Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian had seen photos of the manor before arriving, Mother had made sure he knew every detail about the location and his father before she brought him here. But despite it all, he couldn’t keep his wandering eyes from following hallowed staircases or tracing glittering chandeliers.

Father had brought him to the sitting room, and at first, Damian had sat, perched on the edge of the sofa, but it had been long since he and Mother had left for his office to speak and now, he stood, gaze fixated on a massive portrait above the fireplace, depicting who he imagined were his grandparents and a younger version of his father. They were dead now, murdered in front of his father when he was a child. Mother had told him as much.

A smaller frame off to the side of the fireplace caught his attention. It was draped with black fabric, so that he could not see the picture hid behind.

He knew better than to be curious, but this wasn’t curiosity, he was much too grown for that. This was simply… reconnaissance. Knowledge is power, and the more he knows about his father, the better he can meet his standards.

That was all.

His fingers drifted slowly toward the frame, brushing aside the fabric just barely to see a pair of blue eyes and dark hair—

A giggle caught his attention.

Damian turned sharply, hand forgetting the frame as it flew to the knife hidden beneath his turtleneck.

Before he could ascertain the whereabouts of the sound, however, the door pushed open and in stepped his father.

To a regular person, Bruce Wayne looked the picture of a billionaire playboy relaxing on his day off. Sleeves rolled to the middle of his arms, perfect hair ever-so-slightly ruffled, sweater and slacks of matching graytones and black. But Damian Wayne had been trained better than that.

His father was built, far more than someone in his position needed to be, muscles made for use, not just recreation. And there were scars, unexplainable to the masses, barely peeking out from under his sweater. This was everything he had expected from the Batman.

He hadn’t expected how tired he would look. The lines under his eyes, the slightest hint of gray touching his hair, the somber, far-off expression in his dull eyes. Damian sniffed.

“Hello, Father.”

“Damian,” Bruce responded curtly.

~

Mother bid her goodbyes, showing a rare bit of affection as she cupped the back of his head then planted a short kiss on his hair. Then she was gone, the smell of earth and tea gone with her.

“I’ll show you where you’ll be staying,” Bruce grunted, breaking the silence.

Damian fixed him with a look. He couldn’t imagine a house this great didn’t have servants, so why—?

Somehow, Father knew what he was thinking. “We—I had a butler… he was more like family. But he is not here anymore,” he cleared his throat. “Your room?”

“Of course,” Damian bobbed his head and quickly joined his father as he led him upstairs.

As Bruce led him down the wing, Damian counted how many doors they passed on the way.

Three bedroom doors and one bathroom. Not that he could see into the former, he was thankful he had memorized the manor’s floor plans before arriving.

“This will be your room,” Bruce pushed the ajar door until it was open but did not step inside.

Damian slipped past him into the simplistic room. A mattress sat upon a heavy wooden bedframe against the wall to his right, a window across the door, a closet on the opposite side of the room from the bed, a dresser beside it. And a desk with a lamp beside the window.

Damian’s nose wrinkled at the stale scent of the room.

Damian held his tongue, he was here to appease his father, for all he knew, his disdain at the room was just another test.

“Thank you, Father.”

He imagined Mother would be pleased with his tone.

“Hn.”

Bruce shuffled away, then paused. “Dinner will be at eight. Then bedtime after that. We’ll discuss your… training… tomorrow.”

Damian bit his tongue to keep from commenting on the unhealthiness of eating dinner at such a late hour.

“Yes, Father.”

Damian stared at his surroundings. He could work with it… somehow.

He moved swiftly to the window, pulling back the curtains to let the dying light in. The lamp on the desk had already been switched on, but it was too dim for cleaning. He switched the ceiling light on and got to work.

He started in the closet, but a quick scan of it revealed nothing other than some hangers. No matter, he’d go to the dresser next. It was entirely empty, until he reached the bottom drawer. Inexplicably, a t-shirt displaying a local high school’s cheer team was crumpled in the corner of the drawer. Perfect.

He grabbed the T-shirt and busied himself dusting every surface he could. Clearly, Father losing his only servant had taken its toll. Surely, he had a housekeeper of some kind, stooping to as low of a position of cleaning your entire house seemed unthinkable.

Damian sneezed as he wiped down the bedframe. Clumps of dust had fallen from his makeshift rag and onto the bedspread. Just another task to handle.

He debated on where to put the dust rag now that he had finished and finally settled on tossing it into the corner of the closet. Gingerly as to not disturb the freshly fallen dust, he undid the duvet and folded it inwards. He carried the bundle to the hall and shook it as best he could.

Standing in the empty hall, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears as if he held a seashell to it. Father was nowhere to be seen, and even as he strained, he couldn’t hear even a shuffle or murmur.

He hurried back to the bedroom and hastily tucked his bedspread back into place. He mulled over what Father had said before leaving him to his devices. It didn’t take that long; he had barely said anything.

Mother had told him all about Father’s nighttime job, how he enacted justice as the vigilante known as the Batman. He worked alone, but he hadn’t always. There had been a brightly colored apprentice at one point, but for one reason or another, Batman was back to being a loner.

Damian wondered if his father would appoint him as his new apprentice.

He shook the thought from his head.

The important thing was he was in unknown territory now, literally and metaphorically. Father had not deemed to show him around, and was clearly keeping his base secret, as there was no way Batman existed in the same area Bruce did.

Perhaps it was another test.

Damian pressed his lips together. Of course, he didn’t need help. He could find his way around. He had memorized the blueprints anyways. And when Father saw that he was competent, then he would reveal his secret base.

Damian padded softly down the hall. He encountered the bathroom first, quickly taking in its basics and moving on, there was nothing intriguing about a sink or shower.

That left the bedroom doors. Damian cast a furtive glance about before slipping into the first one.

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t… this.

The room was perfectly clean, albeit dusty and stale. The layout of the furniture was similar to his, although the desk and bed had traded walls and the dresser was now beside the door, just out the path of its opening. The bed had been stripped, a coarse blanket stretched over the naked mattress, stacked pillows shoved under the bedframe.

Damian inspected the dresser, easing the drawers open and feeling around, but came up with nothing. He moved to the desk, but a quick inspection revealed nothing again. Not a pad of paper or even a pen.

That left the closet.

Piles of unmarked cardboard boxes greeted him as he opened the door. They were taped shut and from the look of the cardboard, they hadn’t been opened before.

Damian gritted his teeth. He couldn’t open them, not without it being obvious he had. He hated it, but he would have to leave this line of investigation until he had an idea of how to be discreet with it. But he didn’t leave without some poking and prodding of the resilient boxes.

He left the room as it had been when he entered and slinked down the hall to the next bedroom.

Just like the first, the door was shut on this one as well. After ensuring he was still alone, he slid forward pushing the handle.

But it didn’t budge. He rattled the doorknob.

Locked.

Why would it be locked?

The doorbell rang, startling Damian away from the bedroom door.

“Damian!” Bruce called as he hurried to the front door. “Dinner!”

Damian didn’t call back, it was impolite to yell inside, but instead slipped down the stairs to appear behind his father.

Bruce was busying taking bags of… food? From what he assumed to be a deliveryman on the front porch.

Bruce turned, not reacting at the sudden appearance of his son.

“Come on, let’s eat.”

~

Father had told him it was “Chinese takeout,” whatever he had meant by that.

“I don’t have time to cook,” he grunted in explanation, sliding a small red box toward him.

Damian eyed the box before unfolding the top. At least it was recognizable as beef, broccoli, and rice. It would be healthy enough. For now. But there would need to be some real food soon, this excuse for food didn’t measure up to his usual.

“You didn’t bring your bag upstairs,” Bruce said between bites.

Damian unwrapped his chopsticks and split them. “I will make sure I get it after dinner, I apologize, Father.”

Bruce shrugged, unscrewing his water bottle to wash down a cream cheese rangoon.

There was nothing to say now and the pair ate silently, avoiding eye contact as they did.

“Did you find your room alright?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Father.”

~

Father hadn’t lingered after he finished eating. He bustled about, throwing away the trash and sticking the few leftovers they had into the fridge. Then he bid him goodnight and disappeared.

It was no matter, Damian didn’t require anything else, and it made sense why Father left so quickly. He had patrols to get to, after all.

Damian stood up, returning to the main hall to retrieve his bag by the stairs, then headed to his room.

After brushing his teeth, he unpacked his bag. It had been important for him to pack lightly, to not be materialistic. He only had a couple spare changes of clothes, some utilities, and clothes to train in.  

He folded his clothes neatly into the dresser then set his empty bag on the shelf in the closet. He turned sharply, mentally going over his routine in his head. There wasn’t anything left to do but go to bed now.

He hadn’t brought any form of pajamas, but he would make do. He had slept in worse conditions than jeans. He shrugged his sweatshirt off and hung it off the closet’s doorknob then set his shoes beside the desk.

He settled into bed, breathing as he would while meditating. The bed was soft and the sheets gentle, if not musty, and the room was perfectly dark and silent.

Too silent.

Damian squished his eyes shut, but his mind wandered, nonetheless.

Father had three other bedrooms that he could have lent him, but he was specific on this one. He lived alone, but he seemingly refused to make use of those perfectly good rooms.

His eyes flicked to the analog clock on the desk. 10:09.

Damian exhaled, forcing himself to roll over.

~

Damian woke some time later, entirely unaware of falling asleep.

He blinked blearily, brows scrunching as he tried to ascertain what had awoken him.

Something buzzed, nearly imperceptible if not for his straining to hear. It buzzed again and Damian carefully pulled the blankets back, socked feet silently hitting the floor.

He crouched, pulling open his desk drawer and feeling for a false bottom. But it was just a drawer.

He stood, holding his breath as he listened, waiting for the buzz to return.

It never did.

He couldn’t solve it tonight. He knew that much. And his body was insisting he return to bed, it was much too late for him to be standing around waiting for a mystery buzz he may not have even heard.

~

Father was nowhere to be seen that morning. The TV showed him waving to a crowd as he cut the ribbon on a new hospital. Damian decided to take stock of the kitchen inventory.

The supplies were… meager.

The pantry was a bust, used mostly to stock paper towels and medicine, and the only food was some cans of beans and soup and a stale box of honey nut cheerios. The fridge was even worse, jampacked with protein shakes and water bottles. A few leftovers were scattered here and there, and an expired bottle of orange juice sat on the door. At least the two eggs left in the carton seemed relatively new.

Damian busied himself, scrambling the eggs and reheating the rice from the night before. He mixed them together, making a bland version of fried rice. At least Father still had some seasoning he could add to it.

Damian tidied up after breakfast and looked about, mind buzzing as he looked for a new task.

The memory of the night before drifted into his mind. The incessant buzz that had awoken him.

At the time, he was so addled with sleep he couldn’t tell if it was waking or dreaming. But his body was not the only thing trained with Mother and Grandfather. His mind was as well. If he remembered waking to the sound, he trusted his thoughts.

As he hurried up the stairs to his room, he couldn’t help but play devil’s advocate. It had been the first time he had slept in new surroundings, every house had sounds unique to itself. Maybe the buzzing was just the sound of… a branch scraping on the roof! Or the air conditioning running through the walls.

That didn’t stop him from wanting to enact a thorough investigation.

He stepped into the bedroom, narrowed eyes scanning. He had already gone through the desk and the dresser and closet seemed too far for him to have heard such a quiet sound. That left the window and the bed itself. The window was farther from the bed than the desk was, but it would be good to check, nonetheless.

He ran his hands down the curtains, inspecting every inch of them before doing the same with the windowsill and frame. For all he could tell, it was a normal window.

Stalking over to his bed, he carefully peeled his bedspread, sheets, and fitted sheet off, going over each one-by-one. It was a painfully slow process, with no results, but he knew he must be patient. He inspected his pillows next, but like the sheets, he found nothing.

Inadvertently, he had already gone over the bedframe when he had dusted it, so he skipped over it for favor of looking under the bed. There was no room to crawl underneath, so he jammed his arm under, feeling around until—

There was something sticky… tape. There was duct tape stuck to the underside of the bedframe.

Damian’s brows furrowed in concentration as his fingers grasped at the corner that had begun to unstick. It took a moment to get a hold of it but then he did, and he pulled.

Something fell onto his hand.

Damian pulled his arm free from under the bed and looked at the object in his hands.

It was a cellphone. The screen was scratched, a hairline crack dashed horizontally across it. The purple case around it wasn’t in much better condition, several dings in it revealed it had served its duty well. He peeled the tape off, taking flecks of paint with it, and tapped the screen.

But it remained stubbornly black.

Dead.

Why was there a dead phone taped to the bottom of his bed? He suspected he would have to charge it before he got any sort of idea. But how to charge it? He didn’t have any—

“Damian?” Bruce’s voice interrupted.

Damian straightened up, standing suddenly, jamming the phone into his pocket. He wasn’t sure why he did. “Father.”

Bruce’s brows twitched. “What are you doing?” His eyes flicked over the unmade bed.

“I was going to clean my sheets,” the lie came easily. “If that’s alright with you, Father.”

Bruce pressed his lips together. “Later. I brought lunch, come on downstairs.”

Damian rushed forward, joining his father. Bruce gave him a look but said nothing.

Bruce sat down at the table in the kitchen, neglecting the dining room once again. A slim carboard box stained with grease sat in front of him. Bruce flipped it open and grabbed a slice of some sort of saucy bread thing.

“Eat,” Bruce’s voice was muffled by the slice.

Damian eyed the box. The design on the cardboard proudly displayed that it was the best pizza in the state. So, this was pizza. Mother would never have—

Bruce grunted, nudging the box closer to him.

Eating with your hands was barbaric and Damian’s nose crinkled at the idea, but he didn’t see a way to refuse. He gingerly pulled a slice free and bit into it and—

His eyes widened. It. Was. Amazing.

He stifled a gasp as he chewed, quickly devouring the slice before grabbing another.

“I realized we don’t have a way to communicate when I’m out,” Bruce said suddenly. “Talia didn’t call ahead so I imagine you don’t have a phone either.”

Damian was thankful for the food, so he didn’t have to control his expression.

Bruce slid a small box across the tabletop toward him. Damian set his pizza slice down, carefully wiping his hands on the paper napkins provided before handling the box.

“I already put my number in, so you can text or call anytime.”

Damian peered at his reflection in the crystal-clear screen. “Thank you, Father.”

Bruce only grunted in response, looking away as he bit into another slice.

Damian fidgeted. This was the longest they had sat together, and a swirl of thoughts crashed together in his mind.

Bruce seemed to notice, as his startingly-blue eyes were now digging into his skin. Damian opened his mouth, to ask or to explain, he wasn’t sure but before he could, Bruce stood up.

“I have to get back to work. Sorry, chum. Are you okay with handling the leftovers? You can just put the box into the fridge.”

Damian snapped his mouth shut, nodding dumbly. “Of course, Father.”

~

Damian lay on his belly on his unmade bed, uncharacteristically ignoring the mess. He held his new phone in his hands, flipping through apps already installed. There was nothing of interest, the only personalization there was his father’s number in the contact list.

Bruce Wayne, it read.

Damian wasn’t sure what he expected.

He shifted, the dead phone in his pocket digging into him. He pulled it out, eyes flicking over its silent screen.

It wasn’t much unlike the phone his father had bought him, albeit more damaged and a seemingly older model…

Damian’s eyes widened. How could he have been so stupid?

He grabbed the cellphone’s box and tore it open feverishly, yanking the charging cord free. He fumbled for a moment, fitting it into the outlet in the wall by the desk and jamming the other side into the old phone.

Its age had taken a toll on it and for a moment, nothing happened. Then the screen lit up.

The screen was black except for green text across the bottom. The date and time read from the night before, 2:37 AM.

“ Hello.”

“ Who am I speaking to?”

Chapter Text

Damian gripped the phone, eyes un-focusing. The text was a blur and his mind spun.

He didn’t know who was on the other side of the phone and he didn’t have to be a native Gothamite to brainstorm what sort of devious rogue was scheming. The Riddler perhaps, or Mad Hatter… could even be someone like Black Mask.

Damian’s nose wrinkled. Who even came up with the idea of naming themselves such ridiculous aliases?

He knew the safest option would be turning the phone into his father, let Batman handle it.

But Damian didn’t need safety. He didn’t need help. Foes were meant to be faced head on.

So, he did just that.

“You first,” he typed in response.

For a moment, there was nothing.

“Call me Spoiler. What do I call you?”

Damian pressed his lips together. He had never heard of a rogue named Spoiler, but that meant nothing. This could be someone up and coming.

“Robin,” he typed back simply. This rogue seemed to be incompetent if they did not already know who they were speaking to. Did they leave the phone behind just to be found by anyone? A random crime over a targeted one was more the speed of The Joker than a planner like the Riddler. “What kind of name is ‘Spoiler’? What do you want?”

“I want to spoil some plans. Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Damian scoffed. As if they could.

“Listen… Robin… be real with me. Have u met anyone since you arrived at the manor?”

Damian froze, fingers over the keyboard as his mind reeled. The rogue was fishing, clearly, but what for? Did they want to unmask Batman? How would a question like that lead to that?

Before Damian could respond, Spoiler messaged again.

“I don’t mean Batman. Have u seen someone else in the manor??”

Damian’s brow furrowed. “…No?”

“Alr. I’m busy so don’t text until u have. Check out the other bedrooms in ur wing.”

Damian gritted his teeth in irritation. “I did,” he tapped the screen harshly.

“All of them?”

Something cold settled over Damian’s shoulders. He stashed the purple phone under his bed then darted out of his room. As always, he was alone. But he did a quick check, nonetheless.

He brushed past the first two bedrooms and arrived at the final one. From the outside, it looked identical to the other two. The door was shut, without a hint of personalization on it.

This Spoiler character could have a trap set just beyond the door; it would make sense for why they prompted him to seek out the bedrooms. They knew the specifics of the manor, enough to know he hadn’t investigated the third bedroom yet. What was he supposed to see in this room? Or, if he followed Spoiler’s line of questioning…

Who was he supposed to meet?

Damian narrowed his eyes and inhaled deeply. There was no way Batman would have a trap set up in his own house without knowing about it. He had to trust that.

He exhaled as he turned the doorknob, cautiously pushing the door open.

The only light in the room came from between the drawn curtains over the window, slant rays cascading over desk and carpet. Damain stepped forward cautiously, careful to bungle into any trip wires or pressure plates, even as unlikely they were. He drew the curtains back, metal rings scraping across the bar from disuse.

Daylight spilled into the room, revealing this room to be quite unlike the others. It sported different furniture and posters of old bands and circus performers stuck to the wall. Christmas lights hung from the four-poster bed, a practice balance beam sat crooked semi-blocking the closet, stuffed animals sat atop a crisp made bed, the comforter on which sported large blue stars scattered across it.

It was nothing like his room. Nothing like the empty bedroom beside his.

Despite how… lived-in it seemed; it was just as abandoned as the other room had been. It was clear nothing had been moved for quite some time, dust settled upon every surface, even the bed.

“Hello!” A voice greeted him brightly. “What are you doing in my room?”

Damian turned sharply, knife slashing through the air before he even saw the figure. Distantly, he wondered if Father would be angry with blood on the carpet.

But no blood came.

And the flickering image that hovered by him stared at him, but his expression was not one of horror or pain, but… wonder?

“You have a knife? Cool!” The figure bobbed closer to him, mesmerized by his blade. “I wish I had a knife…,” he pouted, swishing his hand back and forth through the knife.

Damian squinted. It didn’t seem to be a projection, and there wasn’t the tech around for it to be a hologram. It could be a spell, or a hallucination. Maybe the phone was laced…

“What… are you?” Damian forced out between gritted teeth.

“Dick Grayson!” The figure responded unhelpfully. “I’ve missed having another kid in the house…,” he mused. “You’re Damian, right?”

Damian nodded stiffly. He paused, mind whirring as he retraced the apparition’s words. “Another?”

Dick froze in place, the ever-present glow that surrounded his body flickering. “I don’t… I don’t remember. There’s…,” his brow furrowed. “There’s another like me… I think….” He bobbed back, cradling his head.

Damian felt something twist in his gut at the sight of his distress. He didn’t know what the feeling was, he would have to contemplate it at another time…. “It’s fine,” he snapped. He exhaled, kneading his forehead. “I’m calling you Grayson. Dick is…,” his lip curled, “ridiculous.”

Dick straightened up, floating nearer to Damian. “Alright,” he smiled. “I have another name, but I don’t remember it.”

Damian had a feeling that would be a reoccurring theme. “What do you remember?”

“I remember… my parents! We traveled with the circus, we did all sorts of tricks… trapeze, flips, oh! I could do this really cool quadruple flip…! I’d show you but gravity doesn’t work for me anymore,” he pouted.

Damian kept his expression still, even as the pieces clicked together in his mind. Dick Grayson was the first Robin, the creator of the flamboyant moniker. He hadn’t deemed to memorize his name, but his father adopting a child from the circus wasn’t something he’d forget.

He sniffed. “Do you remember Robin?”

Dick locked eyes with him, expression uncharacteristically blank. “How do you know that? That’s what my mom called me. My mom… she… my mom’s….”

“Dead,” Damian finished coldly.

“Dead,” Dick whispered in an echo. His glow dimmed until he was nearly invisible in the daylight. “Dead… she’s dead. Dad’s dead…,” he floated away, drifting toward the ceiling. “I’m dead.” Then he was gone, slipping through the ceiling as if he could escape the unsettling truth.

Damian watched the apparent ghost drift away, a look of forced boredom on his face. This all had to do something with Spoiler, though the scheme they had going was unclear.

He shuffled back to his room, careless in his caution. Father wasn’t around. He was beginning to wonder if he ever was.

The door shut with a click behind him, and he eased himself to the floor beside his bed. Spoiler’s phone was out in a moment, and he typed out a message before sending it. “I met Richard Grayson.” He still wasn’t sure he believed he was a real ghost, but he would play the rogue’s game for now.

Bubbles appeared on the screen, signifying that the other side was typing. Then—

“That was quick. What do u want to know?”

Damian gripped the phone. They were offering to give him information, and for nothing. It still didn’t make sense but—

“How did he die?”

“He fell.”

“Why can’t he remember?”

“I don’t know.”

Damian bit his tongue in irritation. Spoiler wasn’t much help at all. Maybe that’s why they were so open, they had nothing of consequence to keep to themselves.

He fidgeted with peeling paint on the back of the phone case, mulling. What did this anonymous figure know? What could they tell him?

He paused.

“Why did you want me to meet the ghost?”

Spoiler is typing…

…

…

“So that there are no more ghosts.”

Damian squinted. Did she want to get rid of Grayson? He didn’t have any reason to feel any attachment to the apparition, but… was it weakness? To not let this unknown character take away the boy he had just met?

No, of course not.

Spoiler was a stranger. Grayson may be as well, but he was closer to home. Literally. Father had trusted him enough to make him his first apprentice. Though, in his ghostly form he seemed incompetent and airheaded, there had to be more to him. Maybe it was lost to death forever, but he owed it to his father to assist his predecessor.

Grayson wasn’t going anywhere. Not until he was ready to move on. And Damian would help him find what tethered him here.

Of course, that was if he was a real ghost at all.

~

“Father?” Damian hated how small his voice sounded.

Bruce didn’t look up from the toilet bowl he was hunched over. “’m fine, Dami,” he slurred. “Jus’ had some drinks,” he hiccupped before heaving.

Damian set the glass of water he was carrying on the bathroom counter. “Drink some water,” he said stiffly, trying to blink the burning image of his trembling father out of his mind.

“Jus’ go tuh bed, Jason.” Bruce waved him off.

Damian stared. “Yes… Father,” he mumbled, before disappearing from the room.

He could hear his father’s sobs following him out.

“I’m sorry,” he cried, “I’m so sorry.”

~

Damian didn’t eat dinner that night. It was too early for bed; he knew it would throw his circadian rhythm off if he fell asleep now. But he didn’t see that being an issue.

The ceiling fan whirled overhead, too fast for his eyes to track the blades. Every twelve to thirteen seconds it would click, but it didn’t affect the blades’ motion. He wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed it before.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce’s sobbing voice cut through his memory.

Damian rolled over, crunching the pillow to cover his ears.

“Jus’ go to bed, Jason.”

Jason.

Jason. He was Robin. Robin after—

“Psst! Are you awake?”

Damian jolted up. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or in his case, think of the devil…

“What do you want, Grayson?” he hissed.

The ghost bobbed closer until he was next to him. He made a show of sitting, crossing his legs and settling down as if he could feel the cushiness of mattress and pillow.

“Now, now, what’s with the tone? Maybe I won’t tell you,” Dick turned away, hmph’ing as he crossed his arms. Damian rolled his eyes.

“Alright,” he gritted his teeth. “What… can I help you with?”

Dick brightened up (literally, he was glowing brighter now) and turned back to face him. “Very good, Little D!”

Damian’s nose crinkled. “Little D?”

“Yeah, y’know… Damian… Dick. You’ll grow into it.”

Damian reminded himself he couldn’t stab ghosts.

Speaking of….

“You disappeared earlier,” he reminded stiffly.

Dick’s glow dimmed slightly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did… my head gets so cloudy sometimes…,” he leaned his head onto the base of his hand. “I know… I know I’m a… ghost. I just… forget sometimes.”

Damian stared at him. That weird feeling from before crept into his chest, tugging at him.

“Right. Well, good to hear you are aware of it,” he cleared his throat. “What did you want to tell me?”

Dick grinned. “You ever wanted to see the Bat Cave?”

~

Damian trailed behind the apparition as he led him through the dark manor. He had narrowed the possibilities of the boy’s existence to either magic (whether a spell cast by another like an illusion, or a magical being himself) or that he truly was a ghost.

A ghost of his predecessor in all things. The first Robin. The first… son.

Some foreign part of Damian wondered if they would have been brothers in another world.

He shook the thought from his head.

“Tt. What is taking so long?”

The floating boy did a cartwheel midair and mimed flipping from the light fixture. “It’s just in—”

Damian looked up to see why Dick had suddenly frozen.

“Wh—?”

Dick darted down to him. “Hide, hide! We gotta hide!”

Damian looked past (more like, looked through) him to see what had scared him so. His hand moved unconsciously to the knife he always kept on, even in his pajamas.

He heard a grunt and a muttered curse, followed by some sounds of stumbling. The light in the bathroom switched off.

Father.

Damian’s hand left his knife.

“Grayson,” he snapped. “It’s just Father. You don’t have to hide.”

“No! No, we need to hide!” he slipped away, feet touching the ground as he scrambled, as if gravity suddenly worked for him again.

Damian furrowed his brow, then followed the boy. He could hear his father stumbling into the kitchen, attempting to toast some bread and for a moment, he felt as if a hand had crawled over his heart and was squeezing. Then he forced himself to look forward, to ignore the sounds behind.

“Why do we need to hide?”

“I—!” Dick froze, turning slowly to lock eyes with Damian. “I don’t know.”

Damian grunted. “Okay, well—”

He stopped as the ghost rushed forward, passing through him and through the wall. A rush of emotions flooded through him, followed by a deep cold.

Excitement.

Confusion.

Horror.

And… love?

Damian clenched his chest, pajama top scrunching under his fist. A shuddering breath escaped his lips.

What. Was. That?

Chapter Text

Father was acting like nothing had occurred the night before. If not for his lack of breakfast and how he groaned and held his head every time he moved, Damian could nearly let himself pretend he believed it was naught but a nightmare.

Damian knew better than to pretend.

And as he watched his father squinting at his phone as if it were the sun as he ordered groceries online, he imagined grabbing him by his collar, shaking him even though he knew it’d make his head pound. He’d make him answer all of his questions, even if he tried to dodge them. He would ask about Grayson, about Jason Todd, about Spoiler. He would ask why he wasn’t Robin yet, or at least why he wasn’t training him. He’d ask why he hadn’t seen the Bat Cave.

Why he didn’t trust him.

Why he didn’t love him like he loved the others.

But his mouth wouldn’t move. And his hands were clenched around the too-clear apple juice glass.

“I was able to get most of my meetings rescheduled, chum. But I have a couple of online ones I couldn’t get out of. Will you be okay for the day?” Bruce’s voice was still scratchy from sleep.

Damian picked at his half-eaten piece of toast. He had been alone everyday until now, what difference was today?

“Yes, Father.”

~

There was only so much exploring of the grounds one could do before it became monotonous. And despite the vastness of the manor, it became uninteresting quickly. He had counted the windows (even the false ones), the doors, the cars, the trees, the steps on the stairs….

Damian stood in the hall where his bedroom lay.

His bedroom and—

His eyes wandered. Three doors.

The first was Grayson’s room, of course. But the other two… it didn’t take mental gymnastics to imagine the second to be Jason Todd’s. But the third?

Mother had told him how the first two Robins had died. How Batman had taken no protégé after the second. But he had seen how Grandfather smirked whenever she mentioned it. Father had another Robin. A third one. But Mother did not know of him. She had no reason to lie.

And he seemed to be even more of an enigma than the first two already were.

Damian had identified the covered portrait he had seen in the sitting room on his first day as Grayson, the photo was identical to the apparition, only difference was the latter’s lack of color.

And Father had mentioned Todd while he wept.

But there were no photos of this third character. No name spoken.

None except…

Damian stood in front of the shut closet in the third bedroom. He knew what lay beyond those doors. Boxes, taped up, withholding their secrets.

He knew he couldn’t open it without it being obvious he did, and it had kept him from attempting until now.

But he knew Father better now. The man barely came upstairs, and only did to fetch Damian, lingering at the top of the step or in his doorway. He didn’t cast an eye down the hall, much less venture beyond the shut doors.

He could likely redesign this bedroom entirely and his father wouldn’t notice for months, if at all.

Just as long as he didn’t make a sound.

Damian eased the closet open, grabbing the first box and setting it on the carpet gently. He leaned down, sitting beside it and pulling out his knife to slice the tape open.

It was nearly an insult the first time he was truly using his blade was to open a box. He didn’t seem much like the grandson of the Demon’s Head or son of the Bat right now. Right now, he seemed like a fourteen-year-old moving into a new room.

He scoffed at the mental picture.

Wadded up newspaper and the smell of mothballs greeted his nose. He set his knife to the side, eagerly digging in until his fingers wrapped around an object.

The first object he pulled free was a disappointment. It was a figurine of a very serious-looking Batman. It got worse, as two more figurines of Batman in different poses followed then a couple anime ones. He clicked his tongue, imagining the hapless fan who collected Batman memorabilia despite living in the same house as him.

The next object was heavier, wrapped in brown paper. Damian set it down gingerly, minding that it didn’t make a sound against the floor. He knew such noises would echo much louder downstairs than they sounded here.

His fingers flitted across the paper, unwrapping it without tearing.

A camera.

It was a camera.

He was no expert on cameras, but it seemed to be a reasonable model. The lens cap was missing and there were a few dings scattered across its body, and the strap had seen better days, but it looked usable. It looked used.

Damian hastily found the compartment where the storage card should be but came up empty. His fingers lingered over the empty slot.

Father had been the one to pack the boxes. He had to have been. There was no else in the manor, unless the former butler was still here at the time.

He was the one to remove the card.

He shook his head.

It made sense, of course. If this was the room of a former Robin, it was likely there were photos of Batman on there. Especially as this one seemed to be a fanboy.

It was unnerving the way Father had handled each piece so delicately, wrapping them as if they needed to be protected, despite sitting sedentary in a closet for however long it had been.

Damian returned the camera to its resting place, wrapping it in paper as carefully as his father had done before him.

“Whatcha looking at?” Dick’s voice startled him.

Damian didn’t jump at the sudden intrusion, and even if he had, it wasn’t his fault for not detecting the ghost when the figure didn’t breathe or make footfalls.

“Who used this room?” Damian asked instead of answering. He dug around in the box, pushing aside what he had already gone over.

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Dick flitted to the desk, perching on it, legs swinging. Well, he wasn’t “on” it. More like hovering over it.

“Don’t know or don’t remember?” Damian challenged matter-of-factly as he fished out the last item of this box.

Dick looked miffed. “How would I know?” he grumbled.

Damian sniffed. That was fair, he supposed. If he knew and didn’t remember he did, it would feel the same as not knowing at all.

He wondered if the boy would remember him if he were to disappear.

He blinked.

He refocused, turning his attention to the frame in his hands. He had pulled the paper off of it already, and his eyes darted over it, soaking up the information.

It was a math award, but the year and the name of the recipient had been removed.

“Trigger any memories?” He turned the frame around for his friend the ghost to see.

Dick, of course, shook his head.

Damian clicked his tongue and returned the frame to its box.

The rest of the boxes offered even less than the first one, full of clothes and textbooks. At least he was able to gather that this mysterious figure was around his age from the math award (that is if he had an accurate read on the American school year system) and from his clothing sizes, he seemed to be male, like his predecessors. Nothing but theories.

Damian gritted his teeth as he put the boxes back.

It was fruitless, but he was the son of the world’s greatest detective. He knew he must be patient.

“Do you want to play?” Dick asked, apparently bored with watching him.

“No.” Damian answered immediately. He left the room, but the ghost trailed behind him.

“We can watch a movie or something, there’s some DVDs around somewhere, I’m sure. Or we could read, or you could read, I can’t really touch—”

Damian stopped in his tracks. “Either show me to the Bat Cave or leave me be. This frivolity is unnecessary.”

Dick stopped when he did. His face fell and that feeling Damian had become more plagued by since he arrived at the Manor returned. “I can’t show you the Cave, not while Bruce is still here…,” his tone edged on begging.

“Then leave.”

Dick stared, eyes wide and brows knit together. “I—Oh, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, drifting backwards away from him. “I’m sorry, I know I’m too much, I was just… lonely.”

Damian bit his tongue but didn’t respond. The ghost was useless and would make his investigation take longer. There was no need for him to be around right now. Besides, it wasn’t like the two of them wouldn’t still be in the same house.

His chest throbbed painfully as the apparition looked at him, the pained expression shifting until it showed nothing. Numbness. Grayson pressed his lips together and didn’t look back as he stepped through the wall.

Damian wasn’t sure why it took him so long to move from the spot he was rooted to in the hall.

Eventually, he snapped out of it (whatever “it” was) and pushed his door open to his room.

As wary as he still was of Spoiler, they were his only source of information, even as little information he had actually received from them.

He fished the purple phone from its usual hiding place under his bed and tapped away at the keyboard.

“How many Robins were there?” He scanned the message again before sending it.

Spoiler was usually quick with their response, but there was nothing, even after three minutes and eighteen seconds.

“Spoiler?”

Again, nothing.

Which left him with nothing to do.

He returned the phone to the underside of the bed and trudged downstairs.

It wouldn’t hurt to eat lunch, the singular piece of buttered toast he had hadn’t been filling.

His phone buzzed.

His hand darted to his pocket, pulling out the sleek model his father had gifted him. He hadn’t used it since Father had bought it, but nonetheless, he carried it with him at all times.

“Dames, I’m so sorry I had to rush out. Night job business in the middle of the day. I ordered some groceries and just got the notification they’ve been dropped off. I hope I will be back before dinner, but no promises.”

Damian hadn’t expected anything different. Father hadn’t been… available since he had arrived. He tried not to think about the correlation.

“Understood, Father. I will retrieve the groceries.”

Damian’s fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“Stay safe.”

It was a ridiculous ask, of course Batman was smart enough to keep himself out of harm’s way, and even if he were to get hurt, his meager well-wishing would be no assistance.

Being Robin would be.

“Thank you, I will. You too, chum.”

Damian shoved the phone back into his pocket.

~

After unloading the groceries and having lunch, he wandered back to his room.

Spoiler had responded, finally.

“There were at least three Robins.”

Damian’s brow furrowed. “At least?”

Spoiler is typing…

“That’s the only ones I knew about.”

“Who is the third?” Damian responded hastily.

“I don’t know. He was erased.”

Damian’s lip curled. Another dead end.

“How far r u willing to go to solve this mystery, Robbie?”

Damian rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“I won’t betray Father, if you’re asking that of me. But I will finish this investigation.”

“You should get to the Bat Cave. See if he has any files on the Robins.”

Damian clicked his tongue. It was his plan to get to the Cave. But it was easier said than done, as he was learning. So far, his search of the manor had only concluded in finding a few weapon stashes (all empty) and what he imagined used to be an entrance to the cave and was now defunct.

“Have you only met Dick?” Spoiler asked suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Jason’s a difficult one, he stays away from the living mostly. But he doesn’t have memory issues like Dick does. Maybe u can get more info from him?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “How do you know so much?”

Spoiler is typing…

“Do you trust me?”

Damian’s response was immediate. “No.”

“Yeah, I don’t trust ya either, pal.”

Damian put the phone back under the bed. They were irritating whoever they were.

But he had another lead. Jason Todd was also an apparition, that is, of course, if ghosts were real in the first place. It was getting hard to see that Grayson was anything but a ghost, but theories must remain so unless he was looking to be duped.

Speaking of Grayson, he was the only way to the Bat Cave. And now Father was gone, making it the perfect window to find it.

How did one find a ghost?

~

Apparently, it was easy to find a ghost.

Especially if said ghost was a melancholic child hiding out in his bedroom.

“Grayson,” Damian addressed the ghost who was currently floating above the ceiling fan, arms crossed.

“I don’t want to see you.”

Damian glared. Of course, this was the one time his faulty memory worked.

“Why not? I thought we were… friends,” Damian practically choked saying the words.

The ghost tensed. “You only want to use me to find the Cave.”

Damian hadn’t been expecting this. Dick Grayson had been naïve and playful up until now, manipulating his emotions would be child play. Or at least, that’s what he’d predicted.

If manipulating didn’t work, maybe he would have to try a different tactic. The thought made his stomach roil.

He’d have to be…

Vulnerable.

“I… I am lonely too,” he admitted, the words hanging in the air, not much unlike the apparition bobbing near the ceiling. “I want to conclude my investigation. Then Father will see I am competent. And he will train me.” And he will love me like he loved you. “I was… single-minded in this task and did not… anticipate the effect it would have on you.” He swallowed, but his throat felt dry.

Grayson slowly turned to face him. A serious expression melted to a softer one. “Apology accepted, Little D.”

“TT, that was not an apology. I was merely… recognizing my actions.”

Grayson flitted to his side. “What do you think an apology is?” He chuckled, but not cruelly.

Damian didn’t answer.

“C’mon, let’s get to the Cave,” Grayson met his gaze with a smile, his glow brightening as he did.

Chapter Text

Grayson didn’t take him to the office where Damian had found the defunct cave entrance. Instead, he led him into a part of the manor he hadn’t explored much.

The servants’ quarters.

A hall separated discreetly from the rest of the house, with its own bedroom, bathroom, and a smaller kitchen. There wasn’t much information to be gained from the rooms, even if Damian had learned the butler’s name had been Alfred Pennyworth and he was a veteran of a British intelligence agency.

In truth, Damian hadn’t cared to look too deeply at the servant’s affairs. He should have known better than to knowingly overlook it, Mother wouldn’t be pleased if she knew.

Grayson was all smiles as he passed through the shut door of the butler’s bedroom, leaving Damian to open it himself.

“Behind this photo,” Grayson pointed at a school portrait of a young Bruce set in a frame above the bed.

Damian climbed onto the bed, fingers running across the edges of the frame. His fingers stumbled over a latch and with a click it swung open, revealing a number pad.

“The code is—,” Grayson began.

“Don’t tell him!” A voice interrupted.

Damian turned sharply.

A boy stood in the doorway, feet rooted on the ground unlike the way Grayson floated freely. But, like Grayson, he was an apparition. Damian could see through him, although his form was more solid than Grayson’s wispy, glow-y self.  

“Jason!” Grayson darted to his side, colliding with the boy in a hug.

“Lay off, Dickie,” Jason growled, prying the other off.

Damian glared at the pair. Did Grayson neglect to share he knew Todd, or did he forget?

“What do you want?” Damian’s glare settled on the newcomer.

“Yer not goin’ to the Bat Cave, kid,” Todd asserted, arms crossed.

“Try and stop me, boy,” Damian snapped.

Jason’s expression grew stormy. Good. Anger makes one careless.

“Stop!” Grayson slipped between the two, as if he could be a physical barrier. “Damian, this is my little brother, Jason, and I’d love if you two could be friends. Please.”

 Todd snorted. “Like I’d be friends wit’ the brat.”

“Jason!” Grayson scolded.

“The feeling is mutual,” Damian sniffed. “I am not looking for friends.”

“It doesn't matta, anyways. ‘m not lettin’ you into the cave, no way,” Jason repeated.

“What makes you think a ghost could stop me?” Damian tilted his chin up.

Jason’s expression brightened manically. “’m no ghost, wax-fer-brains.”

He grabbed the sconce light on the wall and crushed.

The lampshade folded under his grasp and the light popped then shattered, shards of glass scattering to the floor.

“I’m a @&#$?&! poltergeist.”

Damian tried to disguise his surprise. It was unexpected, to be sure, and would cause some problems, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

“Language, Jay!”

“Lighten up, motha hen,” Todd rolled his eyes.

He rounded on Damian. “You try anythin’ and I’ll wreck tha place. Ole B doesn’t think I exist, so that leaves jus’ you. Think he’ll be happy to see his brand-new, bouncin’ baby boy destroyin’ things? I’m thinkin’ not.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

Touché.

“Now get outta here,” Jason jerked his thumb toward the door.

Damian didn’t move, catching Todd’s gaze and holding it. Then—

“Come along, Grayson,” Damian motioned as he stalked out of the room.

“Nuh-uh, Dickie-bird’s stayin’ here,” Jason shook his head.

Grayson looked conflicted, looking between his brother and his new friend.

Damian wasn’t going to fight for his attention. He’d either come or he wouldn’t. Either way, he would get what he needed eventually.

“I’m sorry, Dames,” Grayson mumbled as he stuck to Todd’s side.

Damian pressed his lips together. It was as he suspected, but it still…

He didn’t say anything as he left.

~

Father returned at 8:39pm, sporting a couple new bruises and small cuts, but nothing serious. His headache from the morning had grown to a migraine, however, and after dropping a pizza box on the nook table, he excused himself to go lay down.

“Sorry, chum,” he mumbled, eyelids slitted as he stumbled to the fridge for a bottle of water and an ice pack. “Did you have a nice day?”

Damian kept his expression still. “Yes, Father.”

Then he was gone.

And Damian was alone.

He couldn’t muster any pleasure at the prospect of eating pizza once again. Well, he mustered some pleasure, but it was dismal in comparison to his disappointment in his investigation.

That was all he was feeling.

Of course it was.

~

Damian laid in bed, listening to the fan click as he stared at the message he had typed out on Spoiler’s phone.

“I am willing to trust you with my name, Spoiler, if you are willing to prove you are an ally to me.”

He had typed and retyped it multiple times, an uncharacteristic hesitation settling over his mind.

It was a risk, to be sure, and one he wasn’t sure was worth it. He didn’t require assistance; he could do this on his own. But there were… benefits… to having allies.

After all, his grandfather had the League, wasn’t that just proof to his thinking?

Damian jammed his eyes shut as he sent the message.

~

3:48am

Damian awoke to buzzing.

Confusion muffled his thoughts, blurry eyes grasping at the darkness.

Then, as his mind cleared—

Spoiler.

They had responded.

Damian grabbed frantically at the purple phone tangled in the sheets and pulled it free.

“I can’t be seen by B, but I have an idea. There’s a coffee shop in Bristol called the Daily Grind. Go there. Sit in the table with two chairs by the window with the cat gel clings. I’ll leave smth there for u. Should be helpful.”

Damian tucked the phone away.

Finally. He had a mission.

~

“I’m sorry we haven’t seen each other much,” Father says in the morning after putting his plate in dishwasher.

Damian knows he’s lying. He knows why he’s lying.

“I understand, Father,” Damian sniffs, tilting his head forcibly. “You have many duties.”

Damian also knows he’s going to that absurd little coffee shop, alone, to prove he is worth it to his father.

Worth training, of course.

Damian leaves the manor as soon as Father disappears.

~

The Daily Grind was the last building of a row of buildings that all shared walls. It was brick, and older than the business inside. Like a hermit crab. Hermit crab business.

Damian shook his head.

There were windows all along the front and the side of the shop, letting the customers seated at tables see the alley down the side and street in the front. Strategic.

Damian swallowed then crossed the street to the shop.

A bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside and the employee behind the counter greeted him cheerfully while helping another customer. Despite it nearly being noon, there were quite a few people, sitting at tables, chatting over teas and coffees and pastries and egg sandwiches.

A woman with cropped blond hair brushed by him and he realized he had been standing in the doorway since he had walked inside. He stepped forward, eyes tracing the line of windows until—

There. The table closest to the bathrooms. Two seats, sat next to a window with cat gel clings stuck to it. Damian sat stiffly in the wicker chair.

Spoiler hadn’t been clear about what they left, or where to even find it. Would it be obvious? Were they going to show up? Unlikely, seeing how careful they had been about their identity.

Damian inspected the plants sitting in the windowsill. No signs of tampering there. Then he felt the underside of the table, nothing stuck there either.

He was wondering how to check the chairs without drawing attention when a woman in an apron and matching hat approached him.

“Uh, are you…,” she paused, looking at the written name on the coffee cup she held, “Robbie?”

Damian gritted his teeth. “Yes. Thank you.”

The woman passed it to him awkwardly. “The girl from before said you’d be here… sorry.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “Do not apologize. This woman—what was her appearance?”

The employee shifted from foot to foot. “I dunno. Really pretty, short hair. She said she was your friend. Do you not know her?”

“Of course I know her. I do not accept drinks from strangers,” Damian scoffed. “I haven’t seen her… in a long time, is all.”

The employee, apparently named Calli according to her name tag, cleared her throat. “Right… well, I should get back to work… unless there is anything I can get you?”

“That will be unnecessary. You may go.”

Calli bobbed her head then shuffled away.

Damian took the coffee cup and disappeared into the men’s bathroom. He was thankful it was one of those single room bathrooms, most public bathrooms in America had those atrocious stalls with barely any privacy.

Damian locked the door and turned the sink on for ambience.

He pried the lid off the coffee cup gingerly. The cup was filled with chai but left a lot of empty space at the top. Enough space so none of it would splash to the thumb drive taped to the inside of the lid.

Damian plucked the purple thumb drive from the lid, a smile growing on his face.

As with everything, it could be a trap.

But with all traps, there was information to learn.

And he would succeed in this mission.

~

Once he arrived home, he tried to act nonchalant as he sauntered through the house and up the stairs to his room. It did not matter. Father was not home.

He found Spoiler’s phone right where he had left it.

A message was already on the screen when he picked it up.

“Find everything ok, good sir?”

Damian typed back. “I found the thumb drive, if that is what you refer to.”

“How was the chai?”

“I have had better.”

“GASP, do share. I love their chai and I hate tea, ur chai experience must be off the charts.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Get to the point. What is the drive’s purpose?”

“Always so formal, Robbie, ain’t ya? But ur missing a step. Proper introductions first.”

Right. He had promised to share his name. She had delivered the thumb drive. Even if it was fake or a trap, he had to uphold his side of the bargain.

“Damian Wayne.”

“Wayne, huh? Ur not adopted are u?”

“I detest the insinuation. I am the blood son.”

“Coolcoolcool. Anyways, just stick the thumb drive into a trusted laptop and open the file with my name DO NOT OPEN THE OTHER ONE and u should be all good. :}”

Damian stashed the phone and thumb drive under the bed once more.

Even though she made it sound simple, using the drive was going to be a problem.

For one, he didn’t have a laptop. And two… well, it was more of an extension of one…

He would have to ask his father for a laptop.

~

“I’m bored,” Grayson groaned while he lounged midair near Damian’s head while the latter sat at the desk in his room, scrolling through laptop options on his phone.

“You do not need to be here,” Damian monotoned, clicking into the reviews for a laptop that cost $600.

“Yeah, but…,” Grayson grumbled as he back-stroked away.

“But what?” Damian squinted at a particularly hard to read review. Did they purposely misspell every other word? And what was “xDDDD asdsfghjkl” supposed to mean?

“I want to be here. With you, baby bird,” Grayson’s tone was… different… softer.

Damian flushed. “Do not call me that.”

“What? Baby bird? But you are my baby bird! My cute little baby,” Grayson cooed.

“We are nearly the same age,” Damian snapped. He knew that would be hard to prove, seeing as he had no real idea how old Grayson is… was… had been when he died. And plenty of time had passed since the first Robin, which would make Damian the younger one. But did it count if the former wasn’t aging?

“I’m the oldest, that’s for sure, my little, tiny—”

“Hush, Richard.”

Grayson suddenly went quiet.

Damian paused on his scrolling. Had he said something wrong?

“Oh, Dames, you called me by my first name!” He darted in front of him, his hands curled around his cheeks as he beamed at him.

“TT, yes, well, after meeting Todd… I elected to change the way I refer to you, to better reflect your status.”

“Are you saying I’m your favorite brother?” Richard nearly squealed.

Damian’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I have said nothing of the sort. Now quiet down, I have much to do.”

Richard grinned, but complied, drifting away to do backflips by the ceiling fan.

~

“Father,” Damian texted after the man did not appear at lunchtime. “I have a request.”

He held his breath before finishing off the text.

“I require a laptop. I am looking to do extracurricular classes to better myself and my phone, while perfect in its performance, does not meet the standards as a laptop would do. This one would suffice.”

He jammed the send button, then followed it quickly with a link to the laptop of his choice.

He set the phone on the tabletop and slid it away from him, resting his head on the table with a quiet thunk.

Oh, how he wished he were doing anything else. Hiding from Grandfather’s assassins or listening to Mother weighing the pros and cons of different poisons was simpler than this. Simpler than…

Asking.

Needing.

Wanting.

Chapter Text

“The laptop will arrive tomorrow.”

Damian read the text after lunch.

He washed the dishes and did some lunges, followed by push-ups.

“The laptop will arrive tomorrow.”

He took a shower and brushed his teeth. He took a walk around the grounds.

“The laptop will arrive tomorrow.”

He checked for any messages from Spoiler. There were none.

“The laptop will arrive tomorrow.”

He meditated atop the roof, the sun slipping farther into the horizon. Birds twittered, arguing or singing, as they chased one another from treetop to treetop. The sight of Wayne Manor’s closest neighbor could barely be seen from his position on the roof.

He inhaled.

Then he exhaled.

His mind was clear and—

“The laptop will arrive tomorrow.”

Damian gritted his teeth.

Father had said nothing more than those five words. He didn’t ask about what classes Damian wanted to take; he didn’t even scold him for wanting an expensive gift for something so frivolous.

That’s exactly what Damian needed. Needed his father to not ask, to not pry, so he could solve this on his own.

So why, for the love of all things green, could he not get. Those. Words. Out. Of. His. head?

He climbed back into his room through the bedroom window.

His eyes were burning, and his chest felt like it was filled with hot air. He wanted to scream, tear apart his room, let his fingers bleed just to see the look on his father’s face.

But he mustn’t do any of that. He was the grandson of the Demon’s Head. He was to be in control of himself, to act only after thinking.

Mother told him as much. She told him only to move in certainty, but never to let the pursuit of certainty cause him to never act. He’d be lying if he said he knew what she meant.

Mother.

He… missed her.

He missed his mother.

And Father—

He missed Father too…?

But Father was right here. He wasn’t in a different country with no way of contacting him. He spoke to him nearly every day, he knew what his voice sounded like, what his eyes looked like when he drank his coffee while reading the news. Mother could be sleeping right now, or fighting, or eating, or… or thinking about him.

Suddenly, the anger that had been churning in his body like a raging sea abandoned him. The waters inside weren’t boiling anymore, weren’t screaming. They were icy. Frozen and still. He didn’t like that.

He wanted to be warm inside again. Even if that meant being angry.

He dropped to his knees, tears spilling from his eyes. His shoulders shook as choked sobs escaped his lips.

“No! Stop!” He protested, scrubbing his eyes, smearing tears until his whole face was wet. “I am the son of Talia al Ghul and this—,” a hiccupping sob interrupted his own words and he crumpled to the carpet, arms wrapped around his torso.

He was alone. That much he knew. No one would see him cry. No one would know his weakness.

“Damian?” Richard’s small voice shattered the illusion.

Damian hastily wiped his face, trying to force a fierce expression onto his face.

He wanted to snap at the boy, tell him to leave, tell him to know his place, beg him to not breathe a word of this to anyone.

But when he opened his mouth, a cry bubbled out once more.

All at once, Richard was knelt on the carpet beside him, and his arms were wrapped around him.

The ghost pressed his transparent body closer to his and the tears began to flow a bit slower, the ice inside began to melt, the too-rapid gasps began to even out.

He forgot.

Or perhaps he never knew it.

There was more than one way to get warm.

~

Richard wouldn’t leave his side for the rest of the day and Damian… Damian never asked him to.

They had dinner together, if it still counted if only one of them was eating. Richard was nervous being downstairs but wouldn’t admit it, so Damian took his food to his bedroom.

It was just… returning a favor. That was all.

“Richard?” Damian paused in reading aloud from a history book he had acquired from the third Robin’s room.

“Yes, Baby Bird?” Richard swiveled to look at him.

“Have you heard of Spoiler?”

“Spoiler?” Richard pursed his lips. “Is it like… a person?”

Damian nodded.

“Can’t say I have…. Sorry, Little D.”

Damian sniffed.

He cleared his throat then began to read aloud once more. “Solon enacted reforms that helped reduce the growing gap between the rich and the poor. Poor citizens gained the right to sit in the assembly and to vote. Later, Cleisthenes expanded the democracy by giving every citizen equal rights. He also created a—”

The sound of glass shattering made Damian sit upright. He snapped the book shut and set it to the side.

“Damian…,” Richard’s voice dipped into a whisper, and he floated to his side, brows furrowed in concern.

Damian didn’t respond, slipping away from the worrisome ghost and to the door. He waved at him to stay back. He didn’t wait to see if he complied.

Damian crept down the stairs, ears strained as he listened for every sound. There was the creak of the stairs, the shuffle of someone moving in the kitchen and—

“Jason—,” his father sobbed. “I didn’t— no, you’re not—you’re not here.”

Damian reached the edge of the kitchen but didn’t let his father see him.

Father was hunched, sitting on the tile, tenderly picking up shards of glass, seemingly ignoring the cold coffee seeping into the knees of his pants.

It was a pitiful sight. Pathetic and weak.

And it made Damian’s heart pound a little harder than usual.

“You told me you’d save me,” a quivering voice drew his attention.

Jason.

Of course.

The poltergeist stood near the nook table, reaching for the plate of untouched toast. He swept it off, sending it crashing to the ground. Damian flinched.

“You told me there would be no more dead Robins,” he growled, his voice rising in anger.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jason,” Bruce repeated like a chant, as if he could ward the apparition away.

“No. More. Dead. Robins.” Jason reiterated, punctuating each word.

Damian was frozen. Unmoving.

But Jason wasn’t.

He turned, finally seeing Damian, but his expression didn’t reveal any reaction.

His expression—

Tears dribbled slowly down his cheeks and his gaze turned to a glare as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He stalked past Damian and when their shoulders collided, Damian actually felt it. He stumbled back a step at the bump, before regaining his sense of mind and turning to send a challenging glare at Todd.

But he was already gone.

“I’m so sorry, Robin,” Bruce whispered, his eyes jammed shut, hands clenched over his ears.

Damian stepped into the kitchen, though it felt like boulders were tied to his ankles.

“Father?” He spoke stiffly.

Surely, he was supposed to do… something. He was unsure whether he could recreate what Richard had done for him but maybe—

“Damian?” Bruce stood up finally, wiping his face and expertly hiding his expression. “You should be in bed. There’s broken glass in here.”

Damian stared. Father’s voice was steady. It didn’t shake or falter like his had when he wept. Likely another weakness on Damian’s side. “Father… you seem… unwell. If I may be of assistance, I can—”

“Damian. Go to bed. Now.”

Damian’s heart skipped a beat. He imagined he may have said something like “Yes, Father,” or “Sorry, Father,” but he didn’t remember.

He was in the hall outside his room before he remembered where he was.

Something moved in the corner of his eye.

“Todd,” he hissed.

The guilty party slinked out from the locked bedroom door. He crossed his arms, raising his eyebrow as he waited for him to speak.

“Richard, does he—”

“Dick.”

“What?”

“Continue.”

Damian glared at the interruption. “Richard is… afraid of Father. Why?”

Jason looked away, shrugging. “He weren’t while I was Robin. And he weren’t after I died. He neva wanted Bruce tuh see ‘im, didn’t want ‘im tuh be sad but he weren’t… scared.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Why do you torment Father like you do?”

Jason turned to pass through his bedroom door again. “He’s got promises tuh keep. Jus’ remindin’ ‘im.”

~

Father was still home when the laptop arrived the next day. He hadn’t said a word to him all morning and Damian felt like a ghost, sitting at the same table, eating the same breakfast, breathing the same air, but completely unseen.

Maybe ghost wasn’t the right word.

“Damian.”

Damian snapped up, stirring from his stupor at the sound of his father’s voice.

Bruce was standing at the front door, dressed in business attire, off to W.E. like every day, when he finally broke the silence of the day.

Damian hurried to him.

“Yes, Father?”

Bruce grunted and set a package into Damian’s arms.

He turned away, continuing to walk outside before stopping. He didn’t look back, not once, but he spoke.

“Stay safe.”

Damian could have sworn he heard “son” lingering unspoken on his lips.

Then, Father was gone.

Damian didn’t hesitate to lock the door behind him.

He practically flew up the stairs, feet carelessly pounding as he skipped steps. He dropped the box onto his desk in his bedroom, tearing the tape open with his knife. There was another box inside, this one displaying a picture of the laptop. He was gentler ripping this one open.

There was a pamphlet of instructions, but he tossed it to the side.

In no time, his laptop was up and running, charging cord plugged in, despite it being fully charged. He skipped past every unnecessary step, clicking “remind me later” repeatedly.

His hand trembled as he stuck the thumb drive in.

Two files appeared on screen. One read “Spoiler” while the other was called “SUPA.KILLA.DOOM.exe”

He rolled his eyes at the name. He assumed that was what Spoiler didn’t want him to open.

Anticipation rolled through him as he clicked into the file named Spoiler.

~

An hour later, he knew Stephanie Brown and all her secrets.

Or, more likely, the secrets she was most comfortable sharing.

She was the fourth Robin, and had flown so completely under the radar, hardly anyone had remembered her. In any other case, Damian might scoff at her failure, but she had done what no other Robin had done.

Survive.

She was “fired” from being Robin a few weeks into her official debut. Her file didn’t say why, but a note from Spoil—Stephanie said she had disobeyed the Batman.

She left the manor, leaving behind the phone she had programmed for her purposes, and resumed her investigation into the previous Robins.

An investigation that she was still, irritatingly, keeping close to her chest.

Damian glared at the photo of a grinning teenager in the Robin suit, blond hair in a green scrunchie, ridiculous multi-colored braces on her teeth.

Damian pulled the purple phone out and tapped away at the screen.

“I’ve read your file, Stephanie Brown.”

Spoiler is typing…

“Neat stuff, huh Damian Wayne?”

Damian sniffed.

“U don’t exist anywhere, u know that?” Spoiler messaged. “I feel like I got the crummy end of this deal.”

The corner of his mouth ticked. “The feeling is mutual. I know who you are now, but I do not have any more information on the dead Robins.”

“Easy there cowboy. Simple task, just plug in that ol thumb drive into the bat ‘puter and we’ll be all g.”

Damian sighed. Back to this.

“Richard has brought me to the Cave entrance, but Todd won’t let me input the code to get in. He threatened me and I do not have the means to best him at this moment.”

He hated admitting it, but he didn’t exactly carry around anti-ghost technology.

Spoiler is typing…

“Can’t u just have Dick distract him while u go down to the cave? If ur fast enough then Jason won’t know.”

Damian gritted his teeth. Of course. Richard was his ally now. Surely, he would help with this… even if it went against his younger brother. He wasn’t hurting Todd; he could convince Richard he needed this.

Wouldn’t take much to convince him of that, he did need it.

“Oh, and bring me along, just in case anything goes wrong with the drive,” Spoiler added.

~

Damian memorized his father’s routine. At first, it seemed erratic, but the more he paid attention, the more it made sense.

He woke up between 8 and 9 am and went to work at 10. He didn’t return home for lunch consistently but when he did it was anytime between 1 and 3 pm. Then he brought leftovers for dinner between 7 to 10 pm, if at all. He slept until 2 am, then began his patrols as Batman.

This was an estimate, since Father was careful to never get close to the Bat Cave if Damian was around.

He didn’t know when he returned from patrol, however.

That was a glaring issue.

He would have to take the risk and enter the cave while Father was patrolling. The middle of the day was too erratic.

“Goodnight, Father.”

“Goodnight, Damian.”

Tonight was the night.

~

“Do not forget it, Richard,” Damian reiterated seriously as he lay awake in bed, the ghost sitting on the bedframe, looking grumpy.

“I know, I know. I just have to keep Jay busy until you’re back in bed. I don’t like lying to him,” he kicked his feet, staring at his shoes dejectedly.

“So you have said, repeatedly,” Damian clicked his tongue. “You do not have to lie. You just do not mention what I am doing.”

“So you have said,” Richard muttered.

2:24am.

Damian checked the charge on Spoiler’s phone. Full.

“You remember the code, right?” Richard asked suddenly.

“Of course I do,” Damian scowled.

“Just checking, Little D.”

2:26am.

“Go. Find Todd.”

Dick drifted up from his seat. “Good luck, Dames.”

“TT.”

Dick disappeared through the wall and Damian eased himself to his feet, deftly unplugging Spoiler’s phone as he did.

He didn’t change out of his pajamas and slippers, knowing that if Father did see him, it would be easier to make up a story if he looked like he had just rolled out of bed.

He stood at the door, hand hovering over the doorknob. He had to give Richard time to find Todd, time to properly get his attention.

2:31am.

He took a breath and opened the door. The door swung open silently, thanks to oiled hinges and cushioning carpet.

He knew which steps on the stairwell creaked and which didn’t, and he knew the last two both squeaked, no matter where you stepped. He couldn’t avoid those, all he had was to hope it didn’t catch Todd’s attention.

Running on hope alone was already beginning to wear on him.

It didn’t take long for him to arrive in the servant’s quarters. Even without light, he knew his way. Practice had paid off.

He shut the butler’s door behind him before climbing onto the bed. His hands moved robotically, fingers finding the clasp behind the picture frame almost immediately. It swung open, once more revealing the number pad.

Hesitation swept through him suddenly.

This was all relying on Richard Grayson’s faulty memory.

This was all relying on Richard Grayson.

Damian wiped the sweat from his palms onto his pajama pants.

There was no turning back now. Todd would grow suspicious, and they wouldn’t be able to try the same thing twice.

04-40-38, he typed.

The number pad flashed red, then green, then beeped quietly and—

The bed under his feet began to rumble.

Damian hastily climbed down and watched the bed slide into a hatch in the wall, and the floor under it opened, revealing a spiral staircase.

Damian held his breath.

He was in.

Having an ally had paid off.

~

The staircase was tight, and the farther Damian traveled, the damper the air grew. Was that the sound of bats squeaking or was it his imagination?

After what felt like hours, but he knew was mere minutes, he arrived at the bottom of the stairs.

The Cave was… actually a cave.

He had been expecting a basement, stocked full of vehicles and suits and of course, the Bat Computer, but this was not that.

It had all of those things, but it also had stalactites and sudden drops. The damp air and squeaking bats suddenly made sense. How the Bat Computer functioned at peak capacity with guano and humidity didn’t. Must be some sort of Wayne or Bat tech keeping it going.

But that didn’t matter.

What did matter was the massive, multi-screen computer just feet away.

Damian pulled the Spoiler phone from his pocket to update her. The screen was black, however.

Damian tapped on the screen, frowning. He knew he had charged it, it hadn’t just died. More likely, there was something keeping the phone from turning on. A security measure his father had built.

He’d have to do this on his own, then.

He jogged to the computer, fumbling with the thumb drive in his pocket, when a sound caught his attention.

Was that an alarm?

He tensed automatically as the sound grew.

No. It was no alarm.

It was crying.

Or more accurately, wailing.

A figure suddenly flickered into existence before him, cries escaping its mouth.

Black tears poured from its face and mist hung around it like a veil draped over its entire body.

Correction—

Over his entire body.

The hairs on the back of Damian’s neck stood up and he stumbled back instinctually, a cold sweat springing up over his body.

The apparition leered over him, mouth gaping open in a sob, before it warped into a scream.

Damian clamped his hands over his ears, cringing away from the figure.

The screens of the Bat Computer lit up, turning black before flashing burning white. Text repeated over and over on them, too fast to read.

The Spoiler phone in his pocket buzzed incessantly.

“Stop!” Damian screamed. “Stop!”

“STOP, PLEASE!”

Everything faded to black and distantly, Damian felt his body hit the floor.

Chapter Text

The sun was warm on Damian’s face. His skin radiated, sunbeams reverberating up and down his exposed skin. The air was heavy, it smelled like a storm would be coming soon. But for now, as the burning sun dipped lower into the horizon, the clouds seemed like little threat in comparison to its greatness.

“Damian.”

Damian turned quickly to face his mother. He had been meditating on the balcony and had not heard her approach. He left the doors purposefully ungreased, letting the squeak alert him if he failed to notice before anyone approached the balcony doors.

“Mother.”

There was a look in her eyes, one that she got more often now than she did when he was younger. She usually hid it when he looked at her, but it lingered as did her eyes, deep brown and nearly black in the fading light.

She extended her hand and Damian disguised the way his heart skipped a beat as he slipped his hand into hers.

“Walk with me, ya ibn.”

Damian followed her through his bedroom and into the hall. She let go of his hand here, but that made sense. The guards were watching, she could not afford to show weakness.

Neither could Damian.

He held his head high as he followed his mother out of the estate.

The carefully kept tree line was heavy and dark, the groaning limbs laden with leaves and fruit watching him as his mother led him farther and farther from home.

Mother had not said anything since she had brought him out of his room.

And she said nothing as she brought him to the helipad. And nothing when she climbed in and affixed her headset and seat belt. She did not look to see if he followed. She knew he would.

Damian watched as his home shrunk until he could not make out the details beyond the mist.

The sun had long since set when he finally spoke.

“Mother?”

Even with the distortion of speaking through the helicopter’s headset, his voice sounded small. Unsteady. With Grandfather or one of the trainers, he would know that speaking in such a manner would require reprimanding. But with Mother… if she heard the weakness seeping into his tone, she never gave it away. Not that he lets it happen often, of course.

She does not look at him. Her eyes are fixed on the glittering lights and the controls.

“You have learned all you can from me. It is time you meet your father.”

Damian’s chest was tight.

His father?

Mother had told him about him, about his nightly escapades and about how he came to become the Batman.

“His parents were killed in front of him, and it led him down a path. He chose to become Batman, but it was not the only option on the path. His parents’ death may have brought him to where he is, but it did not make him the Batman.”

Damian had not understood what she meant then. He still did not now.

Her voice was always soft when she spoke of his father, but her eyes were hard. Damian found that when she spoke to him, it was the other way around.

That night, they rest in a safehouse his mother had arranged long before they left home. It is small, miniscule in comparison to where he was raised. But he had slept on rock and sand while training, so this was a child’s play in comparison.

“You will meet your father tomorrow, Damian,” Mother says after their meager meal. “Meet his expectations then exceed them. And… Damian,” something in her expression flickered. “Be better. Be better than your predecessors, the Robins who came before. Do not… fail as they have. Do you understand, ya ibn?”

Damian tilted his chin up. “I understand, Mother.”

~

Something was pulling on Damian.

“Hurry!”

“Shuddup, unless ya want tuh try draggin’ his sorry butt up the stairs.”

Todd.

And was that…

“Please, Jason… I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he could be hurt or, or… I don’t know!”

Richard.

Damian twitched. He wanted to tell them to leave him alone, to stop manhandling him, but his body was slow to recognize his commands.

His eyelids fluttered, eyes burning slightly as they were greeted by the artificial lights hung amid stalactites.

He groaned, and immediately his line of sight was filled by the overly concerned face of Richard Grayson.

“Damian! Can you move? We need to go upstairs—”

Damian sat up, hand automatically moving to his head as it throbbed painfully. “No. I need to—”

“It’s late, Dames….”

“I’m not stayin’ ‘ere and neither are you two,” Todd grunts, looking more tense than usual.

Richard darts closer to Damian, lowering his voice. “I’m sorry I told Jason, Little D. I came down to check on you and you weren’t moving and I couldn't help you but Jason—”

“Jason can,” Todd finished. “S’not easy movin’ the livin’, but it helps when said livin’ has passed out on his skinny lil backside. Wouldn’a helped ya at all but this buffoon ‘ere forced me.” He shrugged, but the nonchalant movement was stilted. His eyes were frozen on one spot, as if he were afraid to look around.

Damian glared, ignoring Todd.

“I have a mission to complete, Richard.”

He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the panging in his skull.

“I do not fail.”

Richard stares, but his expression changes and his silence hardens into resolve. He nods.

“You should write movies,” Todd interjects unhelpfully. “Real dramatic, ain’t ya? ‘M not stayin’ down here, Dick, if ya want to, then tha’s on you. ‘M out of ‘ere.”

Richard watches his brother disappear through a wall but he does not leave.

He does not leave.

“So,” Richard turns quickly to face him again. “What do you need to do?”

Damian’s hand slipped into his pocket. “I just need the thumb drive and—,” he stops. His hand comes up empty. It must have fallen out when he fell back.

He darts forward, eyes flicking over the chair by the computer and the floor around it and—

Found it.

The purple thumb drive lies just alongside the desk. His hand closes around it and the skin of his palm burns.

He shakes his hand out as if he could shake the feeling away and deposits the drive into his other hand to balance the pain. The drive cools quickly, but the damage is clear.

It’s as if the drive has been burned from the inside out.

“TT.”

“What is it?” Dick floated away from the screens to peer at his little brother Damian.

“Let’s go,” he replied shortly as he hastened his walk to the stairwell.

Richard made an annoyed noise as he flitted to catch up with him. “What is it?”

“It has been burned somehow. Likely by that apparition.”

The metal stairs groaned underfoot as he bounded up two at a time.

“What apparition?” Richard echoed.

“I believe it is the third Robin.”

“Tim?”

Damian stopped.

“Is that his name?”

“No… maybe…? I don’t… I don’t know why I said that.”

Richard held his head in his hands. “I’m sorry, Dami. I’ve been trying to remember… I want to help you but it just— I can’t— I remember my mom and dad and the circus and sometimes I remember when they died but after that it’s… fuzzy. Jay says I was Robin, the first one. But I just remember my mom calling me that. On the bad days, I don’t…,” he got quiet.

Damian didn’t look at the boy as he continued climbing the rest of the stairs. “You don’t…?” he prompted.

Richard looked up, something soft flashing across his expression. “I don’t remember you. Or Jay. I don’t even recognize the Bat Cave.”

Damian nodded quietly, something cold shifting into place in his chest.

“You should go ahead,” Damian said suddenly.

“What? Why? I’m staying with—”

“You did all you need to,” Damian sniffed. “You can go now.”

Richard stopped, searching his face for any sign of compassion.

“Father could be home,” he added, his voice softer. “I know you do not like to see him.”

Richard didn’t say anything, and Damian was sure he must have ruined something again.

“It’s not for me,” Richard blurted, eyes fixated on the ground.

“What?”

Dick raised his face again.

“I’m not scared… for me.”

Damian held his gaze.

“Then for whom, Richard?”

“I… I don’t know, Dames.”

~

When they finally reached the top of the stairs and were back inside the manor, they were greeted with the image of Jason pacing back and forth in the butler’s bedroom.

He cursed wildly before flinging himself at Dick, bringing the latter’s floating form down for a hug.

“You stupid, idiotic, cart-wheelin’, goldfish brained—”

“I love you too, Little Bird,” Dick said softly, nuzzling his face into Jason’s hair.

Jason released him, after some more muttered insults and cursing and glared at Damian.

“Todd.”

“Demon brat.”

“Hey, be nice, Jay.”

“Stuff it.”

“I’ve got tuh talk to this child—”

“Not a child,” Damian growled.

“Definitely a child,” Jason retorted. “Anyways, I was sayin’ ‘fore I was so rudely interrupted—I got tuh chat with ol’ fart face ‘ere, D, if ya can give us some space.”

“Fart face?” Damian rolled his eyes. “Are you twelve?”

Jason glared. “Naw, I got tuh thirteen ‘fore I keeled ova. Real proud I even made it tuh my teens. Dickface can’t say tha same.”

Damian bit his tongue.

Dick glanced between the two. “Just… be nice, okay? Try to? I know you can’t kill each other but just…,” he sighed. “I’m not even asking for much,” he grumbled as he drifted away.

Jason watched him go before turning his gaze onto Damian. Or more accurately, before turning his glare onto Damian.

“Wha’ do ya want?” he jerked his head at him.

“What do you mean?” Damian scowled. “You are the one who wanted to speak to me.”

“Naw righ’ now, stupid. I mean, why’re you ‘ere? What do you wanna ‘complish?” he motioned with his hands as he talked.

Damian sniffed. “That is none of your business.”

“Gawlee, are ya tryin’ tuh be difficult? Cuz yer doin’ fantastic.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Look, I jus’… I jus’ wanna know if ya plan on bein’ Robin or not, is all.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to know?”

Jason glared, foot tapping on the ground. He rolled his neck, eyes shifting around the room. “There can’t be any more Robins,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Why?”

“There can't be any more Robins,” he repeated. “No more dead Robins.”

The words echoed in Damian’s head. He had said the same thing to his father in the kitchen nights before.

“I don’t care what else ya do, kid. Jus’ don’t put that suit on. Don’t go out into those streets jus’ askin’ fer some freak to snap yer neck or worse. We got enough dead’uns.”

Damian held his mouth shut.

Jason heard the unspoken.

No promises.

“Whateva,” he threw his arms up, exasperated. “Dunno why I even tried wit’cha.”

Jason turned, stalking away.

Something clicked in Damian’s mind.

“Is that why you would not stay in the Cave?”

Jason froze.

“You were tense,” Damian continued. “You left as soon as you could. You are scared. Have you even been to the Cave since you died?”

“Shuddup,” he growled.

Damian smirked. “I am right,” he announced, smug.

Jason turned on him, and a dusty book sitting uselessly on the butler’s nightstand fell off, hitting the floor with a thud. “Aw, look, the lil kid found the dead boy’s weakness. Proud, are ya? I dunno what Dick sees in you,” his lip curled, and the lights flickered. “Yer nuthin’ like ‘im. I’ve done all I can tuh keep ya safe but if ya die after this, you won’t get my compassion. Pity maybe, but tha’s as far as I’ll go.”

Damian watched him leave.

He didn’t….

He wasn’t feeling proud anymore.

Something new replaced the feeling. Something uncomfortably similar to what he imagined guilt felt like. He drove the thought from his mind.

~

Damian was exhausted when he finally climbed into bed. It was nearly six in the morning, but he pretended he didn’t notice. He groaned as he pulled out his Spoiler phone and tapped away a message to her.

“Thumb drive broke. Need new one.”

He didn’t wait to see if she responded before falling asleep.

~

Damian smelled the burnt toast before he woke up.

His face was puffy, and he felt as if he was moving in slow motion as he stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. The figure in the mirror confirmed how he felt.

He fished the Spoiler phone out of his pajama pocket. 9:56am. He had never slept this late before.

A notification on the screen drew his attention.

“What??? Wdym it broke?? What’d u do to it??”

Damian rubbed his eyes groggily as he responded.

“Met the third ghost. He burnt it.”

Spoiler is typing…

“What third ghost?”

Damian froze.

Richard had seemed to recognize that there was a third Robin and who knew what Jason knew but Stephanie… she had been Robin after the third Robin, whose name was apparently Tim. Did she truly never see him? If so, why had he seen him?

“I think it is the third Robin. Richard said the name ‘Tim.’ Do you recognize the name?”

“No….”

“B was always tightlipped abt the other Robins, but especially numero three. I wasn’t Robin for long tho, I didn’t have much chance to learn.”

Damian’s brow furrowed. That was another issue he had been contemplating. “Why were you removed from being Robin?”

Spoiler is typing…

“I met Dick and Jason, as u know. Dick didn’t like to be around B but he was always supportive of me, he was… a good friend. But J… he hated that I was Robin. Trashed my room all the time. Would sulk any time I saw him. I wanted to know why. I…”

She sent the message, breaking it into two parts.

“I snooped thru B’s files on the bat computer. Well, tried anyways. Didn’t get far. I saw how Jason died. And B saw me. He was so mad. Told me if we couldn’t trust each other, I couldn’t be Robin. Honestly, I think he was just waiting for a reason to kick me off the job.”

“After that, it was Jay who convinced me to leave the manor. I didn’t need to stay, I had my own place, and he thought I was better off on my own. I just… I wanted to help people still. And I couldn’t do that around B. So, I left. And here I am, Spoiler, all on my own. Well… mostly.”

Damian read the message then read it again. It made sense. He had read Stephanie’s file, and it fit. Plus, with how Todd had acted with him…

Right, best not to think about that.

“About the thumb drive?” Damian prompted.

“Meet me at the same place as last, got it?”

“The insipid coffee shop. I remember.”

“Gasp you did NOT just call it flavorless.”

“What time will you be there?”

“Ah a change in topic, ofc. Noon good with you?”

Damian glanced at the clock. 10:21.

“That is adequate.”

“Yessir.”

Damian tucked the phone back into its hiding spot under the bed and finally descended the stairs. As he did, he pulled out his other phone, the one his father had bought for him.

For once, there was a notification other than the weather app.

“U weren’t up yet when I had to leave. Sorry about the smell, I was rushed and burnt some toast.”

Damian pressed his lips together. Sorry for the smell, not sorry I missed you.

Probably because he didn’t miss him.

“It is okay, Father.”

His thumb hovered over the send button.

“Have a good day.”

He hit send then glanced around the kitchen to see what he could do for a quick breakfast.

~

Bruce stared at the text. Damian had responded two hours and seventeen minutes after he had sent the first message.

“It is okay, Father. Have a good day.”

That was it.

Bruce set the phone down and kneaded his brow. If only he knew.

He had promised Jason, he couldn’t—

He snapped up at the slightest movement. It was just a bird flying by the window of his office.

His son sat at home, alone, with no one to talk to.

Bruce’s heart ached.

But he couldn’t do anything about it.

Damian was safer this way.

~

Damian sat at the same table he had the first time he had gotten the drive. The employee who had delivered the drink didn’t seem to be working today.

What was her name again?

Callie…?

No, instead it was some teen with dark hair and large glasses behind the counter. The name tag was too cluttered with stickers for him to read it from here.

“Hey, maybe stop squinting at strangers?”

Damian snapped up at the voice.

“Hey, Robbie,” Stephanie Brown grinned.

Chapter Text

Damian glances around the café as Stephanie takes a seat across from him.

“Stephanie,” he responds curtly. (It was not a matter of favoritism; it just would not do to call her by her surname. Brown… no, that sounded peculiar.)

The young woman sips at her iced coffee, before setting it down and motioning at him with multicolored nails.

“Spill the tea, bean-man.”

Damian had never been so taken aback by someone’s manner of speech. He wasn’t sure which to dissect first, her words, or her appearance.

Her hair was styled in a pixie cut she was beginning to grow out, and she wore a purple sweatshirt with a small hole in the elbow and fashionably ripped jeans. Her converses were covered in doodles and the backpack she had tossed unceremoniously to the ground in keychains and patches.

Damian’s eyes narrowed in on the fading bruise on her jawline. Her knuckles were bandaged as well.

So… she was not just tech support. Was she like his father…? A vigilante stalking the night air.

“Earth to Dami, you’re staring again,” Stephanie snapped her fingers in front of his face.

Damian’s nose scrunched. “That was unnecessary,” he chided.

“You haven’t spoken in like, several minutes.”

“It has not been several minutes.”

“Pedantic,” Stephanie rolled her eyes before taking another sip of her coffee. “Now, come on, tell me what happened to the drive.”

“I have already given you all the information I have.”

Stephanie groans dramatically. “Right, some guy who is maybe named Tim somehow broke it. Hand it over, Shakespeare.”

Damian raised an eyebrow at the nickname but said nothing as he handed her the broken thumb drive.

Stephanie pursed her lips as she turned the drive over, inspecting it. “Yeah. That’s capital ‘W’ weird.”

She stashed it in her pocket before standing up, swinging her bag over one shoulder.

“Care to accompany me for a little side quest?”

Damian eyed her quizzically. “What for?”

“I’ve gotta run to the store to grab another drive, then back to my apartment to copy my program onto it.”

Damian’s brows furrowed. He fished his phone out of his pocket.

No notifications.

“I will accompany you.”

~

Damian sat beside the window on the bus, quietly eating the quiches Stephanie had forcibly bought for him when she caught the sound of his stomach growling. A man slept underneath an awning and a stray dog paused underneath the shade of a half-finished highway that served better as a canopy over this small part of town, as it had long been abandoned.

A group of teens stood at the corner, laughing as they hit the walk button repeatedly.

An old woman snored as she leaned on her niece on the seat not far from where Damian sat.

“We’re the next stop,” Stephanie interrupted his observations as she stood slightly to press a small button labeled “stop.”

The pair got off and it was a short walk to the local electronics shop.

Damian did his best to ignore the water stains in the ceiling and the man with more beard on his neck than his face who seemed befuddled by the appearance of a woman in his store.

Stephanie practically jogged to the back of the store, musing over the thumb drives hanging there. She hummed to herself before plucking a navy blue one out, seeming dissatisfied with the pick.

~

They’re outside again and it’s cloudier than the morning had been. Distantly, Damian recognizes it was September.

A couple of kids were loitering outside the electronics shop, an older girl who was smoking and waving away the younger ones. Stephanie watches them from the corner of her eye, but pretends she isn’t. She passes the shopping bag to Damian and motions to him to wait.

She walks away, casually approaching the small group. She hands a small object to one of the kids (a granola bar, maybe?) while she talks to the girl. The teenager breathes out a plume of smoke, but Stephanie seems unbothered. They speak for another moment, and Stephanie passes her a wad of crumpled bills then returns to Damian just as the city bus rolls up.

He’s watching her as they climb onto the bus, and she notices it.

“Ever heard of the phrase ‘nunya business’?” She asks politely as they take their seats behind an old man muttering to himself.

“TT.”

~

Damian was not sure what he had been expecting of Stephanie’s domicile… but it wasn’t this. It was claustrophobic, dingy, with too many stairs leading up to her apartment. The carpet was thin and balding in some parts, the ceiling stained, the smoke detector dangling by colored wires. Piles of clothes were bunched in random corners and the smell of burnt pizza and rice drifted from the kitchen.

“Harper?” Stephanie called out as she steps inside, leaning over to scoop up an empty soda can.

There’s no response and she tosses the can into an open trash bin straddling the border between the miniscule kitchen and living room. She pumps her fist, celebrating her meager accomplishment.

“Looks like my roommate’s at work,” Stephanie kicks her shoes off and drops her backpack to the floor by the door. She saunters into the kitchen and grabs a bag of Twizzlers off the top of the fridge.

“Come on,” she says between bites, “let’s go to my room.”

As they walk through the living room, Stephanie pauses briefly by the sofa. There’s an episode of what seems to be some ghost-hunting show playing on the tv and on the couch is a sleeping teenager.

His light brown hair is flattened against the arm of the couch and one leg dangles off the side. His mouth is parted slightly as he breathes deeply, dead to the world. Stephanie clicks her tongue affectionately and grabs a jacket slung over the back of the sofa and lays it over him like a blanket.

She turns swiftly and leads Damian into her bedroom.

“Just give me a second to get this booted up,” she says as she sits cross-legged in a chair in front of a small desk and computer.

There’s a plastic box sticking out from under the bed, a cork board that can be seen from the crack of the door of the closet, various posters from TV shows pinned up to the wall and peeling stickers on the window that faces the side of an abandoned factory. Damian watches as Stephanie types the passcode into her computer but he can’t catch what it is. He perches on the edge of her bed, his feet bumping against the plastic box.

He shifts his feet, eyeing the box. There was purple fabric inside and… Kevlar?

“Alright, got it,” Stephanie tears open the thumb drive packaging and sticks it into her computer. “She’s slow, but we’ll get the program uploaded in no time.”

Damian watches as the progress bar pops up on the screen. From the way it moved, he wondered if they had different definitions of “no time.”

His phone buzzes and he hastily pulls it out, panic clenching his heart. His eyes dart to the notification and—

Right. It’s just the weather app. It might rain later.

Damian bites his tongue as he shoves the phone back into his pocket.

If Stephanie notices, she doesn’t say anything.

“So… anything you want to ask?”

Damian mulls over the thoughts swirling in his head. He decides to start small.

“How long have you been a vigilante? After you quit Robin.”

Stephanie smiles. “You noticed that, huh? Good work, Robbie.” She leans back in her chair. “I started doing all the computer stuff towards the end of my stint as Robin and after that, I just kept it up. Only so much you can do behind the screen, though. I put together my suit and actually started throwing punches a coupla years ago, I guess.”

Damian nodded. That made sense. He had not heard of her yet, and if she were a new hero on the scene, that would correlate.

A new thought pushed to the forefront of his mind. “When we first began our correspondence, you said Richard died because he, and I quote, ‘fell.’ What do you mean by this?”

It had been a question he had pushed away while he worked on more important tasks, but it was one that bothered him, nonetheless. Richard had been a trained Robin, the first of his name. He could not be so incompetent to die such a meaningless death like falling.

Stephanie exhales, a sullen expression gracing her face.

“I read his report, the night after I became Robin. It was short, practically just a list of his injuries. Bruce was detailed though and, while I could never ask him, I gathered it from the file.”

She shifts, leaning forward in her chair, hands clasped.

“He did fall, that night. January, if I remember right. Bruce used to do this exercise with him where he’d let him run around Gotham and he would try to find him. If Dick evaded him long enough, then he’d, I dunno, get a pat on the back… I guess? Anyways, they were doing that exercise that day. Turns out, Dick had gotten good at it. Results of his training, thanks to the old Bat.”

She clears her throat before continuing.

“Bruce found his body ‘bout half an hour after he had died.”

She’s quiet for a moment, shifting uncomfortably.

“He had been shot, but that wasn’t what killed him. He had lost grip of his grapple gun after the injury and fell forty feet.”

A chill settled over Damian.

“If Batman had been there…,” Damian began but didn’t dare finish.

Stephanie gave him a look he couldn’t identify. “If he had been there, he would have caught him. But….”

“He was not there.”

“He was not there,” Stephanie echoed in finality.

“His room,” Damian looks up, meeting Stephanie’s eyes, “is like he never died. Everything is the same as it was when he was alive, I assume. It’s as if it is a shrine to him. I do not know what Todd’s room is like, but the third bedroom, Tim’s room is empty, all of his belongings in a box in the closet. Why is this?”

Stephanie leans back, lazily twisting the office chair back and forth. “I don’t know,” she sighs.

She straightens up suddenly. “My room was cleared out too, I know it was since you’re staying in it right now. I left my phone taped to the bed and took everything I could carry but I couldn't take it all. I’m guessing you didn’t notice any posters still left on the walls, did you?”

Damian shook his head.

“I wonder…,” she pauses, contemplating. “I ‘failed’ Batman, or whatever,” she does air quotes around the word, “I wonder if….”

“Did Tim fail him too?”

She nods, a look of accomplishment on her face. She turns, making a note on her computer.

Damian could not help but feel pleased as well. It was a theory, but that did not diminish it. Having allies… friends… continued to prove useful.

“I have a question for you,” Stephanie says as she finishes typing their theory into one of her files.

Damian straightens, expression neutral. “Yes?”

“You called yourself Robin when you first introduced yourself. Are you actually?”

Damian pressed his lips into a thin line. “No,” he admitted between gritted teeth.

Stephanie’s eyes flicked over him, watching his tense posture and forced expression.

She waves her hand, dismissively. “Robin’s overrated, anyways,” she scoffs as she turns back to her screen.

The stacked rocks inside Damian that seemed to be keeping him upright tumble and he jerks to look her. “What?”

Stephanie bites her lip, hiding her smile. She’s scrolling uselessly through a subreddit about coding. “Yeah. It’s cooler to make up your own name.”

Damian’s lip curls. “Like you did?”

Stephanie looks over her shoulder and flashes him a grin. “Yeah. Like I did.”

Damian decides not to respond to that.

“Program’s done.” Stephanie pulls the thumb drive out and passes it to Damian.

“Try not to get this one burnt.”

Damian’s expression sours as he accepts the drive.

Stephanie purses her lips. “Maybe it won’t work twice in a row but… maybe you can get the others to help. Not just Dick. Jason too.”

Damian snaps up. “I am unsure about your idea, Stephanie.”

“You have a better chance with Jay than I did, Robbie, that’s all I’m saying. You’re not Robin,” she reminds.

“I am aware.” Damian shifts his glare to the window.

“Hey, grumpy-pants, that could be a good thing here. He doesn’t like Robins.”

Damian turns his glare to Stephanie instead.

“I am aware,” he growls.

What Stephanie was not aware of was how much Todd likely despised him now. His words were still burned in his mind.

“I don’t want to kick you out but… I’ve got to get to work, sorry, bud. Can you get home alright? You know which bus line to take, right?”

Damian nods stiffly. “I can do it. I do not require your assistance.”

Stephanie smiles, her expression softening. She looked… fond.

Damian shook the thought from his head as he stands up.

“Thank you, Stephanie.”

“Anytime, Robbie.”

~

Rain rolls down the bus window as it pulls up to the bus stop closest to home. After this, he would have to walk home, since public transportation ended where the good money began. It isn’t raining hard as Damian begins his trek, but it begins to pick up.

Damian doesn’t even try to duck under any trees or cover anymore, he cannot imagine getting any more soaked than he already is. He wipes locks of hair clinging to his forehead out of the way and eyes the road he needs to cross. Cars zip past, windshield wipers whip back and forth, tires crash through puddles. It’s too busy here. He opts to walk farther down the side of the road, to the underpass by the traffic light.

When he reaches the underpass, he sees someone else is already there, hiding from the downpour.

He’s an older man, wearing a long coat and a ball cap. He’s sitting on the ground beside a shopping cart and at first, he doesn’t notice Damian walk up.

Damian keeps an eye on him as he moves to the corner, waiting for the light to turn so he can safely jog across. He hugs his arms to himself. It wasn’t cold yet, not like October and onward would be, but the rain was in no way warming as the cool air settled around him like a wicked chrysalis.

“Hey, kid,” the man calls out.

Damian doesn’t move.

“Kid,” the man says again, but his voice is closer.

Damian turns sharply, hands curled into fists.

“Woah, woah, sorry, man, I didn’t mean tuh scare ya,” he makes a calming motion with his hands.

Damian lowers his fists, watching him warily. “It is fine.”

“Jus’ wanted tuh give you one of these.” As the man speaks, he pulls an umbrella out of his shopping cart and holds it out to him. He has more in the cart, and a cardboard sign zip tied to it declares he is selling them.

Damian looks at the umbrella, then at him, but does not move. “I do not have money.”

That much was true. He never needed money at home and since arriving here, Father had paid for all of his food. The only thing he carried was the cellphone his father had bought him. He hoped the man had not noticed that, otherwise he would seem like a liar.

“’s fine, man, we all gotta help each other, right?” he pushes the umbrella into Damian’s unwilling hands.

Damian’s hands close around the slick material. “No, you do not understand, sir, I am—.” He stops. What was he going to say? I am not like you? He presses his lips together.

“Thank you, sir.” Is what he says instead.

The man waves him off. “Look, yer light’s changed,” he points out.

Damian bobs his head and turns back, crossing the street and opening the umbrella.

On the other side, as he turns back toward the manor, he catches a glimpse of the man from the corner of his eye. He’s eased himself back to sit beside the cart, hands tucked into his armpits.

Damian does not know the feeling thrumming in his chest.

~

Damian shakes the umbrella out before walking inside. He had wanted to enter through the servant’s entrance but the passcode for the door only works for the front. He would have to clean up the puddles in the entryway once he is dry.

The manor’s as silent as it was when he left. He peels his sopping clothes off in the laundry room and towels himself dry with a hand towel he grabbed from one of the downstairs bathrooms.

His other change of clothes and pajamas are in the dryer. He does not own any other clothes other than his training clothes.

The stairs creak under his feet, wrinkled from water. The hand towel is draped around his shoulders, catching the droplets from his hair.

He’s in the shower, grime from the rain running down the drain, steam curling around the short ceiling. It’s warm and the soap smells sweet. The plush towel he drags across his skin is soothing and the light material of his training clothes lets his warm and damp skin breathe.

The bed under him is comfortable, quiet as he rolls to his side.

He’s warm.

His gaze shifts to the umbrella leaning against the wall beside the desk.

And the rain pounds on his window.

Damian’s eyes flutter shut.

Chapter Text

It’s a bit after 5pm when Damian wakes up. His eyes are puffy but dry and his pillowcase is damp.

He sits up, staring blankly at the dark window. The storm had only gotten worse, and, without the clock, he would have believed it was already the dead of night.

Damian’s stomach growled. The only food he had eaten was a late breakfast and he spent most of the afternoon walking. He didn’t… he didn’t want to eat.

He turned, looking at the duvet. It was so soft, so inviting, calling him to go back to sleep.

Damian wanted to set it ablaze.

The image was soothing as he forced himself to his feet.

His shirt was twisted around his torso, and he shifted it back to place as he dragged himself to the top of the stairwell. He was going to go downstairs. He didn’t… he didn’t know why. But it was what he was Supposed to Do, wasn’t it? Move. Have an objective.

The steps creaked as he walked down. The same steps that always creaked. The second to last one at the end and the one above that and the third from the top, but only on the right side.

Damian stopped once he hit the floor at the end of the stairs.

Thunder rumbled far away.

“Damian?”

Damian’s head snapped up.

Father.

Father.

Why were his eyes—?

He wiped them quickly and darted to the kitchen, where his father was assembling some food. He looks over his shoulder when Damian walks in.

“Hey, chum,” he says, his voice too neutral to call soft.

Damian doesn’t say anything.

“I was going to order food, but there was some flash flooding and—,” he waves his hand. “Nobody is hurt. But no deliveries right now.”

He turns, setting down a plate of some kind of sandwich. Damian sniffs. The bread is toast, and he can see lettuce sticking out and—.

Bacon.

He swallows. Of course. Father did not know of his… preferences. Grandfather did not approve of Damian refusing to eat animals but Mother… she had switched his cuisine as soon as she noticed he was separating the food on his plate.

But this was Father.

Bruce grunts and when Damian snaps up, he sees he is holding out a water bottle. Damian takes it silently and uncaps it, busying himself with a drink.

He’s subtle as he worms his finger in between the slices of toast, gently pushing the pieces of bacon out of the way so he can take a bite of just the bread and lettuce… and tomato and mayonnaise, seemingly.

“Where were you?” Father says, breaking the silence left after a roll of distant thunder.

Damian forces his expression blank. Father should not know where he was, he had already learned the placement of all the cameras and censors and avoided them whenever leaving and returning and he had cleaned up the mess of water he had made all before Father had come back.

Damian tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean, Father?”

Bruce swallows a bite. “I texted you.”

Damian’s hand flutters to his pockets, forgetting his training clothes don’t have any.

“I fell asleep, I did not see it, I apologize, sir.”

He had not been punished since arriving (unless his isolation was punishment) and he was not sure what to expect but—

Father waves his hand again. “It’s fine.”

Lightning flashes.

There are butterfly bandages on his face, and his knuckles are split. Damian did not miss the way he winced when he had sat down.

“Why…?” Damian wishes he could take the word back. But it hangs there, somewhere near the ceiling light that flickers with the storm.

Father, no, Bruce… or was it Batman, was looking at him. He was staring, without staring, expression perfectly balanced, unreadable, but he could read every line, each flutter of his eyelids, each twitch of his jaw as he clenched it. Damian read these like he was reading a script, a code off a computer.

Father knew what he wanted to ask. He had known for a long time. There was no changing his sentence halfway through.

But Father was still.

He didn’t take another bite, nor another drink.

He… waited.

“Why are you alone?”

Bruce does not say anything.

Neither does Batman.

The lights flicker, then plunge into darkness.

Father gets up quickly, the chair clattering back.

“I’ll find some candles,” he announces.

The lights turn back on.

Damian holds his father with his gaze like a specimen under a microscope. He clenches his fists to keep them from shaking.

“I don’t… I ca—can’t,” Bruce runs a trembling hand through his hair.

“I could—,” Damian stops.

I could be Robin.

The words are unspoken. Damian won’t say them. He likely will never say them.

His mind floats to what feels like days ago but is merely hours. Stephanie.

 “Robin’s overrated, anyways,” she scoffs as she turns back to her screen.

“What?”

“Yeah. It’s cooler to make up your own name.”

Damian’s lip curls. “Like you did?”

Stephanie looks over her shoulder and flashes him a grin. “Yeah. Like I did.”

“Finish your sandwich,” Father says uselessly.

Then he’s gone.

And Damian is alone as the lights go out again.

~

Damian lies in bed, eyes fixated on his phone. His father’s text is there, from an hour before he woke up.

“I’m home now,” it read.

Then, a few minutes later, “Hungry?”

Damian’s stomach growled. He was still hungry.

Rain pounded on the window and the wind threatened everything in its path.

“Dami?” A voice whispered.

Damian rolled onto his back, dropping his phone lightly to his side. “Richard.”

The ghost floats over him, his brows knit in concern. “Are you okay?”

Damian presses his lips together.

He should be… okay…. But he felt… heavy. He did not know why. Nothing had changed, not really. There was the stumbling block of Tim and making up with Todd, but that was by no means insurmountable.

“I am… unharmed,” he answers instead.

Richard hums slightly, as if lost in thought.

“My mom would get sad,” he blurted suddenly, “whenever it rained all day. I used to play outside when it was a cloud burst, but she couldn't stand when we traveled somewhere that rained all day, or for even longer.”

Damian stared, unsure where this was going and how it pertained to him.

“My dad said sometimes people get sad and they don’t know why, even if no one else is sad for the same reason.”

Damian disguises the way he perks up at his words. “What… what did your father say to do about it?” he asks nonchalantly.

Dick looks to the side for a moment, expression flickering as if pained. “He said that it gets better, when you’re sad. You are not sad forever.”

The ghost boy settles beside Damian. “And he said that all I—all anyone could do was to just keep loving someone when they are sad.”

Damian nods stiffly, rolling over so Richard could not see his tears. The latter shifts, moving a glowing arm over Damian.

Love, love, keep safe, sad, sad, love, love, safe, safe, warm reverberates through him.

Lightning flashes and thunder rolls.

And Damian is not alone.

~

Thunder cracks like a sharp whip and Damian jolts awake. He is laying on the duvet, clothing tangled around his limbs and torso.

It is barely midnight.

Damian sits up slowly, blinking blearily as he looks over the bed.

Richard is gone.

His heart clenches, rattling in his ribcage before he forces it to be still.

It was unlikely a ghost slept, and it would not make any sense for Richard to pretend to sleep all night at Damian’s side.

His chest still ached.

He slides out of bed, bare feet hitting the carpet without a sound. His stomach growls and he follows its call to the kitchen.

The house is silent, save for the storm, and darker than ever with the power outage.

He avoids the fridge, not wanting to let the cold out while the power is out and slides to the pantry, opening it with a quiet squeak.

There is not much there, so Damian settles with a box of stale cheerios.

That is how he ends up sitting at the kitchen table, hand in the cereal box, when the poltergeist walked in.

“That you, Demon Brat?” Todd grunts.

Damian freezes for a moment before forcing himself to relax. “Todd,” he acknowledges.

“Wha’re you doin’?” He asks, slurring his words together.

Damian wraps the cereal bag shut and closes the box. The carbs had filled him and would have to do until tomorrow’s meal. “Eating.”

Todd snorts. “Yer a bucket o’ fun.”

He’s turning away, heading toward the den when Damian stands.

“Wait.”

Todd stops, looking over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

“I am… sorry. I… miscalculated. I did not mean to harm you. You would be a better ally than foe,” he sniffs. “But if we must be foes, then so be it.”

Todd laughs. “If that’s yer version of an apology, it needs work, kid.”

Damian bristles. “Does this mean you do not accept it?”

“Jus’ admit you were bein’ stupid an’ a jerk, then I guess I’ll accept.”

Damian crosses his arms, raising his chin sharply. “I will not speak something that is untrue.”

Jason grins, leaning forward to brace his arms on the table. “Butcha would say the fakest eva apology this side of the riva.”

“What river?” Damian splutters. “And I—.”

“Se-man-tics,” Jason enunciates. He turns to leave again.

“I meant it.”

Todd pauses.

“I meant the apology. I was not being dishonest. I was careless. I did not mean to hurt you.”

Todd doesn’t move.

Then suddenly, he is facing him, waving his hand like it was nothing. “Whateva, s’fine.”

“You… accept my apology?” Damian asks tentatively.

Todd rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure, I accept yer apology.”

Damian brightens, even if infinitesimally. He has succeeded in one of his objectives.

“You were right, ya know.”

Damian cocks his head.

“’bout me an’ the Cave. I haven’t been down there ‘n foreva.” He shifts uncomfortably.

“When ‘m down ‘ere, I jus’ see… I rememba all of it. I thought… I thought Robin was magic,” there’s a faraway look in his eyes, in his voice. “I had a dad. Fer the first time, I had a real dad. My old man doesn’t count, he was nuthin’ to me and I was nuthin' to ‘im either. But B…,” he stops. “You can’t die, cause then you’ll be jus’ like my story. A dead Robin.” Then, he adds, softer, “a dead son.”

Damian wonders if he should tell him that he is nothing to his father as well. That he is less of a son than Richard or Todd ever were, even if he has his blood. But he does not. Instead, he asks.

“How did you die?”

Todd freezes. “You—you don’t need tuh know that.”

“I should have all information pertaining to my investigation—,” Damian stops. He is not sure why he does.

Maybe it is the tightness around Todd’s eyes, the way his image was growing mistier, or how he had begun to shake despite the way he wrapped his arms around himself tightly.

But more likely, it was just because… Damian did not require him to tell him, that was all. It was not… sympathy, or pity, just… reorganizing priorities.

“Forget it,” Damian snaps.

Jason does not look at him.

Damian narrows his eyes but does not budge. The cabinet doors squeak open then shut again on their own volition.

“Todd…,” Damian’s voice lowers, gentler, like he is handling a cornered beast.

Jason flinches but does not respond.

“Jason. Jason, respond to me. You—you do not need to answer my question, I do not require it.”

Jason blinks with an effort and forces himself to meet Damian’s eyes.

“I—I, uh,” he stutters, the fractured words tumbling out like a drunkard’s vomit.

“Jason,” Damian’s lip curls. “Tell me where we are.”

“Wha—what?” Jason twitches again.

“You are a detective, tell me about this place.”

Jason forces himself to look around, flapping cabinets stilling when his eyes rest on them.

“Kitchen. It’s the kitchen. There’s the sink an’ the fridge. There’s the tile I cracked when I dropped the mixin’ bowl,” he pauses and there is only the sound of the ice maker. “Alfred jus’ grabbed me an’ pulled me away from the glass, kept askin’ if I was hurt. There was brownie mix an’ glass all over the floor but he was holdin’ me, waitin’ for me to say I was okay.”

Jason gets quiet and Damian does not know what to say. He does not know the man. He barely knows Jason. Does he muster up feelings for a stranger? Faux mourning for someone who loved someone else? Would he have loved Damian? Checked him over for injuries?

“Tt.”

Jason does not respond to the sound.

“He died. Jus’ got too old, I guess. I don’t—I didn’t get tuh say bye. He was gone before I got ‘ere.”

Damian’s eyes furrow. “Before you got here? Were you not dead yet?”

Jason scuffs his shoe on the floor, though it does not make a sound. “No, I was. It jus’ took some time, I guess,” he shrugs. “I died an’ then I was back. Felt like no time passed but Alfred was gone an’ the calendar had a different year.”

Interesting.

There was nothing more to say and both boys recognized it.

“Well, as great as it was tuh go down mem’ry lane, it weren’t. I’m goin’ now.”

Without any further ado, he stepped through a wall and disappeared.

~

The gray cap of clouds over the sky glows with the sun, and a stray wind shakes tree branches, sending a momentary downpour onto the soaked soil and grass below.

Damian is wearing his clothes, fresh from the dryer, spoiling himself with the warmth and the smell of laundry detergent. A plate and fork, greasy from fried eggs, sits on a side table beside the chair on the balcony facing the grounds.  

He exhales, his breath mingling with the damp air.

He had tried—tried to meditate, but his mind slipped away from him, bucking like an untamed horse and careening dangerously close to the tree line. He turns sharply, back into the manor, back to his mission.

His mission…

To prove himself to his father. Then he would become Robin, and his father would care—

Damian shakes his head, brows furrowing.

His mission was… he wanted to…

He blinked, images of Richard flashing in his memory.

He wanted to restore Richard’s memory. He wanted to become a vigilante of his own merit. He wanted to find what was hidden on the Bat computer about the third Robin.

He wanted to be worthy of the Al Ghul and Wayne names.

“Are you done eating?” Richard’s voice came drifting into the room.

Damian nodded sharply. “Do you know where to find Todd?”

Dick hummed. “He’s probably in his room. Why?”

“We are in need of a plan. And I will require both of you.”

~

Dick slips through the locked door, leaving Damian waiting on the other side.

He crosses his arms behind his back, fruitlessly attempting to keep his irritation from leaking into his expression. He strained to hear what the two apparitions were saying but it was for naught. Their voices did not carry like human voices did.

A moment later, there was the click of the lock.

Damian doesn’t hesitate to open the door.

Jason’s bedroom is… different.

His bed is just a mattress strewn with fleece blankets on the floor. Blankets are propped up by chairs to create a canopy over it and camping lanterns are scattered about, offering the only light in the room except for the soft glow of stick-on stars on the ceiling. There’s a bookshelf, haphazardly filled with books, and a leaning stack of even more books in front of it.

The dresser is the same as the other rooms, just a basic piece Father could have pieced together himself. On top of it is a chunky CD player, but it isn’t plugged in. Paint samples are taped to the walls, displaying various shades of blue and green but the wall hasn’t seemed to have gotten the memo and remains a light gray. There’s a trash bag in the closet, stuffed with clothes he would assume, and the hangers on the bar are empty.

If Richard’s room was an untouched shrine to a child who left too early, Todd’s is an unfinished story paused in the midst of telling it.

“Demon, whaddya want?” Todd interrupted Damian’s observations.

“Hey, be nice,” Dick chided.

“Tha’s jus’ the ety-mo-logy of ‘is name, ain’t it?” Jason shrugged nonchalantly.

“Enough. I am here because I am going to find what Father is hiding on his computer in the Cave and I have yet to formulate a plan to get past Tim.”

“Tim?” Todd cocked his head, confused.

Damian pressed his lips together. Jason had his memory intact, but he did not know Tim. Todd had mentioned that he did not return as a poltergeist for quite some time. The third Robin could have died in that time, for all they knew.

“The third Robin. His name has not been confirmed, but it is what we are working with now,” Damian caught him up quickly.

Todd pressed his lips together, expression stormy.

Richard stepped in quickly. “Last time Damian went to the Cave, Tim like knocked him out somehow. That’s when—”

“Yeah, tha’s when you tol’ me you were lyin’ and asked me to help save ‘is sorry butt. I remember.”

Richard cringed. “Yeah, that.”

“He disabled my phone as well, and there was text on the computer screen. He has some ability over tech, it seems,” Damian informed.

The boys got quiet.

“Sooo… we just have to distract him, don’t we?” Dick mused.

“He does not seem to be able to communicate,” Damian snapped. “I do not imagine he would listen to you.”

“Naw, Dick’s onto somethin’,” Jason butted in. “We hafta distract ‘im but we can’t talk to ‘im cause he don’t care about that, right? So, wha’ does he care ‘bout? He was alive at one point, he’s gotta have some interests.”

Dick perked up. “That’s right. We can just show him something from when he was alive, maybe it will remind him of being alive and—”

“Pull ‘im into the past.” Jason nodded sagely.

“So, what do we know about him? He was Robin once, we know that much. He probably likes techy stuff if he knows how to control it now.”

“Yeah, I don’t think showin’ ‘im a laptop or somethin’ is very distractin’, he’ll jus’ disable it like he did last time.”

“Batman,” Damian blurted suddenly.

“What?” The boys turned to face him, varying expressions of confusion on their faces.

“He was obsessed with Batman. His room had these insipid figurines of him. And then there was his camera…..”

Damian pulls out his Spoiler phone and dashes her a message.

“Wha’ was that about?”

“His camera, with a new memory card, and something worth taking a photo of. If he has any connection left to his living existence, he will take the bait.”

“Somethin’ worth takin’ a photo of?” Jason echoed.

Damian eyed him warily. “Robin. His Robin, just as he had been when he was alive.”

Jason’s color paled from a cool blue to a starch white.

“No—ya can’t ask me to do that—I can’t put that suit back on.”

“You are the only one who can, Todd. Richard cannot interact with objects, and I have to be at the computer.”

“N-no, I—.”

“Jay. Little wing. It’s okay. We’ll—we will think of something else… okay?” Dick throws a look at Damian. “How about we take a break for now?”

“Ye-yeah. Okay. Yeah. It’s fine. Jus’—,” Jason looks up sharply. “You should go,” his gaze settles on Damian like a weight around his throat.

Fine.

That was fine.

As Damian walked away, mulling over the plan in his head, he knew there was no other way.

Todd would have to face his fear if they were to have any hope of solving this once and for all.

Chapter Text

Dick Grayson was a happy boy. His parents’ friends had always said that when they watched him practice in the tent before the show.

He was happy, so it made sense for them to say it.

Why would he not be happy?

He had his parents, an amazing life that any child would be jealous of (and from the looks of the kids in the audience, they were) and surrounded by people who loved him.

He was a bird, flitting through the air, free from the pains of regular life.

Or was that his existence now?

Was he happy then? When he was alive, was everything as perfect as he remembered?

His dad could pick him up and put him on his shoulders without batting an eye, he was so strong.

And Mom would tickle him until his sides hurt from laughing, she always knew how to make him smile.

-snap-

But Dad wasn’t strong enough to save them.

And Mom didn’t make him smile when she lay on the ground, bleeding.

So, when Dick heard the gunfire and the bullet clip his line and he fell, he—

He hesitated.

The wind whipped past his face, his cape flowing around his body, spreading out like wings.

Was he falling, or was he flying?

He would be angry when he hit the net, and stalk off toward his room, but Mom would stop him and tell him it was okay if he fell, as long as he didn’t get hurt and Dad would put his hand on his shoulder and make him look him in the eyes as he told him that, “failure was a part of life and the important part was getting back up.”

And Bruce— B told him he didn’t have to go out at night. He didn’t have to be a vigilante like he was. He didn’t have to fly through the air like he used to with his parents.

But he couldn’t—

He had to get up. He had to fly. Or else it was just a failure. Or else, his parents were really just dead and didn’t know anything about life and nothing mattered.

Dick scrambled to grab onto the side of the building as he fell.

His arm slammed into the side of the fire escape and a shock of pain shot through him.

He couldn’t see—he couldn’t understand what he was seeing as he fell, dead weight before he was dead.

There was no net underneath him when he hit the ground.

And as his body burned and his vision flooded with white, he knew he wasn’t getting back up.

-snap-

Dick Grayson, once a happy boy, was not getting up. Dick Grayson’s final act of life was failing.

He did not remember his life always, not in full detail. He did not remember Jay or Dami always, and on the worst days, his mind was empty, and he floated through the halls, nothing more than a wisp of a figure, a figment of someone else’s imagination.

He did not want his brothers to see those days.

So, when he started to feel confused, when the walls seemed to drain of color and words wouldn’t bubble out of his mouth as easily, he hid.

But today was a remembering day.

And yet, he still hid.

He couldn’t be happy right now. Not for Jay, not for…

Damian.

The boy wanted so bad to be loved, he wanted to have what Dick had when he was alive.

Dick would give it to him, if he could.

But he was a dead boy and Bruce Wayne was a living man with a dead heart.

The man that put his coat around his shoulders and led him away from the sirens and into his warm car, the man who sat with him when he woke from nightmares, who burned his waffles before giving up and taking them out to I-HOP, just to spill chocolate milk all over himself was gone.

He buried his smile with Dick.

Then he covered up his heart with a fresh plot of soil when he did the same for his second son.

Dick didn’t want to see the man anymore. He didn’t want to think about how he never got a chance to ask B if he was ever going to adopt him, never got to call him Dad and not feel like it was a betrayal.

No, he didn’t want to ever see Bruce Wayne again.

But he couldn’t leave the Manor.

He couldn’t see his parents again; be held by them and tell them he was sorry—

It was fine though.

Jay was here.

And now, so was Damian.

They needed him, even if they didn’t say it, he knew they did.

So, he’d stay (as if he had any other choice) and do whatever he could to help.

But what could he do if his little brothers were so intent on hurting one another?

Damian’s plan meant Jay would have to put his suit on again, to relive his life, and by default, his death, just to distract some malevolent force in the basement.

But if Jason didn’t do it, Damian wouldn’t be able to succeed.

He would go to the Cave by himself, face the wailing spirit on his own and even worse, Bruce.

Dick shuddered.

He could see it in his mind’s eye, Damian in the dark, surrounded by screeching bats, a weeping ghost on one side and the looming figure of Batman on the other.

If Batman ever found out what Damian was doing—

No.

Damian couldn’t do this on his own. He couldn’t get hurt.

But neither could Jay.

Why couldn’t things ever be easy?

~

The TV flickered between static, and the cartoon Jason had been half-heartedly watching.

The little animated bear on the screen was laughing, raking leaves with his father. A storm was brewing but he hadn’t noticed it yet.

“Why do I even wanna help the twerp?” Jason grumbled to himself. The screen flickered.

Said twerp was out, where though, Jason had no idea.

Dick was hiding and Bruce—Jason didn’t mind usually if the man stumbled upon him when he was watching TV, but for once, he didn’t want to be bothered. Even for some good old-fashioned guilt-tripping via haunting.

The old fart would just dismiss him a hallucination of a grief-stricken mind, as if madness like that was more logical than an actual haunting.

Sure, live in a world alongside magical aliens and ancient races, but the ghost of your dead son soldier was just too much.

The bear doesn’t mind the rain when it comes pouring down, but even so, he runs after his dad when he beckons him inside.

Jason groans as he throws himself back onto the couch cushions. He can’t feel them like he did was he was alive.

Before—

-crack-

Jason flinches.

Before being Robin killed him.

Anger rumbles in the pit of his stomach as lightning flashes on the screen.

B couldn’t just let Robin die (literally) with his first son. No, he had to let another one die.

Then he tried again with Steph. And now there was Damian.

But now, as he had just learned, it was worse than all that.

There had been another Robin before Steph.

Another boy in the dirt.

He shook his head.

“Whateva,” Jason mutters.

The stupid little bear is singing now, trying to scare the storm away.

They didn’t even know how the third Robin—how Tim, died.

He was just dead.

Like Alfred, he was gone before Jason had returned.

And Dick didn’t remember him. Did he remember Alfie?

Jason cursed.

He was going to do this, wasn’t he?

For the Robin they didn’t know.

For Tim.

The screen flickered off.

~

Damian clicked the storage card into place in the camera.

Stephanie had complained when he had messaged her asking her to buy it for him, but when he told her he’d simply steal it then as he had no money, she seemed even more annoyed with that proposition than his original request.

She had messaged him twenty minutes later, letting him know she had dropped it off at “the usual place.”

The walk home from the café was colder than it had been the last time, and, even with his hoodie, Damian couldn’t help but shiver.

He’d need a coat soon if he wanted to keep walking around Gotham. Maybe he could find one of his father’s.

But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was how he was going to convince Todd to go along with his plan.

“Dames?” Richard’s timid voice interrupted his plotting.

Damian turned, setting the camera down gently on the desk.

“Richard. Good. I know you are… unsure, but—”

“I’ll stop ya there,” Todd butted in as he stepped through the wall.

“Todd,” Damian greeted stiffly. What did the boy want? A confrontation about his plan? Why did he bring Richard? Did he want to turn him against him? If he did that then—

Jason stares at him for a long moment, his eyes flickering, as if he were fighting with his own thoughts.

“I’ll do it.”

Dick turned sharply. “What? No, Jay, you don’t have to—”

“Shuddup, s’fine,” he grunted. “I’m doin’ this, but I’ll go on record an’ say it’s a stupid plan.”

Damian crossed his hands behind his back, forcing his expression neutral to disguise his surprise.

“Very well.”

“What? No, no way, Jay, you can’t do this, being Robin for you was—,” Dick started again.

“I know it,” Jason snapped.

He turns, locking eyes with Damian.

“’m not doin’ this fer you, alright? No offence but ya don’t really have a compellin’ reason fer me. This is fer Tim. He died. Right ‘ere. And nobody knows how. We might not be able tuh kill whateva madman killed ‘im, but at least we can know. That’s somethin’, at least, ain’t it?”

Dick’s expression softened. “Okay. For Tim,” he looked at Damian.

If it was the sentiment necessary to get the two moving, so be it.

“For Tim,” Damian echoed.

~

“Damian,” the text read, “I have some night business in another city, I don’t know how long I will be, it could be days. I’ve ordered more groceries, so you will be fine on that front.”

Bruce Wayne is typing…

“Don’t leave the Manor while I’m away. Just to stay safe. You don’t know Gotham well enough yet.”

Damian rolled his eyes as he tapped the keyboard, dashing away his message, “Yes, Father.”

That was the truth after all, he would not be leaving the Manor, simply going under it.

“Richard.”

“Hm?” The fidgety ghost slipped over to his side.

“Go find Todd. Our mission is a go tonight.”

Dick bobbed his head before disappearing into the carpet.

Damian exhaled, setting a hand on his chest as if to soothe his heartbeat. His eyes fluttered shut and he eased himself to sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor.

He opens his eyes once more and pulls out his Spoiler phone.

“We’re doing it tonight,” his message to Stephanie read.

After a couple of minutes, she responded. “Got it. I’ll be here. Thumb drive ready?”

“Of course it is ‘ready.’ I am not an amateur.”

“Ik, bud, just making sure. U remember u just have to plug it in and then I’ll take it from there, right? U will have to view any files pulled on ur laptop or smth tho.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “Like I said, I am not an amateur. I know what to do.”

Spoiler is typing…

“Ik, Ik. Just nervous for u, I will come if u tell me, but otherwise it’s just u in there.”

Richard and Todd slip into the room.

“I am not alone, Stephanie. I will stay in touch with you with mission updates.”

He did not wait to see her response before shoving the phone back into his pocket. His father’s was in his other pocket, but he had not messaged since his initial notice of departure.

“Todd,” Damian greeted the apparition.

“Demon,” Jason responded stiffly.

Dick’s eyes darted between the two. “We’re still doing this… right?”

Jason nodded seriously and that’s when it began to set in.

This was it.

His purpose since he arrived here nearly a month ago was at a close. If all went well, he would have answers to all of his questions and thus be able to help Richard (and the others) and if it failed… well, it wouldn’t fail. Even if it came to it and his father found him, he would use it to confront him and thus gain information that way.

And after that, then what?

Maybe Father would agree to train him.

And if he didn’t, then he would simply go to Stephanie and demand she allow him to join her in her vigilante work. Though he doubted there was anything she could teach him, he was likely rusty from lack of practice and working alongside her would bring him back up to par.

He had a plan for everything.

And yet, he could not diminish the gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach.

“You are both aware of our plan tonight, correct?” Damian asked as he rose to his feet.

“’course. ‘s pretty straight forward,” Jason grunted.

Richard bobbed his head. “Jay will, uh,” he glanced at the boy who, in turn, did not look back, “put on the Robin suit and bring the camera with him. Tim will take the bait and you and I will go to the computer and plug your thingy—”

“Thumb drive,” Damian interjected.

“Your thumb drive in,” Dick continued, “and then we get all the info about Tim and leave, and B never knows we were there.”

Damian crosses his arms behind his back. “Correct. Good recollection, Richard.”

Dick beamed under the compliment.

Not that Damian meant it as a compliment, of course. The ghost wasn’t exactly known for his good memory and Damian was simply recognizing his success in that moment.

“We will wait until the evening time, so be on standby until then. I do not want to search for you when it is time.”

“So, we jus’ gotta wait around ‘til yer ready?” Jason scoffed.

Damian ignored his tone. “Correct. Now, if you will excuse me, I have something to discuss with my contact.”

Todd stared at him before exiting the room, muttering about “his contact” under his breath.

Richard lingers, floating near him with a concerned look. “It’ll be okay, it’ll be okay, no matter what happens,” he repeated.

Damian gives him an odd look. “I know.”

Richard wrings his hands. “Right, right, of course. I’m just going to—,” he points to the door awkwardly before darting away.

“Richard,” Damian stops him, though he is not sure what compelled him. “Do not be nervous. I was trained for situations just like this.”

Richard smiles, despite the worry still etching his face. “Of course.”

Then he’s gone.

Damian walks to his desk, fidgeting with the pad of paper there, aligning it with the edge of the desktop. And the curtains over the window were not drawn back equally, and the corner of the duvet is flicked up and—

Damian forces himself to stop. To exhale.

The details were overwhelming, swarming his mind, pestering him with spots of dust on the windowsill, the closet door that wouldn’t shut right, Father who wouldn’t look him the eyes, Richard who wouldn’t remember him if he died, Jason who was so afraid of Robin and what it meant he couldn’t return to the place he had grown up in, to the crying mystery in the basement, and that cursed ceiling fan he could not reach to dust it.

Damian collapsed onto his desk chair with a huff, head resting in his hand.

He stilled his mind, inhaling as he counted, then exhaling once more.

It was odd, how Todd remembered when Richard did not.

“TT.”

Damian pulled his phone from his pocket and typed a message out to Stephanie.

“Why does Richard forget if Todd does not?”

 He sets the phone down on the desk, face up, watching it as his mind wandered.

He had never bothered to ask before, but he had contemplated it before. Had something happened to Richard before his death that made him forgetful?

The screen lit up.

“Jason and I had a theory abt that, actually. Did u never ask him??”

Damian pressed his lips together, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but not touching.

“Actually, nvm, it doesn’t matter. Jay and I had this theory bout that. Well, mostly me, since he didn’t like to talk to me while I was Robin…”

Damian smirked. Sure, that was the only reason.

“We think it has smth to do with how they died. Not necessarily how they died tho.”

Damian’s brow furrows. “I do not understand.”

“I’ll explain more later, I gotta finish chasing down this burglar before tn. Ttyl.”

Damian sighs and flips the phone over.

All he had left to do was wait until the evening came.

~

6:31pm.

Jason makes his way down the stairwell to the Bat Cave.

The camera keeps slipping through his inconsistently tangible hands, forcing him to focus more on keeping a hold on it. He won’t admit it, but there’s a part of him that wishes he’d drop the camera, and it’d shatter on the way down the steps, forcing their plan to a halt.

It’s for Tim, he reminds himself.

For a dead boy nobody knew.

6:32.

Jason’s at the end of the stairs, but he isn’t moving.

Bruce’s voice is ringing in his hand, exhausted but happy as he watches his son him bounce around the room, loudly exclaiming at each new thing he sees.

That first day had been the best day of his life.

6:34.

Tim had been here once; he had a first day just like Jason had had once.

Did he laugh like he did?

Did Bruce smile when he thought he wasn’t watching?

Did he like to wear the suit?

Did Bruce look as old and tired as he did now? Or did the subtle crow’s feet by his eyes look like they came from smiling instead of age?

6:35.

Jason sets the camera on the floor with gentle care, before turning to face the case before him.

If he were alive, he’d imagine he would see his reflection in the glass encasing his old suit.

But now, there’s nothing for him to look at except the familiar colors of what hope used to look like.

His hand is shaking as he raises it to rest on the smooth surface.

He didn’t die in this one. But it had been his, nonetheless. An extra, for the times when his wounds were on the suit as well as his skin.

He pushes and the cover clicks before swinging open without a sound.

A good soldier.

A dead son.

Was he both?

6:38.

Jason’s hands move mindlessly, muscle memory controlling as he pulls the suit on, body numb to the feeling from the lack of nerves.

Does he just have to stand here?

Will he know when Tim arrives?

When the distraction is enough, and Dick and Damian can go?

His nonexistent pulse quickens. They didn’t think this through enough, he needed to get out of here—

The camera began to hover off the ground.

~

Damian stood at the Bat Computer, Dick hovering over his shoulder (literally) as he pushed the thumb drive into the USB slot.

He clicked on the file labeled “SUPA.KILLA.DOOM.exe” and watched as the screen suddenly went black, before turning back on, pulling open files on its own accord, bypassing security warnings that popped up.

“What if Batman gets an alert?” Richard rubs his hands together fearfully.

“Let him come.” Damian squares his shoulders.

“No, no, I don’t want a fight,” Dick turns to face him, prying his eyes from the screen.

“You do not have to be here,” Damian sniffed.

Richard shakes his head. “I won’t leave you. Not again.”

Damian’s mouth twitches.

“Very well.”

A cartoonish icon of Spoiler’s face appears on screen, blowing kisses to no one in particular.

“I guess that means it’s done…?” Dick raises an eyebrow as he watches the chibi figure bob back and forth. “That was fast.”

Damian’s eyes narrow. “Indeed.”

He snatches the thumb drive from the computer and the screen returns to how it had been when they first arrived.

“Get Todd. I will return to my room.”

Damian doesn’t wait to see Richard leave as he sprints to the stairwell, taking two steps at a time to make it to the top.

Had it really been that simple?

Spoiler was good, but he had never seen her skills before. It was hard to imagine she bested anything created by Batman that easily. And without triggering any alarms?

“Tt.”

He checked his phone for any messages from Father but there was nothing.

Good.

He opened his laptop and deftly stuck the thumb drive in, just as Richard rejoined him at his side.

Just Richard.

His eyes flick over to the solitary apparition, but he does not say anything.

Apparently, he does not need to.

“Jay just needs some time to himself right now,” he says curtly, as if he had rehearsed the lines.

Damian doesn’t respond at first.

His concentration on his laptop screen is broken and his mind is filled with images of Todd’s face.

Was he afraid? Would he hate him again?

He shook his head free of the senseless thoughts. Todd had done his part, nothing else mattered. His well-being was not his priority.

So, why did it hurt to think that?

“Understood.”

He watched the ghost from the corner of his eye as files loaded onto his laptop.

“… thank you,” he said at last.

Dick looked at him, expression softening. He didn’t ask for clarification or rebuke him and laugh.

“Of course, Little D,” is all he said, his voice practically a whisper.

Damian did not have to have the ghost’s arm draped over him to know what he was feeling.

He would not admit it, but he… he imagines he feels the same way.

The first file opens onto the screen.

Jason Peter Todd.

Damian’s movement is stiff as he clicks on it.

CAUSE OF DEATH: injuries from explosion that were preceded by a severe beating from The Joker.

The words were clinical, detached, as they listed his injuries in detail.

Broken wrist, shattered kneecaps.

Fractured skull, four broken ribs, three fractured.

Internal bleeding.

Broken wrists, broken legs.

The list goes on.

~

Jason was alive after the explosion.

Bruce held him in his arms, careless in his desperation. In his heart, he knew he was too late, and the breathing boy in his arms would be a corpse in just mere minutes.

You aren’t supposed to move someone that injured, lest you make it worse.

But you’re supposed to hold your boy when he’s hurt. You’re supposed to comfort him, to bandage his wounds, to tell him that it’ll be okay now that you’re here.

Bruce doesn’t remember every detail about each day Jason spent with him.

But he remembers in vivid color the last day. The last hour. The last minute.

Down to the last second, Bruce remembers.

Jason doesn’t have last words.

And with the blood covering his swollen eyes, with his skin cut open on every surface, with ears ringing from the explosion, Bruce doesn’t know if his son knows he is there.

He doesn’t know if Jason Todd knew he didn’t die alone.

Jason is alive for a minute and twenty-four seconds before he lets out a shuddering breath, choked by blood, then lies still.

Bruce watches him for a sacred moment, eyes tracing his beautiful face, his dark curls, his little hands, almost peaceful if not for the blood.

Then he screams.

~

Damian lays in bed, but he is not sleeping.

He doubts he will.

He saw it all.

Father had recorded it with cameras in the lenses of his cowl.

Damian had seen death before, but that—

This was different.

Death without grief was just death.

But death with grief was a tragedy. It was an unfinished symphony played by an orchestra; a torn portrait hung in an exhibit.

A story that went on despite having ended long ago.

It was haunting. Jason’s mangled body, Father’s cry—

Damian blinked, trying to force the images from his mind.

Jason’s file had been so detailed. Aerial pictures of the warehouse before and after the explosion, mugshots of the Joker, lists of each and every injury that was inflicted upon him, not to mention the recording.

Next to Richard’s, it was like a dictionary next to a children’s book.

His mind shifted to Richard’s file, grateful for the distraction.

Richard’s file had been… vague. Batman never learned who had shot the bullet that broke Richard’s line. Nor had he been there to watch him die, he did not even know his exact time of death.

And Tim’s—

Tim’s was nonexistent.

After Richard had left (mumbling about aerial trapezists as he drifted lazily toward the ceiling), and Damian had finished scouring through Richard’s file, he had come to a dead end.

There was nothing on Tim.

Not even a name.

He messaged Spoiler until he felt like he would pass out from exhaustion.

And yet, the moment he hit the mattress, he felt as awake and aware as ever.

He jammed his eyes shut, rolling over with a huff.

He had to sleep; he knew his brain needed it if he ever wanted to solve this mystery.

In his mind, he began to count. Anything to stop thinking about dead Robins and ghosts.

1, 2, 3—

Jason’s file was detailed.

4, 5, 6—

Meanwhile, Richard’s was a skeleton in comparison, with the barest of information.

7, 8, 9—

And Tim’s—

Damian sat up.

Jason remembered everything.

Richard’s memory was patchy, at best.

Bruce knew how Jason died. He knew every bleeding detail.

Bruce didn’t know with Richard.

Spoiler had said: “We think it has smth to do with how they died. Not necessarily how they died tho.”

If that were true, what happened to Tim?

Chapter Text

Tim lay on the hardwood floor, knuckles rapping against it. He could hear him, he was under the ground, under the floorboards, he was knocking, knocking—

“Tim.”

Tim’s brows furrow, the voice was making it harder to hear the faint sound, it was nearly gone now—

“Tim,” the voice was followed by a hand pulling him up by his arm and turning him to face him.

Bruce.

“Tim, what are you doing?” Bruce jostles him by his shoulders, Tim hates when he does that.

Tim bats his hands away.

“I’m fine, Bruce.”

~

Damian’s movements are measured as he slips out of bed.

He’s at the end of his investigation, the mystery is barely that anymore. There was one final piece, and its name was Tim.

He isn’t sure why he changes his clothes, putting on his shoes and hoodie, but his mind is too far away to understand what he’s doing.

He’s on the stairwell, hand sliding down the handrail, when he gets the impulse to stop.

His eyes trace the walls, the lonely chandelier, the grand steps beneath him.

There isn’t a sound.

Damian wondered if this house knew silence better than it knew noise.

His feet are moving again, farther into the manor, into the butler’s room.

His fingers type the code in by default.

~

Tim knows Bruce doesn’t want him down here. But he can’t just sit around the manor, waiting for Alfred to come in when he won’t ever again, waiting for Bruce, waiting, waiting, waiting for nothing, for nobody.

The Cave may be off-limits, but going out in the field was a death sentence. Even Tim knew when he was crossing a line.

So, he’d compromise and work on some cold cases.

Unfortunately for him, this meant trying to decipher Bruce’s poor organization on the computer. He chewed on his nail as he scrolled through imbedded folders, scouring for the file for old police cases. Paranoia and disorder were not a good mix, but they typically went hand in hand.

Tim froze, eyes hovering over a file.

A file with his name on it.

… it couldn’t hurt to look, could it?

~

Damian let his feet guide him as he walked toward the computer.

It had been just hours ago that he stood here, thumb drive plugged in as Stephanie’s program copied everything it got access to.

But in the darkness, in the silence, it seemed like a different world.

“Tim!” he called out, eyes shifting through the shadows.

His heart thumped in his ribcage. He would face the ghosts of this mansion, real and figurative.

The computer screen lit up behind him, blue screened and blank. Damian turned to face it as text appeared on it.

ERROR:

_what do you want?

Damian’s throat was dry, and the air was cold. “Tim.” Whether it was a confirmation or a greeting, he didn’t know.

“What—,” his voice was small, dampened by the invisible presence, he grit his teeth in irritation. “What happened to you?”

~

Bruce knew what it felt to hold your son as he was dying, as he was dead. Whether cold from a death that occurred out of sight, or still warm from the lifeblood that now covered his body, Bruce knew it.

There was the glassy look in their eyes, one that only someone who had looked into the face of death could fully understand. To those that hadn’t, they were just words, empty text on a computer screen.

Bruce saw those eyes before, in Dick, then in Jason.

If he had cared to look, he would have seen those eyes on the still-smiling face of the man who stole his second and third sons from him when the shot from his youngest ended his life.

The Joker was dead.

But if Batman knew anything, it was that the Joker always had the last laugh.

And that’s just what Bruce heard when he came down to the Bat Cave that night.

Laughter.

~

_you want to know what happened to me?

_????????

_????????????????????????????????????

_HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

The line of laughter filled the screen until a leering, grinning, weeping face pushed through it, clawing hands reaching for Damian, choking sobs interrupted by hysterical laughter.

Damian stumbled backwards, heart racing, hands instinctively reaching for the blade hidden under his sweatshirt.

“Tell me!” His voice, strained by fear, commanded the phantom.

A new message appeared on the screen, interrupting the repeated laughter spiraling across it.

_I will tell you, Damian Wayne.

_Then we will see what you do.

~

Bruce’s heart was racing as he ran down the stairs to the Cave.

No one was supposed to be down here other than him, he had changed the code every week just because of that, but it was clear that hadn’t been enough.

He should have known the Joker would stop at nothing; he would find a way to break inside the Cave if he put his head to it.

No. Not the Joker. The Joker was dead.

This was Tim.

Tim, laughing uncontrollably and brainwashed by the Joker.

Bruce was off the staircase and sprinting toward the computer, toward the sound of hysteria, when the sight stopped him in his tracks.

On the screen, was Tim’s file. Specifically, his medical file and—

His contingency plans.

And Joker Tim was writhing on the ground, fingernails dragging on the ground, face split with a grin, coughing out laughter like it was killing him.

Bruce didn’t move. “…Tim…?” he asked in his general direction.

Tim’s face craned up to look at his adoptive father.

“Arkham, Brucie?” He howled, eyes shutting tightly with effort. “You would put us in Arkham?”

Bruce took a step back, hand curling around the batarang tucked into his belt.

Tim pushed himself to sit up, arms trembling as he braced himself on the ground.

“That’s a bad joke, Batman,” he grinned.

He raised his head, blue eyes meeting Bruce’s.

When Tim was younger, he had stood on his front porch, stubbornly existing there, in his space, despite all the alarms he didn’t trigger from his trek up his front yard. He wore a backpack, one too big for him, and when Bruce didn’t budge from the doorway, he pulled out charts and graphs and paperwork, all showing that Batman needed a Robin. All showing that Tim could be that Robin.

But it wasn’t that that convinced Bruce to let Tim in.

It was his eyes.

Clear blue and clear in their purpose, they stared up at Bruce, challenging him and winning. He had everything in him that Bruce once had. He had everything that Bruce needed.

He was his son, maybe not at that moment, but he would be.

But this—

The red-rimmed eyes, bluer than ever with the red as contrast, were not his son’s eyes.

They were the eyes of a dead man.

Tim stood up, swaying on his feet, then he threw himself at Bruce with a scream.

~

_your hero?? He was mine too.

Tim’s smile dropped.

_he killed me.

Damian stepped back, away from the computer screen.

“No. That isn’t true.”

His father, he couldn’t have—

“Batman doesn’t kill.”

_neither does robin.

Damian blinked, looking away. He could be lying, he didn’t know anything about this “Tim,” maybe he had gone down the path of darkness, strayed from the light that men like Batman and his grandfather worked to progress.

“You must have done something then,” Damian sniffed.

_done something????

_oh

_that’s right, I did

A smile grew on his face as tears flowed down Tim’s cheeks, following his jawline to drip off his chin, or slipping farther down onto his neck. But the smile didn’t break, even as his eyes darted, unable to hold Damian’s gaze, and while hiccupping coughs made the grin waver, it did not dissipate.

_I broke.

~

Bruce stepped to the side, redirecting Tim’s Joker’s momentum away from him with a slight push on his back. As Tim stumbled to regain his footing, Batman drew the batarang.

Joker was quick to move, his movements erratic and illogical and Batman read them like an open book. He swung his fist for his face, likely unaware his opponent was armed. Batman let it happen, let the illusion that he was empty-handed continue.

Tim’s, no, Joker’s blow slammed into his cheek, driving his face to the side with a jerk. Batman reacted immediately, using the cover of Joker’s successful strike to disguise his recoil before he hit him squarely in the face.

Tim’s head snapped back, and his body followed, barely keeping himself upright as he fell away from him. His hands instinctively leapt to his face, as blood flowed from his broken nose.

Tim cocked his head, a grin slowly spreading. “He sure hits hard, doesn’t he, Papa?” A laugh erupted from his lips as his fingers dragged across his skin, painting an enlarged smile with his blood.

Bruce’s skin crawled.

His heart was cold, pumping freezing blood through his body, while that maniac held his sides shaking with laughter.

Then all at once, the cold faded away.

It was replaced with something hotter.

Rage.

Batman’s vision blurred as he dropped the batarang, forgoing any semblance of a plan, all in pursuit of the man who had killed his sons.

He grabbed Tim’s collar and tackled him to the ground, his weight knocking the breath out of him, stopping the laughter for just a moment.

His fist slammed into Joker’s face, stinging from the impact, then his other followed suit swiftly and again and again and again—

Batman leaned back, panting, fists equally covered with his blood and with the blood of the motionless figure on the ground.

Then the figure began to move.

He rolled to his side, coughing and spitting blood onto the ground, then he turned, clear blue eyes digging into Bruce’s. He didn’t say anything, he could barely smile with the lacerations and swellings covering his face. But as he lay there, half propped up by his elbow, he began to chuckle.

The Joker had taken everything from him.

His sons were gone because of him. What was left of his family was gone, because of him.

Bruce was tired of seeking vengeance.

He wanted revenge.

Revenge that Tim had taken from him when he shot the man who had spent weeks torturing and brainwashing him.

Revenge that Bruce would tear from the husk of the boy that he no longer recognized in front of him.

With a roar, Bruce lunged forward, hands curling around T— Joker’s throat, squeezing, while he thrashed weakly, hands grasping at Bruce’s but finding no purchase.

Tim’s wheezing breath barely reached Bruce’s ears, and as his nails dug into Bruce’s, he didn’t feel them, even when they broke skin.

All he saw were the eyes, frantic, and growing redder by the minute, fixated up at his, and so. not. Tim’s.

Tim’s hands fell away, and his body jerked, a failed hail Mary to bring oxygen into his lungs once more.

Bruce’s hands slowly uncurled, stiff from the action.

Vaguely, he recognized he was shaking.

And faraway, the logical part of his brain told him he was in shock.

His heart raged in his chest and the blood trickling from Tim’s nose slowed to a sluggish pace.

He didn’t move from his spot on the floor.

And there wasn’t a sound.

~

Jason stood in the middle of his bedroom, eyes fixated on his window, unseeing of the sprawling grounds you could see from this view.

He couldn’t—

He blinked, the bright colors of his old uniform flashing in his mind.

He cursed, sending a stack of books scattering onto the ground.

Why had he done that?

Why had he agreed to that stupid plan?

He paced, fingers tearing at his hair.

All because of Damian—

“For Tim.”

Jason froze.

That was right.

It wasn’t for Damian.

It was for Tim, for a Robin who died when the idea of Robin should have been what died.

He didn’t want to leave his room, didn’t want to talk to the brat, but something old stirred in his chest, something disgustingly heroic.

Screw it.

What was the worst that could happen, anyways?

~

Damian stared at the phantom, the text still burning on the screen. Tim had… failed, in some way. He failed and his master righted his wrongs by killing him, just like he had seen Grandfather do countless times.

He paused.

Grandfather had done it.

But Father—he was no Al Ghul. Mother said he was… different. He did not kill. Mother did not agree with it, but she respected it. She respected Father for holding to it, that no one forced him or whipped him into place to make him do what he did. Only himself.

This was not the Wayne way. This was not the way of the Bat.

A sound like a strangled scream made Damian’s head snap up, just in time to see Tim dissolve, disappearing from sight. Something had scared him away and—

A chill crawled up Damian’s spine and before he had turned to face him, he knew who stood behind.

“Father.”

“Damian?” Bruce’s voice was still, but forcefully so, like a tiger does before pouncing.

Damian tipped his chin up, meeting his eyes.

Batman tore his cowl off, revealing his blue eyes, which burned with barely contained anger.

“What— what are you doing down here?” He growled. His eyes flicked to the screen behind him, but Tim’s words must have disappeared with him, because the older man didn’t mention them.

Damian’s heart thumped traitorously in his chest.

~

“Dames should be in bed… shouldn’t he?” Dick hovered over the empty bed.

“I dunno, yer the one who knows ‘im best,” Jason grumbles.

Dick eases himself to sit on the bed, transparent hand tracing the imprint left on the pillow.

“So, where would ‘e go?” Jason crossed his arms.

Where would who go?

…

Dick furrowed his brow. They were just talking about someone….

!!!

That’s right, Damian.

“Um, I don’t… know. Sorry,” Dick shrugged sheepishly.

Jason seemed tense, irritated by his response. He turned to pace, not looking at him as he did.

Why was he mad? Had Dick done something he forgot?

“C’mon, Dickie, you know ‘im best, think ‘bout it.”

Dick huffed.

“Fine, whateva, we’ll jus’ scour the whole manor then, thanks Mr. Helpful,” Jason snapped. “You check the Cave an’ I’ll—"

Dick shot up, bobbing above the mattress. “No! What if Batman is down there?!”

Jason tried to push the bubbling annoyance down. “So what? S’not like he can do anythin’ to you—”

Jason froze.

“Dick….”

“…Yeah?”

“You saw somethin’, didn’t you? ‘fore I came along, you saw somethin’.”

Dick blinked. “I— I don’t,” his face scrunched up, “I don’t remember.”

Jason moved swiftly, practically jogging out of the room and into the hall.

“Jay, what is it? What am I forgetting?”

“I don’t—I dunno fer sure, but here’s hopin’ I’m wrong.”

~

Damian swallowed. His palms were sweating, and he prayed that Father could not see his legs shaking.

“Father,” he repeated, the word coming out like rubber through the eye of a needle.

Bruce’s fists clenched, nearly imperceptible behind the cape hung around his shoulders. “Answer me. Now.”

Damian found the best way to speak was to treat it like a knife in hand. If you are going to use the knife, strike immediately and take your opponent down. But otherwise, keep the blade sheathed and hidden, but ready.

So, that’s what Damian did. He struck.

“I know, Father. I know about Richard and Jason,” his breath caught in his throat at the way Bruce’s fiery expression turned cold. “I know about Tim.”

The criminals feared the monster at night, the eldritch figure of the Batman, how he stalked your breath and took you down before you heard him coming.

Damian did not require the cowl for him to see what Gotham feared.

He wondered if Tim had been afraid too.

~

Jason’s hands shook as he passed through the wall in Alfie’s old room, spectral feet silent as he bounded down the stairwell to the Cave. Dick was close behind, his glow flickering as he floated just inside his peripheral.

It was all gut instinct, gut instinct that told him something was wrong when he came home to the crummy apartment he shared with his mom and didn’t hear a sound, gut instinct that told him Sheila Haywood was his bio mom, and now—his wretched gut that told him Damian was down here, Damian was in danger. He didn’t even know if B was back yet, if B had even—

He didn’t want to think about it.

He hadn’t even told Dick what he was thinking, somehow putting it into words made it feel even worse. Nonetheless, his brother dutifully followed, a determined look in his eyes, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

If B really was what Jason feared, could they even help Damian? In the end, would he not only fail in his mission to prevent another dead Robin, but also have to witness his failure?

Jason quickened his step.

~

Bruce’s voice was low, dangerously so. “You don’t know anything.”

Damian crossed his arms behind his back, as nonchalant as he could. “I know Batman doesn’t kill,” his hand closed around his dagger, “or he isn’t supposed to kill.”

Four things happened at once.

One, Batman lunged for Damian, his movements masked by his cape until it was too late for Damian to dodge. His hands locked onto his shoulders like iron vices as he tackled him to the ground.

Two, Damian drew his knife, bringing it up suddenly, tip pointed at his opponent’s armpit. He did not know Batman’s armor well, but it was a safe bet it was weaker here.

Three, Jason screamed, and Batman’s cape was yanked backwards, making him jerk back slightly, his grip loosening.

Four, Richard appeared over Damian, leaning close into Bruce’s face as if he could block his view of Damian.

Bruce hissed as Damian’s knife pierced his skin and he was quick to clamp onto his arm, the other hand tearing the blade away and throwing it away from them.

“Bruce!” Richard shouted.

A cold silence fell over them. Damian finally understood the English phrase, you could hear a pin drop.

He didn’t dare breathe, lest he break the sudden stillness of his attacker.

“Dick…?” Bruce’s voice was soft.

Dick shifted forward, his body hovering over Damian’s prone figure. His arm raised, trembling hand extended, reaching toward Bruce’s face.

Bruce flinched as his son’s fingers brushed his cheek. Dick’s expression shifted, concentration lacing his face as he pushed his hand forward fully, his palm cupping his mentor’s cheek.

Bruce’s eyelids fluttered and he whipped backward, standing and stumbling away from him, away from Damian.

“I—,” Bruce choked.

“You were gonna kill ‘im,” Jason rounded on Bruce, a cup of pens shattering as it rolled off the computer desk.

“No, I—,” Bruce gathered his cape around himself, uncharacteristically speechless. His eyes were wild, crazed as if he was a cornered rabbit facing down its hunters.

Damian rose to his feet, ignoring the way his arms and back throbbed. “You killed Tim, Father.”

His legs weren’t shaking like they were before. Likely, it was because of the fight, but maybe it was because of—

His eyes swept over Jason and Richard.

His allies. His brothers.

“No, no,” he insisted. “Batman doesn’t—”

A scream tore through the air, interrupting him.

The computer screen flashed to life.

ERROR:

_admit it, Batman

_ADMIT IT

Bruce stepped backwards, arm sweeping to block the flash of light as the computer brightened.

“What did you do?” Batman snapped, his eyes flicking to Damian.

_he learned the truth, batsy (:

Tim appeared in front of Bruce, floating off the ground so he could be at the same height as his old mentor. His mouth was slack, black tears dried on his cheeks, pale eyes locked on his father’s Bruce’s.

From the corner of his eye, Damian saw Jason tense, his hands curling into fists. He didn’t know when he had moved but Richard floated over Damian’s shoulder, hand hovering over him but not touching.

Bruce’s eyes roved over the phantom facing him, his blue eyes darkened in the shadowy expanse of the cave.

“Y-you’re—,” he swallowed. “You— you can’t be—.”

_it’s me, daddy, your boy, your Robin, your Tim. Any regrets???

_any regrets?

Tim reeled back, laughing while crying, while Bruce cringed away from him.

“I—.”

“Father,” Damian’s voice was commanding. “Tell me. Tell me the truth.”

Bruce’s head whipped around to look at him, a wild look in his eyes. “Don’t ask me to—.”

Tim’s hands tore through his hair, his back arching as laughter wracked his body. The text flashed on the screen, nonetheless.

_ADMIT IT.

“Stop bein’ a coward, B,” Jason growled.

“Bruce, please. Tell us,” Richard shifted forward slightly.

Batman stumbled back and Bruce looked up at his sons.

Then he crumpled to his knees.

“I didn’t—,” his fists gripped his chest as if he could slow his racing heart. “I didn’t want to kill him,” he raised his eyes to Damian’s, blinking tears free. “You have to believe me; it wasn’t what I planned to do. I just— I couldn’t take the sound of his laughter any longer,” his shuddering hands raised to press against his ears, “I couldn’t, not after what he did to Jason, not after Tim—,” he choked out a sob, “he took everything from me.”

“Butcha didn’t kill Joker,” Jason’s voice was uncommonly calm, his rage blanketed under the chilly look that now rested on his face. “You killed yer Robin. You killed Tim.”

Bruce tore his expression away from Damian to look at Jason. He blinked and quickly looked away, his gaze returning to the floor.

Damian felt as though he could view the scene playing out in front of him from another’s standpoint. There he was, Richard at his side, Jason across from them, Tim floating in the air in the middle of them, flickering in and out of visibility, and, of course, Batman, on his knees, a thin line of blood trickling down his side.

The moment held itself in time for more than it would have lasted on any other day, frozen as the only sound Damian could hear was his own breath in his ears, the only sight, his father’s eyes wet with tears.

Batman had a mission once. Damian understood it, once.

He wondered if his father felt the same when he took Timothy’s life.

Because when Damian saw his father’s eyes, he knew Batman was dead.

Damian crouched, silent as he stared into his father’s face. Bruce didn’t move as he held his gaze.

Then, Damian darted forward, fingers lodging in the tear in the suit he had cut with his blade, and he pulled and with a final jerk, he tore the Bat insignia from his chest, standing with the fabric held tight in his fist.

“Batman is done. You are done,” Damian’s voice was quiet, but it carried in the damp cave.

Bruce stood, throwing his cape back as he did so he would not step on it. “Gotham needs Batman,” was what he said.

But Damian heard what he truly meant.

“No, Father. You do. Gotham needs something different. Something better.”

He threw the insignia to the ground, flinching as it left his hand.

Bruce’s eyes imperceptibly darted to the crumpled fabric before returning to Damian’s face. “And you’ll be that? You don’t have any training, Damian.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t have any training from you, Father. I have all I require, and you—,” Damian took a shuddering breath, “you are not among what I require.”

“You can’t handle Gotham,” Bruce growled.

Damian bared his teeth. “Leave this city, Father, never let me see you again or you will learn who I have become and see that it is I you cannot handle.”

Bruce’s brows furrowed, anger tracing each line on his face. He moved, eyes turning to look at Jason, then Dick, then finally Damian. Distantly, Damian realized Tim had long since disappeared.

“You’ll see that you can’t do it on your own,” Bruce’s cape swirled as he turned and stalked away. “That’s when I will come back.”

Damian smirked. “What makes you think I am alone?”

Chapter Text

Dick didn’t know whether he’d show up or not. Honestly, he didn’t know much about the boy.

Or he didn’t remember.

He wondered if he knew him once. Did Tim sit at the computer and talk to him? Did he lay on the bed beside him as he told him about his day? Did they ever know each other at all?

Dick shuddered. He had to— he had to do… something. He had to help him.

As he waited in the Cave for the elusive ghost to appear, he had a feeling he knew what he needed to do. A pang in his heart made him clutch his chest. He couldn’t— he couldn’t do that to Damian. He still needed him.

But so did Tim.

~

Damian stood, leaning against the wall, eyes fixated on the front window, a mug of hot tea warming his hands.

It had been three days.

Three days of microwave food, three days of inconsistent rain, three days of Dick slipping away to look for Tim, three days of Jason haunting every sofa and whining at Damian to change the TV channel.

Three days since Father had left. Three days since he had forced him to go.

Damian supposed he should make good on his promise to his father. He would become something greater than the Batman, something stronger than he was if he ever dared to return to Gotham.

But a worm of…apprehension… had made its way into mind, even as he trained with the old dummies in the basement.

He didn’t even know where to begin with becoming Gotham’s next vigilante. Batman had a network of contacts, trusted officers, weapons, and a knowledge of the city and its inhabitants that Damian did not have. Not to mention the basement full of Bat tech that was stock full of information that he hadn’t even tried to unpack yet. Bruce could have destroyed it all remotely, or was spying on Damian with hidden cameras, or—

“Robbie?”

Damian turns sharply, hand around his mug steady, while the other curls into a fist.

His eyes narrow. “Stephanie?”

Steph’s eyes dart over him, as if checking for injuries.

“Hey, Demon Brat,” Jason hollered from the top of the stairs. “Someone broke in tuh yer room, by the way. The lock on yer window’s broken.”

Damian rolls his eyes.

“What are you doing here, Stephanie?”

Steph cocks her head, smiling. “Aren’t you going to offer me a seat?”

Damian glanced at the dining table and chairs. “What, are you tired?”

Steph sighs, shaking her head. “You haven’t answered my texts.”

Damian frowned and took out his phone, scrolling through the messages with Spoiler.

“I told you everything you need to know. Batman is gone and I am unharmed.”

Stephanie stared for a moment. “Okay, yeah, I am going to have to teach you about proper communication.”

Damian raises an eyebrow.

“I was worried about you, you dork.”

Damian sets his mug on the table and crosses his arms behind his back. “I do not… understand why you—what causes you—.”

Stephanie closes the gap between them, then opens her arms expectantly.

Damian sniffs. “Tt. What are you doing?”

Stephanie keeps her arms open, waving her hands to motion him forward. “C’mon, it’s a hug, Spock, you don’t have to love it right away or anything.”

“Spock? I do not understand what you are—”

Steph doesn’t let him finish before she wraps her arms around him. She isn’t holding him too tight and he’s tall enough where his face isn’t smooshed into her shoulder so he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and her heart is beating and it’s warm and—

Damian’s eyes burn and he tries to keep himself from latching onto her as she holds him.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but he knows it is much too long for an heir to the Al Ghul name. Probably too long for a son of Wayne as well.

But it isn’t too long for Damian.

Steph pulls away, hands resting on his shoulders. She locks eyes with him, not looking away even when he blinks back tears.

“Okay. Now what?”

Damian gives her a look.

“I mean,” Steph steps back, “you don’t have to have a plan right away, but I just—”

“I am going to become a vigilante. Like my father, but better.” Damian tilts his chin up.

Stephanie’s mouth makes an O shape, before she quickly shuts her mouth again. She drags one of the chairs out and sits on it, before patting the seat by her for Damian to sit.

So, Damian does.

“Do you…,” she starts before pausing again, chewing her lip. “What I am asking is—”

Damian shifts his gaze to meet hers. “Yes, you may be my mentor.”

“Wha—no, I just—,” Stephanie stops when she sees Damian’s eyes. She’s quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath. “Sure, Dames, I’ll show you the ropes.”

Damian nods curtly. “The next item we need to talk about is the Manor.”

Steph’s brows furrow, confused. “The Manor? What about it?”

“It has many resources, if we were to combine forces, we could become even more efficient if we utilize—”

“Damian. What exactly are you asking?”

Damian shifts, not looking her in the eye. “I have seen your domicile. If you were to relocate here, you could use it as your new base of operations. It is already equipped for leading a double life, after all.”

Steph’s eyes widen.

“Damian, I don’t know…,” she fidgets with her lip absentmindedly, “it’s a good idea,” she asserts, “but I don’t live alone. I’d have to talk it over with Harper and Cullen first.”

Damian nods stiffly. “Of course.”

Steph leans forward tentatively. “Does the invite extend to them as well, Robbie?”

Damian meets her gaze quickly. “Of course,” he repeats, insulted at the insinuation that he had overlooked that detail.

Steph leans away, putting her hands up. “Just checking, don’t get all pointy at me.”

“Pointy?”

“Y’know, pointy. Prickly like a cactus. Or a hedgehog,” she grins, her eyes lighting up. “Y’know if you pet a hedgehog the wrong way, it’s all sharp and spiky, but if you do it right, it’s soft and cute—”

“I am changing the topic, Stephanie.”

Steph snorts, before recovering and returning her expression to a more serious one. “Right.” She pauses before adding, a mischievous glint in her eyes, “pokey.”

“TT.”

“Demon, did’ja get murdered or was it just a friend of yers?” Jason saunters into the room, the irritation that had been lingering with him for three days still evident in his voice.

Stephanie sat up, body tense, but not for a fight.

Jason freezes in his steps, staring at her. “Steph.”

The corner of Steph’s mouth twitches. “Jason.”

Damian glanced between the two of them. Whatever emotional reunion they were about to have, he didn’t want to be here for it.

“I will leave you to it,” Damian stands up, striding away from them.

Stephanie stands up quickly as he leaves the room, watching him go but not following. “Dam—yeah, okay, uh, bye, I guess.”

Jason shifts uncomfortably. “So, uh, what have you been up tuh?”

Steph looks back at the young ghost who had once seemed to be her age. “Oh, I’ve been doing some college classes.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s just some stuff online and I can’t take many at once ‘cause of y’know, vigilante-ing all the time,” she shrugs.

“That’s cool, that’s cool.”

“I have a job too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s part time, y’know. Harper and Cullen pay for most of the rent, I feel pretty bad about it but hey, at least they aren’t out on the field or anything.” She pauses. “Not yet anyways.”

Jason nods, pressing his lips together.

“I’m glad you got out,” Robin said, his eyes shifting to meet hers.

“Me too,” Robin responded.

~

Dick floats through the ceiling of the Cave, a hollow feeling in his chest.

Tim’s sobs still echoed in his head, intermittently interrupted with the image of Bruce’s face after he—

Dick swallows.

After Bruce tried to kill Damian. After he learned Bruce had killed Tim.

No, not killed.

Murdered.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn’t feel right, it couldn’t be right.

~

Bad things always happened when it rained in movies. It was easy to be sad when the sky was crying on you. But it wasn’t raining the night his parents died. It had been bright and warm (at least for Gotham’s standards), exactly the kind of day his mom likes.

The kind of day his mom liked.

Suddenly, Dick’s heart was pounding harder than it ever did, even when he was practicing a new trick for the first time and felt his knees go to jelly under him. He was sitting on the bleachers in the tent, a blanket draped uselessly around his shoulders and there were cops all around him and his parents— his parents, where were his parents?

He darted up, his heart sending sharp pain through his chest, eyes searching for the forms of his mom and dad. They had just been here, covered up so he couldn’t see their faces—

Tears began to spill from his eyes once again, he didn’t know he had any left—

“Dick.”

Someone was talking to him, but he couldn’t listen, that wasn’t important.

“Dick, I need to look at me.”

This guy needed to shut up—!

Dick inhaled sharply, he couldn’t—

He couldn’t breathe.

The man was moving him, making him sit again and no, no, he couldn’t breathe but he couldn’t tell him that he was choking, and his parents were getting farther away and—

Distantly, Dick could feel something rumbling under his palm.

Something warm and heavy was on his shoulder, gripping him as if it was trying to force him down, but he wasn’t going anywhere, he was just sitting.

Dick blinked.

His palm was braced against the broad chest of a stranger, the man’s hand over his, pressing it flat. And the man was… humming?

He was humming and breathing deeply, and Dick could feel it and feel his heartbeat and his lungs expand and deflate and the rumbling made Dick’s hand buzz.

The stranger’s eyes were shut but he must have felt Dick staring because he opened them again and he holds Dick’s gaze, but it doesn’t make Dick want to look away, he doesn’t think he could if he tried and—

“Feel this,” the man lets go of Dick and instead extends his arm slightly, holding his coat arm out to Dick.

Dick mutely obeys, clumsy fingers stumbling over the edge of the sleeve. It was scratchy, wool, most likely, and was deep gray, like charcoal…or slate. There are buttons on the sleeve, but they don’t go to anything, maybe they were just decoration. One of them is cracked in the center, exposing the thread that binds it to the fabric. It’s too loose too, and Dick knows if he gave it a tug that it would fall off into his palm.

 The man exhales deeply and Dick watches.

“My name is Bruce Wayne, it’s nice to meet you, Dick.”

Dick knows he should say something, but he doesn’t want to break the spell.

The ma— Mr. Wayne, doesn’t seem to mind, instead he shifts and pulls the blanket that had fallen to the bleachers and wraps it around Dick.

It’s heavy and warm and Dick can hear the chatter of the officers again.

Dick suddenly feels as heavy as the blanket, as if the gravity is dragging him down to the earth and his shoulders droop under the weight.

“Dick?” His voice is tentative and worried and warm and—

Tears spring into Dick’s eyes and he slumps forward, tumbling into the man’s chest.

Bruce doesn’t move for a moment and distantly, Dick knows he should feel embarrassed, but he can’t be bothered to attempt feeling any sort of shame, he’s just so tired and he wants to hide away and make it all go away and—

Bruce’s arms move, carefully wrapping around Dick, softly at first, like he is afraid to break him, then tighter, smashing Dick’s face into his chest so he has to turn to breathe and it’s dark and warm and perfect.

He’s holding him tightly, as if he is refusing to let him go and Dick can hear him muttering under his breath about a promise, so maybe he really wasn’t going to let him go ever again.

Dick thought that would be pretty okay.

~

“Richard?”

Dick shifts, his eyes widening as his world comes back into view. Damian’s standing in front of him, his eyebrows furrowed, and Dick wonders how long he’s been there.

“Come with me,” he says simply, not waiting for a response before turning away.

So, Dick follows.

They go up the stairs, and into Damian’s room, and Damian’s opening the window and climbing out and he looks back at Dick before he’s on the roof. And Dick follows.

Damian sits down, though his pants must be getting wet from the damp shingles and looks out at the view. The sky is cloudy, gray turned silvery from the sun, a nearly invisible layer of mist dusting everything in sight.

If it’s cold, Damian doesn’t show it.

“I asked Stephanie to move in.”

Stephanie? Did he know a Stephanie?

“That’s good.”

Damian watches him from the corner of his eye.

“She asked to mentor me. I am going to be a vigilante.”

He looks pointedly at Dick.

“Like you.”

Dick stares back and Damian looks away.

“Would have kept being Robin?”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t died, would you still be Robin? Would,” Damian swallows, “would you have any successors?”

If he were still alive—

If he were still alive, he would be without his parents still, be an orphan still. But Bruce would be like his dad, just like he had been. And would Jason and Tim and— and Stephanie ever meet Bruce? Or would it be the two of them and Alfred in the big house forever?

“I… I don’t know,” he’s quiet for a moment, and Damian wraps his arms around himself. “I liked helping people,” he shrugs, a far-off look in his eyes. “I liked how kids looked at me when I was Robin, y’know.” He rubs his eyes. “Maybe… maybe I could have gotten so good at it that Bruce could’ve retired,” his voice is quiet when he says it, but Damian can hear him, nonetheless.

“Would you go by Robin still? If Father retired, would you be Robin?” Damian keeps his eyes on the tree line as he asks.

“Hmm,” Dick rests his chin on his palm, “I hadn’t thought of it before. It’d be something that is dark sounding but also just like if Robin grew up, cause Robin would be retired with me.” He snaps his fingers, straightening up. “There was this story another hero told me about, about this guy named Nightwing, so maybe that.”

He pauses, hesitating. “Does that sound stupid?”

“No, Richard, it doesn’t.”

Dick smiles, and Damian looks at him again. It hadn’t been rare for Dick to smile; he nearly always did. But it was the first smile Damian had seen since… since three days ago.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

There’s dew coating the lawn below, and if you were to walk by, you would see it sparkling, lit up by the tenacious sunlight hidden by storm clouds. The foxes beyond the trees would be unbothered by the rain, unless their dens happened to flood, but otherwise, they would be out now, hunting in the evening air, coats damp from the mist. Spiders would crawl out whatever holes they hid in when it rained and see droplets scattered across their webs, and one could only imagine their frustration as they were forced to remake.

“No, I—I don’t, I thought about—”

“You miss your parents, don’t you?”

Dick turns suddenly, a kind of frenzy in his eyes as he searches to meet Damian’s gaze.

“I’d miss you more, Dames.”

Damian grits his teeth.

“I know,” he says tersely, “but you’re dead and I’m not, it’s not like we’re—,” he swallows drily.

Dick exhales. “The truth is, I don’t know, D.”

Damian’s eyes dart to meet his, if only for a moment.

“I—my parents, I just—,” his voice cracks and he stops, stilling himself. When he speaks again, his voice is steady, if not forcibly so. “I do miss them. But whether I leave here or not, I will be missing somebody. Going won’t solve that,” he pauses, as if to make sure Damian heard him, then continues. “But it’s about Tim.”

“Timothy?” Damian’s fingers flex, digging into his arms. “What about him?”

“He isn’t like—well, he isn’t like me or Jay. He isn’t here, fully. I think he was only able to hold onto the idea of… getting the truth out. And now that that’s done, he’s just….”

“Crazy?” Damian supplied.

Dick gives him a look. “More like he lost the last bit of his tether that kept him even somewhat sane. I’ve watched him in the Cave and if he appears, he just wanders as if blind, crying and screaming and he won’t talk and just— it’s horrible, Dami.”

“And you believe what? That you can help him?” Damian snaps, though there is little in his voice to convince anyone of real anger.

Dick fidgets, fiddling with his fingers. “I know I can. I never… I’ve never felt like I needed to do something this strongly before, Little D. It’s like something is…,” he hesitates, searching for his words, “pulling me, telling me that this is what I have to do.”

“So, what, you’d leave me to help him? You don’t even know him, you don’t even know how to help him, or if he needs it, this is stupid, Richard, and you know it.” Damian stands abruptly, and jerks away from Dick, even when he calls his name, disappearing through the open window and onto the other side.

His face is hot, and his eyes are burning, and he doesn’t know where his feet are taking him but then he’s in the sitting room and looking up at the portraits on the wall.

It was the first room in the Manor that he had been in, when Mother had brought him here all that time ago. He had strained to listen to his mother as she walked away with the man she told him was his father, away to his office, away from him.

Father had been angry as she took him away to speak, but he never looked at Damian as Mother ushered him inside. And even when he spoke to Mother, though his eyes met hers, it seemed as if he was looking through her instead of at her.

There’s the photo with the black veil hanging over it, the one he had had lifted to see under on that first day. He hadn’t known who it was then, but he knew now. It was Richard.

Damian tears the mourning shade off and stares into the face of the blue-eyed boy. Dick is grinning, head tilted, hands on his knees, wrinkling the nice pants he’s put on for the picture. And standing beside him, a distracted look in his eye as he gazes fondly at his young son, is Bruce.

Something in Damian breaks.

He tears the picture off the wall, pulling the nail it rested on free, hands gripping the elegant frame, face reflected in the pristine glass and he—

He throws it.

The frame hits the carpet with a thud and skids until its partially under a chair but Damian doesn’t care, he’s grabbing the next frame, it’s higher up but he reaches it and it’s a school photo of Jason, smaller than the rest and it’s gone from his hands and his hand burns and his cheeks are wet and maybe he’s yelling but he doesn’t know.

He only stops to breathe once all the pictures are off the wall, all of them except the largest one over the fireplace, the one of his father standing with his parents, painted and immortal.

“WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME!” He screams. “WHY WON’T YOU STAY!”

The painting does not respond.

The photos scattered across the ground don’t make a sound as he sinks to his knees.

Damian realizes he is shaking, realizes he’s crying from the way he hiccups, spasming lungs gulping in air as if that could erase the tears. Then he realizes he isn’t alone.

“Go away, Todd,” he growls, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jason doesn’t say anything, not at first, but he moves closer, so Damian can see him now instead of just feeling his eyes on him.

“Hey, kid, why don’tcha tell me wha’s goin’ on.” He sits down, cross legged, facing Damian.

Damian’s lip curls. “I don’t need pity from the likes of you,” he spats, his voice somewhat stronger than before.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It ain’t pity. Not right now, anyways,” he adds, earning a glare. “Look, we’ve all been outta sorts since B left and,” he rubs the back of his head, as if bashful, “er, well this ain’t really my strong suit ‘ere, kid, so why don’tcha make it easy on me and say what’s goin’ on with ya.”

Damian grits his teeth, staring into the fireplace.

“What’s wrong—,” his voice shakes so he raises his head and forces it still, “what’s wrong is that your precious brother is abandoning m—us,” he sneers.

A second passes. Then another.

“What?”

Damian turns to face him. “Richard is leaving, he is not staying around. We aren’t worth enough to him.”

He doesn’t tell him that Dick hadn’t decided. He doesn’t tell him that he wanted to help Tim.

Jason leans back, stung. Hurt flashes across his face, then is quickly enveloped by anger. Then they’re gone, though not gone from his eyes.

It brings less satisfaction to Damian than he thought it would.

“You don’t talk ‘bout Dick like that, brat,” Jason points a finger at Damian.

Then they’re both on their feet, though Damian doesn’t remember getting up.

“I did not say anything that is untrue,” Damian retorted.

“Yer so arrogant!” Jason laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. “Yer such a child, I get why Bruce couldn’t stand to be ‘round ya fer more than a few minutes, I’d leave the house and live on the streets again if I could just tuh get away from ya!”

Tears spring to his eyes and Damian hates himself for it, hates that Jason got them out of him.

“At least I have a mother who cared enough to keep me alive!” He screeches.

Damian only sees Jason’s expression for a moment, then a frame is flying towards his face. He ducks, just to take a book to his middle and he darts behind a chair as protection, yanking his knife out and—

“Boys!” Dick’s voice interrupts them. “Stop! Stop fighting, both of you!”

Jason rounds on him. “Don’t you cover fer him—”

“I’m not covering for anyone, Jason.”

Jason freezes, though his hands are quivering with barely contained rage.

“I won’t go,” Dick’s voice is barely above a whisper. “I won’t go, Dami.”

If Dick were alive still, would people think he was the blood son over Damian? He had seen him in the pictures (the frames lay tattered on the carpet) and even though he had darker skin than Father and wavier hair, he was lighter than Damian.

If they had stood side by side and the public was watching Dick smile, watching his eyes twinkle, would they see Father in him?

Would they see Father in Damian?

“I don’t want to talk to you, Richard,” Damian keeps his eyes on the ground. Distantly, he feels his palms sting, his knuckles throb. He ignores it.

“So, it’s true then?” Jason’s expression is still, devoid of any of his emotion from moments before.

Dick exhales, the gesture meaningless without functioning lungs, but done out of habit, nonetheless.

“I was—,” he pauses, correcting himself, “I wanted to move on. To help Tim pass on. But I’m not going to.” His eyes dart intermittently between Jason and the scattered mess on the floor.

Jason doesn’t say anything.

Damian closes his hands into loose fists, fingertips running over the torn skin on his palms.

Dick makes a half-sound, like a hum that has been cut short.

“Okay,” Jason says. “Okay, I mean, yer dead, it was bound tuh happen sometime or anotha.”

“What?” Damian snaps.

Jason doesn’t spare him a glance.

“Yer supposed tuh move on eventually. I dunno exactly how this all works, but if yer feelin’ pulled away, then it must be yer time.”

“Jason….”

“No,” Damian steps between the two, a storm in his eyes. “No, he is not going.”

Jason grits his teeth, eyes narrowing.

Then, his posture loosens, if only minutely. He runs a hand through his hair, forcing his eyes shut as he does.

Then when he opens them again, he is looking at Damian.

“I’m not gonna go, Little Demon.”

Damian opens his mouth then shuts it again.

“Why— why would I care if you are going or not?”

His eyes burn with tears, nonetheless.

Jason rolls his eyes.

“Come on.” He opens his arms and motions him forward.

Damian stares. Did he really think he would actually hug him?

Dick surges forward, tumbling into Jason’s embrace and before the two of them hug without Damian at all, Dick turns and holds out his hand and—

Damian takes it.

He cannot feel his hand, cannot even hold it. But he follows Dick’s prompting, follows the steady flow of emotions flowing from his touch, and lets himself get pulled into their embrace.

Where Jason presses to one side of him buzzes like the static of a car passing by too close. His arm is around the top of Damian’s back, and his other is on Dick’s.

And Dick is pressed against him, chin resting on his shoulder, arm looped around him.

It’s clunky and awkward and Damian can’t touch them without his arms passing through their figures but it’s… nice….

And the emotions from Dick’s contact drums like a heartbeat in Damian’s skull.

Love, love, scared, lonely, love, guilt, guilt, scared, love, love, love.

Damian’s lip quivers. “I do not want you to leave.”

Don’t leave me.

I don’t know how to find someone like you again.

I don’t want to need someone like I need you again.

I don’t know how to be like you.

“I know,” Dick whispers.

“But I will let you go.”

Jason lets go and Dick pulls back.

Damian doesn’t care that they can see the tears that run silent tracks down his cheeks.

“Damian, you don’t have to—”

“You’re dead, Richard.”

Dick blinks.

Damian continues.

“You’re dead and I am not. We know this. It is like Todd said. It was foolish of me to try to keep you where you do not belong.”

Dick’s face scrunches, as if hurt by his words.

“Right. Right, I’m sorry,” he floats backward, away from them.

Damian can feel Jason staring but does not deign to look over.

He had done it.

Now Dick was free to leave.

He dries his face with the back of his hand.

Chapter Text

The microwave whirrs, the glass of water turning as it boiled. Damian can see his reflection in the smudgey door. A cup of dry noodles sits on the counter, patiently waiting for the hot water to join it.

In his mind there are photos on the fridge, pinned there by magnets from tourist destinations all over the world. The pictures are of other people, other memories. A picnic table and smiling faces, a birthday cake with lit candles. The picture is not his and the fleeting thought dissipates with the beep of the microwave.

 The glass burns his fingers when he touches it and he can feel the open cuts on his palm again, dried blood cracking as he grabs a hot pad to get the glass out.

His phone buzzes as he sits down.

The steam rises from the Styrofoam cup, cut off by the lid as he shuts it again to let the noodles cook.

“I talked to the roomies, they like the idea about the new HQ. We’ll talk deets tmrw.”

Damian flips the phone over.

His knee jumps, bouncing in place as he sits in the kitchen chair.

His teeth grind together.

His nails scratch against the cut, burning as they do.

“Damian.”

Damian’s leg stills for a moment, before it starts bouncing again.

“What do you want, Todd?” He snaps, though it’s lacking his usual energy.

“It took me like twenty minutes tuh get all this out,” Jason drops a first aid kit onto the tabletop. “If I’m gonna be handlin’ yer hand then the least you can do is open it fer me.”

Damian stares. “What?”

“C’mon man, I know you got cut on the glass, just open it up fer me.”

Damian is still unsure why Jason is here at all, but he does not want to talk anymore. He unlatches the first aid kit with ease and watches the poltergeist move forward to lean over the open kit.

More than once his hand passes through an object before he is able to finally grab it, but he does not ask for help the whole while. So, Damian does not offer any.

Damian flinches as Jason wipes the blood away from the wound. It was nothing compared to what he had gone through at home, and he chides himself for the response. It did not hurt, but it was… unexpected. Even as he watches Jason busy himself with the supplies, every move is unexpected.

“It’s unfair.”

“What?” Damian doesn’t raise his head when Jason speaks but neither does he.

Jason sprays something that makes the cut bubble and burn slightly. “We coulda known each other when we were alive. If Bruce just—”

His hand passes through the tin of bandages, and he clenches his fist, tamping down his anger.

“If Bruce just—,” he wraps the bandage around Damian’s hand, gentle but firm. “I dunno, D. I dunno what to tell ya.”

He exhales and looks up at Damian briefly before his shoulders slump and his eyes shift back down.

“I miss him. Bruce,” he clarifies. “I miss my mom. I miss Alfred. I wish you had gotten tuh meet ‘im.”

He shifts to sit in the chair beside Damian.

“When I met Dick, he didn’t remember nuthin’. I just thought he were some ghost livin’ on the property. I didn’t know B well yet, so I kept ‘im secret. We became friends. He was my only friend.” His voice is far away, distant in his reminiscing. Damian stirs his ramen.

“I told ‘im I was Robin. Tha’s when he remembered. He had been Robin and had died in the suit? And B never tol’ me?” His voice hardens, recollecting old anger. “I couldn’t take it. So, when I heard about my real mom and how he kept that from me too, I knew I had tuh go.”

He’s quiet and Damian’s eyes flick to his ramen cup. He imagines he could take a bite now.

He doesn’t.

“When I di—,” he swallows. “When I came back, everythin’ was different. And Dick didn’t remember me. I think that’s when I started to… let go of ‘im. ‘Course, he remembered me eventually, but he doesn’t always. He had been dead long before I got ‘ere and all I was seein’ was the remnants of someone I never got tuh meet.”

“I understand what you are saying, Todd.” Damian pulls his hand away, curling it into a fist.

“No, Damian, you don’t,” Jason’s eyes meet his forcefully. “I had years to mourn ‘im. Years to hate Bruce for not keepin’ us safe. You’ve had what, a day or two?”

Damian does not correct him.

“It’s gonna take time fer you to be able tuh not hurt. But don’t let ‘im go without sayin’ a propa goodbye, ya get me?”

Damian stands, dumping the cup of ramen into the already overflowing trash bin.

~

They meet at the regular place the next morning. Stephanie has ordered a drink and some kind of egg tart and is complaining about how early it is and the bell over the door jingles as another customer comes in, cheerfully greeting the barista and remarking on the clear sky and—

“Damian.”

“What is it, Stephanie?” Damian turns his attention onto her sharply.

“You had just zoned out a bit there, bud,” she takes a sip of her iced coffee, carefully hiding her concern with the sugary drink.

“I heard you. It is not too early. It is eight, which is a reasonable time to breakfast.”

Stephanie slides her egg tart closer to herself and tears the plastic wrap off her fork.

“Except you have not gotten any breakfast, Dames.”

She doesn’t attempt to hide her concern now.

“I am not hungry,” he tilts his chin up stiffly. “I ate late last night.”

“Right….”

“You wanted to speak about the details about moving into the Manor,” Damian reminds.

Stephanie cuts into the tart with her fork but does not take a bite.

“Damian, we don’t have to talk about this right now—”

“Why should we not?” Damian snaps, hands in his lap bunching the fabric of his pants.

“I mean—”

“We should not waste time, Brown.” His eyes are burning, and he pushes his gaze away from her face, looking over her shoulder instead. A mother with a toddler walks out of the bathroom and returns to their table. “We have decided this is the best course so there is no reason to wait, we should just move forward with our plan and decide on the details now.”

“Damian—”

Stephanie reaches a hand out tentatively but it stops part way across the table top.

“Should we not?” His eyes hold hers. He does not blink. He cannot afford to.

Stephanie’s eyes are gentle, brown but amber in the sunlight, soft enough to make his eyes well more than they already were.

“We don’t need to today, Robbie,” her voice is like a blanket over his shoulders and try as he might, he can’t shrug it off. “We’ve got all the time in the world, bud.”

The toddler on his mother’s lap fusses, reaching up to latch onto her hijab. Her hand cups his, gently redirecting it so she can kiss it lightly. He squirms out of her hold, twisting to watch a man ordering a cappuccino. He whines, reaching out to point at the keychain dangling off the man’s satchel. The mother smiles, bouncing her leg to keep her son entertained.

“Dames?”

A college student rushes by the shop, hurrying to the bus stop on the corner. There’s a pair of red headphones around his neck and a bunch of folders under his arm. A folder slides free, barely missing a puddle as it falls to the sidewalk. A young woman rolls up behind him, leaning over in her wheelchair to grab the folder and the man turns to take it from her extended hand just as the bus drives up—

“Damian?” Stephanie’s voice is more urgent now.

The sky is clearer, just like the man had said. The sun has beaten back the storm clouds and the puddles along the side of the road happily reflect its beams before their visage is shattered by the oncoming traffic.

Damian stands up, startling Stephanie who had leaned forward to shake him out of his stupor.

“I have to go.”

“Wha—?”

“It is like you said. We have all the time in the world.”

~

Damian can’t get back home fast enough.

The front door flings open as he bursts inside, and he doesn’t stop to lock it.

“Richard!” He grimaces at the sound of his own voice, frantic and loud, but he doesn’t quiet himself. “Richard!”

“Damian? Wha’s wrong?” Jason comes around the corner and Damian can faintly hear the television set in the other room. He peers up at him as he bounds up the stairs, hand barely touching the railing.

He pauses on the steps for a moment to look back at the poltergeist standing at the base of the staircase. “Jason,” he practically barks. “Richard—has he—?” His throat is suddenly dry, and he cannot finish his words.

Jason knows anyways.

“He’s upstairs.”

Damian continues racing up the steps, ignoring how loud his footfalls are.

“Hey brat, wait a sec, he’s in the attic. It’s… it’s where ‘e goes”

Damian looks back for a moment. “Thank you.”

Then he’s off again.

There’s a spare room on the second floor used for storing old towels and linens and a dusty old mattress propped against the wall. The ceiling is slanted from the roof and there’s only one window.

But most importantly, there was a door and a couple of steps that led to the attic space.

There are several light switches on his left, mounted on unfinished wood. Labels are written in an unfamiliar hand above each one. He flicks the light on and steps into the attic room.

It’s dusty and even with the light on, it’s dim. The ceiling is barely taller than he is and here and there he can spy a nail jutting through the rough wood or a loose staple holding up a wire. A rug and some chests line the wall to his left and right across from him is an old dresser with a mirror. And in front of it, staring at its empty surface was an apparition.

“Richard?”

The ghost swivels around to look at him, but his expression does not change.

“Hey, Dami.”

He forces a smile, but it wavers almost immediately.

“I do not want you to go.”

“I know, Little D,” Dick exhales.

“I did not finish,” Damian steps forward stiffly. “I do not want you to go, that is true. But I know,” he hesitates, “I know you need to.”

Dick blinks.

Damian doesn’t want to, but he continues.

“But you cannot go yet, not until… not until I say a proper goodbye.” He tilts his chin up. “I’ve never… missed someone before. I think I miss my mother, but not like—,” he shifts his eyes away from Dick’s, “not like I am—not like I will miss you.”

The words wrap around his throat until they are bursting out his mouth.

“I have never loved someone like you before, Richard. And I am scared, I am scared of not having you forever, of not waking up and knowing you’re there. Of not talking, not hearing you. Not seeing you.” Heavy tears drop from his lashes.

“But humans weren’t meant to be forever. You wouldn’t be you after forever.”

Dick tilts his head slightly and Damian unfurls his fists, bandaged palms throbbing.

He exhales and suddenly feels as limp as a dead fish. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “I shouldn’t have said—”

“Oh, Dami, I love you too. You’re my little brother.”

Damian drops his hand to look up at the ghost. There are tears in his eyes, and a shaky smile on his face and Damian doesn’t have to touch him to know what he’s feeling.

“I’m scared too,” his voice trembles as he speaks, words nearly a whisper.

Damian’s breath hitches and he can feel his nose begin to run. “I know.”

“But you’re a hero. You help people. Then,” the corners of his mouth twitch, “then you’ll get to retire.”

Dick chuckles but it sounds more like a sob. “I guess you’re right.”

They’re quiet for a moment, wet eyes flicking over one another’s faces before darting to the floor.

“And Dames—?”

“I will retire Robin with you, Richard,” Damian’s voice is soft, but firm.

Dick stares for a moment, before wiping his face.

“Thanks, Little D.”

Damian knows it in that moment. There are two of them in that attic room. And tomorrow, if he comes up here again, there will be one.

Tomorrow, when he goes to bed, it won’t be with a chattering ghost floating above his bed.

He wonders how many know when their “lasts” will be when they sit with their loved ones.

He prays the last moment with his mother will not be his last.

As nausea roils in his stomach, he stands with his last. Sunlight filters through the blinds, turned gray from the dusty fabric as it spills onto the bare floors. Damian’s stifled sobs interrupt the tense silence, tremors rippling through his body with each muffled sound.

Damian’s eyes are jammed shut but he does not need them to feel Dick’s arms wrap around him. Physically, there’s nothing there but a light buzzing sensation and Damian feels himself longing for his heavy embrace, for his breath on his hair, his heartbeat jammed against his ear. But it’s nothing more than a fragment of imagination.

“I love you, Damian.”

“I love you too, Richard.”

~

Dick is scared.

He knows the feeling well, even if he had forgotten it for a time.

He felt it with his parents when he jumped for the first time, twisting in the air as he reached for his dad’s hands.

Then he felt it again staring into the eyes of a teenager, barely older than he was, trembling as she jammed the contents of a cash register into her duffle bag, shaking handgun pointing at the young hero’s chest.

But it wasn’t how he felt when he fell. And it wasn’t how he felt when he saw Bruce attack Damian. He had been terrified then. He wasn’t now.

He knew what must be done, and he knew he could do it.

And he knew someone was going to get hurt.

But what he wouldn’t tell Jay or Dami was that he was also… excited.

His mom and dad—

Dick bit his lip, forcing the smile to go away.

It didn’t feel right to be happy, not when he was hurting the others so.

Well, Jason seemed alright. They had come down from the attic and Damian stepped away to let him tell Jay himself. And Jason… he wasn’t surprised. Sure, he had already heard about this, and argued with Damian over it, but still…. But no matter how much Dick needled, Jay insisted he was okay with it.

Maybe he was okay with it. But it would still hurt. They both knew that.

And Dick knew he couldn’t be the one to fix that for him.

It almost made him turn around as they trekked down the stairs to the Cave.

He wouldn’t be there to comfort him.

If Dick could have stopped to puke or scream or tear all of his hair out, he would’ve.

But the incessant pull in the pit of his stomach that grew stronger the closer he got to the bottom of the stairs kept him from doing more than moving forward.

Damian’s feet are the only footfalls they can hear as they walk into the Cave.

A computer screen flickers to life, as if watching them, but there is no sign of the phantom yet.

Dick turns around to look at his little brothers. Damian is stiff and determined, sniffling but no longer crying and Jason, although nonchalant and gently joking when they began their short journey to the Cave, had grown quiet as they reached the end of the steps.

They both look worse for wear, red-rimmed eyes for the living and haunted eyes for the dead.

And they’re beautiful.

“Hey,” Jason’s voice stirs amid the distant cries of bats. “He’s ‘ere.”

Dick looks over his shoulder. Tim hangs there midair, as if held by a puppet string, dangling by the computer screen. He is silent, blank stare glued to the floor, even as tears dribble down his cheeks.

“You’re going now.” Damian’s eyes dart to Dick, his voice rising in pitch.

Dick’s heart rises to his throat. Damian was panicking and he was leaving, he couldn’t fix it and—

“Hey, it’ll be alright, bud,” Jason swings an arm around Damian’s shoulders, grounding him. “This ain’t the end. Not fer you. Not fer us,” he asserts.

Dick’s lip quivers.

Suddenly, he’s tumbling forward, arms wrapping around them.

“I love you both,” he breathes.

Jason buries his face into Dick’s arm and Damian squeezes his eyes shut.

“And I don’t want to see you anytime soon,” he emphatically declares, before planting an invisible kiss on Damian’s head.

He breaks away from the embrace and Damian opens his eyes again.

“Thank you, Richard. For everything.”

Damian suddenly seems so small. He is older than Dick was when he died, but under his sweatshirt and smeared tears, it’s nothing.

“See ya again sometime,” Jason smiles, and though it trembles, it reaches his eyes.

Dick finds all he can do is nod as he drifts back away from them. Tim is waiting there, mute even as his mouth quivers and more tears spill.

“Hey!” Jason’s voice interrupts.

Dick turns; head cocked.

“Tell yer parents we said ‘hi,’” he grins toothily.

Something warm grows in his chest, spreading to his face and down to his fingertips.

Then he smiles.

“I will.”

He takes Tim’s hand and feels the warmth continue to spread. His ears buzz and he feels gravity pulling for the first time in years.

Light floods his vision, bright enough to make him squint and his heart is thumping in his chest, and he feels heavier than he has in years and lighter than he has in days and there are figures just out of reach and—

He can’t help but laugh. He’s so excited and—

He turns around, teeth flashing in a grin. Then with his free hand, he waves.

And when he turns back around, once more facing the light, he can feel the color returning to his body.

“Oh, my little robin, I am so proud of you!”

It’s only when his mom’s hand is stroking his cheek, only when her eyes meet his, only when he can hear his dad’s voice over her shoulder, only then is when he lets go of Tim’s hand. Then her arms are around him, and he can feel her pressing around him, feel her lips as she presses kiss after kiss onto his hair, feel her soul against his.

His dad is saying something to Tim, assuring him of what is happening, then he is added to the embrace, heavy arms crushing as they pull Dick and his mom into his chest and Dick is entirely smothered.

And Dick thinks that it would be pretty okay if they stayed like this forever.

~

The ceiling fan clicks as it spins overhead.

It’s cool enough in his bedroom and he doesn’t need it anymore.

But he’s already in bed, sheets tangled around his restless limbs, and the switch is too far away.

The clock read 3:08 AM.

Damian shuts his dry eyes.

Dick hovers just out of peripheral when he does.

He opens them again.

Then he is up, feet pounding on the floor as he tears across the room, strewing the sheets across the carpet. The switch for the fan flips down.

It takes a moment, but Damian watches it all the while. The fan spins at its regular rate at first, then it begins to slow—

3:09 AM, Richard is sitting on the bed.

It barely clicks as the blades turn lackadaisically. His nose is stuffy, and his eyes feel swollen. All he wants to do is peel the skin off his face, so he won’t feel it anymore—

He crosses the room again, feet padding, and scoops the sheets up off the floor and throws them back onto the bed. His eyes drift to the desk, to a pad of paper and pen left idly there.

3:11 AM. Richard hovers upside down over his head, making a face.

Damian grabs the paper and pen and throws open the bedroom door.

He’s at the kitchen table, an old photo of Dick Grayson lying on the scratched surface in front of him.

But he barely looks at it as he draws.

He doesn’t need to.

His pen scratches over the pad and there’s Dick, expression thoughtful, head cocked, half-drawn hand extended.

He doesn’t feel Jason’s eyes watching from behind. And he doesn’t notice his eyes droop.

~

The front door slams and Damian jolts awake.

Someone shushes loudly and a voice pitches in return.

“Just wanted to make a good first impression—!”

“—impression of my foot—”

“Shuddup, would ya? He’s sleepin’!”

He sits up, groggily growing aware of his surroundings. He’s on the couch in the living room. A pad of paper and pen sit on the side table. A blanket slips off of him when he stands up.

The clock on the wall reads just after nine.

“There wasn’t any juice in the fridge, so I got some.”

The fridge door opens.

Damian creeps closer.

“That’s a giant jug of orange juice, Cullen,” a familiar voice remarks.

Stephanie.

Damian stands just out of sight as he peers into the kitchen.

“Nice,” a blue-haired woman snorts as she cracks an egg into a pan. “Anyways, it’s too late to make a good first impression, Cullen.”

The brunet doesn’t stop as he loads more food into the fridge. “Huh? Why?”

“You’ve met already,” Stephanie grins before tossing a handful of cereal into her mouth.

Cullen pauses, box of sliced pineapple still in his hands. “Have I?”

“Yeah, you were passed out on the couch.”

“Mhmm, it was right after you binged Supernatural for the millionth time while Steph and I were out,” the blue-haired woman, who must be Harper, plated a fried egg then turned to hand it to Jason before grimacing. “Ouch, sorry man, I forgot.”

“No worries,” Jason turns imperceptibly to catch Damian’s eye and slides the plate across the table to sit in front of an empty chair.

Stephanie follows his gesture and turns to see Damian frozen on the outskirts of the kitchen. She motions silently and pats the chair.

“Man, Steph, you should’ve given me heads-up or something, I wouldn’t have been out on the couch droolin’ and snorin’ or whatever if I knew you were having someone over.” He jams a package of vegetarian sausages into the top drawer, shutting it sharply.

Stephanie grins as Damian silently takes a seat beside her. “But it’s more fun that way.”

Harper must sense something in her tone because she turns, her eyes landing on Damian. Then they slide off easily and she jerks her chin at Stephanie. “Want an egg?”

“Mmm, sure. Sunny side up, please,” she responds brightly, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table.

“You’ll get whatever happens to come off the pan, princess.”

Stephanie pouts, her lip sticking out like a petulant child.

Jason is close on one side, nudging his plate closer, beckoning him to eat. Stephanie is on the other, a grin evident in her voice as she goads the siblings as they busy themselves with breakfast.

And as Damian tentatively picks his fork up, he finds himself to not be alone.

He digs his fork into the egg but doesn’t take a bite and Cullen yelps when he turns around and sees him for the first time and Stephanie laughs at him and Jason is rolling his eyes and—

And Damian was not alone.