstairs. But there’s nothing I can do about it because no one has taught me what to do. I can’t fight, I can’t train, I can’t scream or yell-” he looked Drake in the eye, a tear slipping down his cheek “what do I do?”
Drake deflated.
“Oh, Damian,” he said, “you could have come to us. Any of us. I’m sure Dick would be more than happy to help.”
“Please, Richard would get too sappy with it. I don’t need coddling, or comforting, I simply need a solution,” Damian replied.
Drake smiled, “well, you could always write about it. Or you could paint your emotions. There’s loads of creative ways to vent or express what you’re feeling.”
Damian paused. He hadn’t thought of that. All of a sudden, the burning feeling washed away. He no longer felt the volcano bubbling up behind his eyes, or the urge to scream at everything.
“Oh,” he said.
Drake was quiet for a moment before moving slightly closer and opening the arm closer to Damian. Damian immediately slid into his brother, revelling in the silent comfort he’d secretly been craving ever since this started. He found that he enjoyed physical affection from Drake. He was never smug about it, like Todd was, and he never made a big deal out of it as Richard did. He let Damian get what he needed, and they never spoke of it again.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, untangling himself from Drake.
“We should probably go back downstairs,” Drake replied, not acknowledging what had happened, “I told the others pretty rudely to stay put, and they’re probably fuming.”
Damian almost laughed (read: he smiled ever so slightly). He stood, brushed himself off, and looked back at Drake.
“Come along then, if we must. I’m sure those idiots are dying to know what happened.”
“yeah, probably. But I won’t tell,” Drake winked, tapping the side of his nose.
Damian still got angry, still felt every tiny spark of hatred and loathing inside himself. But with an outlet, and with Drake to discuss it with, he no longer felt as though he’d explode at any minute.
Things weren’t perfect, but they were better, and that was all that mattered.