Chapter Text
Damian punches the nearest cultist in the face, and slashes at the arms of a second one with his katana. From the sounds of things, Father is handling his fair share on the opposite side of the docks. Getting separated was a bit of an annoying setback, but it was better than facing a horde of two dozen or so assailants at once.
A fist catches him in the stomach, but he quickly knocks the cultist out with the flat of his blade. When the man hits the wet concrete, though, a bright light pulses from the center of the docks.
Damian would rather not get distracted with a dozen opponents left, but it’s good to note whatever supernatural element these fools have channeled.
The cultists, though, seem equally as confused, as many of them swivel and turn their backs on him to watch the blinding light themselves. Damian takes out a few more henchmen while their backs are turned. It’s on them for getting distracted, really.
When most of his foes fall and the glowing light dims, Damian finally gets a good look at the new appearance — it’s himself.
A ten-year-old boy in shining red, yellow, and green Robin colors — it could’ve been any of them, from a distance — but only Damian Wayne carried a sword. A perfect replica of the one currently in his hands.
This Robin does not hesitate to use it, either, as he mows down several cultists without a second look. Damian would have been satisfied with the efficiency, if he didn’t know for certain the six men Robin cut down would die of their injuries within minutes.
Damian doesn’t know what is happening or why, but he ditches his remaining combatants to, unfortunately, go rescue Robin’s.
“Robin!” Damian shouts, from across the battlefield. It gives the young Robin a bit of pause, some tensing in the shoulders for being scolded for an unknown reason, but it doesn’t stop him from slicing at another cultist.
Damian slides into the fight, and parries Robin’s sword before it can fatally strike another person. “Stop fighting, you’re killing them.”
Robin’s face tightens as he notices their matching faces and identical swords. “Then I’ll kill you, instead.”
This child is no match for Damian, not really. But where the Robin’s skills are lacking, his passion and merciless drive give him an advantage. Damian doesn’t want to kill his opponent; Robin does.
Damian deflects a few swings of Robin’s sword, but needs to retreat to create enough berth to truly disarm him.
Robin growls, “Fight me! Don’t be another useless excuse for a clone and give me a real fight!”
Drawing a breath, Damian understands.
If this is real, this is a younger version of Damian Wayne, fresh to Gotham and to the Robin title, who doesn’t yet know friend from foe. He only knows what the League of Assassins has taught him, and whatever brief amount of time Father and Richard have given him. He doesn’t know the meaning of Batman and Robin, and he’s not yet gotten the chance to meet the rest of his family.
He is alone and he is frightened.
“I’m not a clone of you, I am you,” Damian explains. “I’m not sent from Mother or Grandfather; I’m not trying to send you back to the League. You’re in the future, and I’m on your side.”
Robin’s masked eyes flit between Damian in front of him and Batman fighting his way over, in the distance.
“You’re lying,” Robin says, though he has no proof — Damian is not lying. It doesn’t stop Robin from swinging his sword once more, and again, Damian parries perfectly.
“I have no reason to lie to you, I’m clearly more skilled and could’ve taken you down at any time—” This does not help to make the younger Damian trust him; he changes tactics. “I know you. I remember being you. I remember the first times we went out as Batman and Robin: Batman rescued you from Professor Pyg, and you couldn’t believe that someone would save you. You. For all the grief you gave him, all the times you ran off on your own and went against the rules, Batman never hesitated to save you when you needed it.”
This gets Robin to lower the sword and think, at least.
Damian’s never told his thoughts about that to anyone. That he didn’t deserve to be saved. That he didn’t deserve a good number of things. Surely, Richard pieced it together by now, though. He’s intelligent, most of the time.
Robin shifts his feet slightly, but his fighting stance does not waver. “I still don’t trust you.”
“That’s fine,” Damian says, trying to channel Richard or Father, whenever he tested their patience just by being himself. He gestures across the dockyard to where Batman is cleaning up the end of his fight. “Would you trust Batman to tell you the truth?”
This changes Robin’s attitude somewhat — maybe Richard had already gotten through to him by this point. Maybe he’s already beginning to understand the necessity of teamwork.
“I will speak to Batman,” Robin says. “But you will not come any closer to me, if you value your life.”
Damian agrees, sheathing his blade, though the other Robin makes no move to do the same.
Batman approaches slowly, eyeing the two Robins as they stand side by side.
Damian and this younger Robin barely look alike — Damian is fourteen, already much taller and more angular than his ten-year-old self, and wears an updated grey uniform, while the younger Robin still wears bright colors, clings to his baby fat, and stands well under five feet tall.
But, Damian supposes, Bruce didn’t see much of him at that age, specifically.
“Batman, explain what’s going on,” Robin says. Damian notices the subtle fear in his voice and grip on his sword, but he doubts Bruce recognizes the full extent of it. Damian always used to feel so unknown; though maybe he was more obvious than he’d thought.
Batman, instead, looks to Damian for explanation, upsetting Robin in the process.
“Don’t look at him, look at me!” Robin shouts, trying to maintain control of his very uncontrollable situation. “Tell me what’s happening!”
“Let’s go back to the Cave and we can figure this out together,” Batman — Father — says.
Robin, instead, swings at Batman.
Damian isn’t fast enough to draw his sword and intervene, so he throws himself at the smaller child and tackles him to the ground.
They wrestle and grapple for the upper hand in the wet gravel, but again, Damian is fourteen and Robin is barely ten. He knows how to win a fight against a ten-year-old. Especially if said ten-year-old is himself.
“You’re lying! You’re not my Batman! Who are you?” Robin yelps, trying to escape Damian’s tight hold. “Let me go!”
“You’re four years in the future. Things have changed,” Damian grits out. His bangs are now wet and drip onto his forehead as he holds the child down. He whispers, “Father was never dead and Richard is fine. We’ll take you back to the Cave and figure this out together.”
Robin struggles in his grasp, ignoring Damian’s words.
“Would you rather go to the Bunker to debrief? It’s still under our possession,” Damian offers instead.
This makes Robin pause. He relaxes a bit in Damian’s grip and, while he doesn’t ever fully relax, he does release a good amount of tension.
Robin nods slightly.
The drive back to the Bunker is dead silent. It’s a shorter drive than if they were to go back to the Batcave, but by the time they pull into the garage, Damian has entirely exhausted his hypervigilance on the child.
Stuck in the backseat guarding his younger self, he has to wait for Batman to let them both out, like children. Or criminals.
Luckily, the child goes willingly. He’s quiet and somber, and maybe he’s not quite willing, but chooses to behave to stave off further danger for the moment. It’s in his best interest to keep quiet until he gets answers, Damian understands.
The Bunker still looks the same, to Damian’s memory — they never really packed their things away after Bruce returned. Most of it remains, with a thin layer of dust atop the surfaces.
“Home, sweet home,” Damian says, laying the sarcasm on a bit thick for his younger self.
In Urdu, Robin glares over at Bruce and asks, “Who is this Batman? What happened to Grayson?”
“He is our father, Bruce Wayne,” Damian says, following Robin’s lead and using a language not many in Gotham use. If it makes him more comfortable and easier to work with, it’s worth a shot. “Richard never wanted to be Batman indefinitely. He has returned to being Nightwing of Bludhaven.”
Of course, if Father listens closely, he will be able to hear the familiar names and common words. Especially since much of the family had taken to learning basic Urdu for him. But this smaller version of himself doesn’t know that yet, and it makes him feel safer.
Robin looks like he has so much he wants to say, but can’t decide on where to start. He settles with, “Why do you call him Richard, like you are equals? Though we are partners now, it is I who is the true heir to the Batman name. It is my birthright.”
“We are equals,” Damian says simply. “We are Batman and Robin, even when we aren’t working together. We’re family.”
“But you have a family,” Robin whines. Bruce watches them both, but keeps his distance, fiddling with the Bunker’s outdated Batcomputer controls. “My father is dead, Mother will not have me, and Grayson only puts up with me because no one else will. It’s not fair!”
“You have to remember, this isn’t an alternate universe, this will be your future, too,” Damian says, feeling sorry for the kid.
He had been so lonely, so unwanted, in the beginning. Even when the notion of Bruce returning began to feel possible, Damian still had no promise of family through him. All he was promised was another new start with someone who only tolerated him because they legally had to. Of course, Bruce came around, but Damian had no idea how long it would take to safely lower his hackles.
“Stay here,” Damian says, in English, as he brightens with an idea.
“I will not,” Robin says, following him deeper into the Bunker.
Damian rolls his eyes. “I should have expected that. Fine, stay close.”
“Damian, is that such a good—”
“I have an idea,” Damian says, turning his back on his father to scrounge through shelved cardboard boxes. Robin hovers by his shoulder, suspicious but unafraid, as young Damian was wont to be. “Keep working on the cause of this, we will not be too disruptive.”
Damian knows he found it when his fingers barely brush its edges. When he pulls the small item from the box of trinkets, Robin scoffs, “A whistle?”
“Well, Goliath doesn’t exactly have a phone, does he?” Damian jokes, and reins in a shudder at feeling just a bit too like Richard, there.
“Goliath?” Robin asks, confusion, awe, and trepidation swirling on his face.
Damian, instead of answering, blows the whistle.
Bruce, from his corner, shows his displeasure in the minute twitch of his frown, but otherwise makes no comment.
In moments, Goliath soars in through the open garage door and lands at both Damians’ feet. Goliath, to his credit, looks less confused and more happy to see two versions of Damian.
Robin, smaller now, is less pleased to see him.
“He’s been freed of his chains.” His distaste for the notion made clear.
“He’s not ours to control,” Damian says. “But Goliath will always come when you need him. He is a worthy friend.”
“Must everyone be a friend to you? Is it not tiring to always deal with those beneath you?” Robin crosses his arms and turns his head from Goliath. “I can’t believe this is the person I turn into. It can’t be right.”
Now Damian rolls his eyes. “I guess you won’t like to hear that I’ve chosen to give up the Batman mantle, I’m a vegetarian, and I have a girlfriend who I— who I care for very much.”
Robin scrunches his little nose in disgust. Presumably, mostly towards refusing the Batman mantle, but surely some due to having feelings and empathy towards others.
“I won’t end up like you,” Robin promises, and it sounds vaguely threatening, as did most things he said at that age. “I will train harder and become a better fighter than you and Batman combined.”
“You don’t have to,” Damian says. He leans his weight back into Goliath’s soft fur, which easily envelops him in warmth. Robin only watches him with narrowed eyes. “I’ve learned there’s more to life than fighting and legacies and symbols. Aren’t you ever tired of living up to standards you’ll never reach? Don’t you want something of your own for once?”
Robin turns pensive and does not answer.
“I like art, and manga, and taking care of my pets,” Damian lists.
“But Goliath…”
“He’s my friend, not my pet,” Damian agrees, stroking the fur of one of his heavy paws. “But I have other pets: Alfred the Cat, Titus, Bat-Cow, Jerry…”
At some point, Damian realizes, the home had been overtaken by animals. He knew he had reached his father’s adoption problem when he couldn’t find the space in the Manor to keep Wiggles, and had to become more stringent on the creatures he takes in.
“You can come see them if we return to the Manor,” Damian promises. He looks over to Bruce to check in, but he seems to trust Damian’s ability to handle the situation, for now. That, or he’s already locked into a viable solution. “Alfred loves meeting new people, the others usually take more convincing, but they would recognize you.”
“Does Goliath recognize me?” he asks. Goliath looks him over, not a drop of bad blood between them, though Robin may not be very aware of Goliath’s expressions yet. “Does he remember… what I did?”
Goliath politely scoops Robin into a giant paw. Robin is entirely too tense for the position to be comfortable for either of them, especially with the blade still attached to Robin’s back, but Goliath, at least, pays the discomfort no mind.
“He knows you,” Damian says. “But, like I said, he’s a friend. We’ve grown a lot in four years, we’re capable of changing for the better.”
“I don’t understand how I can go from me… to you.”
Damian picks at his gloves. “It’s a long process. And it takes a lot of advice from a lot of different people. I think I’m still growing into who I’m supposed to be; but I’ve learned that it’s my decision, not anyone else’s. You can be whoever you want to be.”
“What if who I want to be isn’t you?”
“Then that’s what happens,” he shrugs. “I’ve never seen time travel happen like this, but everything happens for a reason. If you came to the future and didn’t like what you saw, that’s up to you to change it.”
“Would you?” Robin asks, tentative. “Would you want to change things, if you were me right now?”
“There would be some things, I think,” Damian admits. “Some people I could’ve saved, some things I could’ve said or not said. But, no, for the most part, I like where I am now.”
The two Damians talk for a long while. Bruce manages to get some tests done, once Robin becomes more amenable to the idea. They’re no closer to figuring out the source, when Robin begins glowing the same bright light he arrived with.
“Oh, I think… I’m leaving,” Robin says, only slight panic on his young face. “I didn’t get to meet your cat.”
“You’ll meet him soon anyway,” Damian reassures.
“Any parting words for me?” Robin sasses. At least he’s not too out of his depth for that.
“You’ll be fine,” Damian says. Something does spark his memory, though, as Robin’s glow begins to fade. “Oh, spend more time with Jon, once you meet him! You’ll miss him when he’s… yeah.”
And the extra Robin is gone, like he was never here.
Bruce places a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You did a good job with him.”
“Of course I did,” he scoffs, but he does revel in the praise for just a bit. “He’s me. It would be foolish if I did not know what to say to him.”
“He probably won’t remember any of this, when he gets back home,” Bruce explains. “Unless he’s split off into a new timeline.”
“He’ll be fine either way.”
Bruce nods and squeezes Damian’s arm. “He will.”