Work Text:
There were several things Damian Wayne considered beneath him:
• Participation trophies
• Weak hand-to-hand combat
• School counseling
Unfortunately, Bruce and Natasha had decided he had to attend this one.
The Letter
"Dear Mr. Wayne & Ms. Romanoff,
We would like to invite you for a mandatory family counseling session regarding your child, Damian. He has shown exceptional intelligence and potential, but we are concerned about his lack of connection to peers, overly formal speech, violent metaphors, and tendency to carry small, sharp objects."
"Please attend the meeting this Friday at 10:00 AM. Thank you!"
Damian handed it to Bruce without a word.
Bruce read it. Raised an eyebrow. “You carried how many knives to gym?” Damian: “Four.” Natasha: “Only four? You’re slipping.”
The school counselor was expecting… normal. She got Bruce Wayne in a charcoal suit radiating subtle menace, and Natasha Romanoff in black, casually spinning a pen between fingers like a dagger. Damian followed them in, silent, precise, looking like he might assassinate the principal if he was denied vending machine access again.
“Good morning,” said the counselor, attempting a warm smile. “I’m Ms. Carson.” Bruce nodded once. Natasha just raised an eyebrow. Ms. Carson's smile wavered.
“I want to start by saying Damian is very gifted,” Ms. Carson said. “He’s a top student. Very mature.” “Correct,” Damian said. “But…” She glanced at her notes. “We’re… a bit concerned about his emotional expression.” Natasha leaned forward. “Define concerned.”
“Well, in art class, he submitted a drawing labeled ‘strategic tower collapse via weak load-bearing points.’” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Was it structurally sound?” “It was terrifying.” “He used correct terminology,” Natasha noted.
“Also,” Ms. Carson continued, “he refused to participate in the ‘My Role Model’ essay.” “I did,” Damian agreed. “You requested someone ‘inspirational.’ I found no one fitting.” Bruce looked proud. Natasha grinned. Ms. Carson turned slightly pale.
“We’d like him to consider… social strategies,” Ms. Carson said. “Open up. Connect. Use tools to manage his feelings.” “Such as?” Bruce asked. “Drawing. Journaling. Breathing exercises.”
Damian blinked slowly. “I do breathing exercises. In combat.” “That’s… not what we meant.”
Natasha pulled a notepad from her bag. “Would you like him to demonstrate battlefield meditation?” “No thank you,” Ms. Carson said weakly.
The “Feelings” Prompt Ms. Carson slid a sheet across the table. “Damian, can you draw how you feel right now?” Damian stared at the paper. Then took the pen. Five minutes later, he handed it back.
It was a detailed aerial map of the school’s weaknesses, marked with color-coded points titled:
• “Emotional breach points”
• “Trust vulnerabilities”
• “Mediocre cafeteria chokepoints”
Ms. Carson blinked. “This is... very specific.” Bruce leaned in. “That’s a solid analysis of the west exit.” “I told them the fire drills were inefficient,” Damian muttered.
Ms. Carson tried again. “Damian, what do you do when you feel… overwhelmed?” “I defeat it.” “And if you feel sad?” “I meditate. Then throw knives.” “Angry?” “Throw larger knives.”
Ms. Carson turned to Bruce and Natasha. “Do you... talk to him about emotions at home?” Natasha smirked. “We spar. It’s how we bond.” “Damian and I recently disarmed a weaponized mannequin together,” Bruce offered. “He cried once,” Natasha added.
Ms. Carson perked up. “He did?” “After a blade nicked his hand.” Ms. Carson slumped.
Ms. Carson sighed. “Damian is clearly intelligent. But the issue is emotional connection. He doesn’t seem to understand friendship.” “I understand it,” Damian said. “It’s a battlefield alliance, maintained by mutual respect and occasional snacks.” “...that’s not—” “I gave Jon Kent a shuriken for his birthday.”
Ms. Carson stared. “Did he want a shuriken?” “He didn’t say no.” Bruce sighed. Natasha looked smug.
“I’d like to suggest Damian start a journal,” Ms. Carson said. “About what?” he asked. “Your thoughts. Feelings. What makes you happy or sad.” Damian narrowed his eyes. “Can I code it in Latin and booby-trap it?” Ms. Carson blinked.
Natasha grinned. “Compromise: Latin encryption, no traps.” “Acceptable,” Damian muttered.
“We’ll also pair him with a peer mentor,” Ms. Carson added. “Someone his age to encourage social growth.” Bruce’s mouth twitched. “Good luck.” Natasha stood. “If they cry, it’s character-building.”
Ms. Carson shook their hands with the trembling fear of a woman who realized she’d just tried to emotionally adjust a genetically engineered assassin.
As they walked out:
Damian: “Do I have to write in the journal?”
Natasha: “Yes.”
Damian: “Do you read it?”
Natasha: “Only if you want me to.”
Bruce: “Or if it starts glowing.”
Damian paused. “If I write that I like when we cook together…”
Natasha smiled softly. “I’d like that.”
Damian didn’t respond. But later that night, she found the journal on her desk. It said:
Entry One:
My parents are complicated. But I think… I am not broken. That might be enough.