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Damian Wayne was a proud person.
He was the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul, blood son of the Batman, skilled with a blade since diapers. Only thirteen, and he could split his foes in two if he tried. Of course, that was a big no-no here in Gotham. Not with father watching his every move.
But when the entire building exploded under him while he was evacuating civilians, leaving him crawling out with definitely a few broken bones, Damian couldn’t help but wonder what use pride really was.
All his life he had been trained to fight people. Moveable, cuttable objects, some worse than others, others naturally superior. The only obstacle to victory, he was told, were the vermin beneath him. Once he got rid of the competition, the world would be his oyster.
And yes, it was true, someone must have set the bomb off. But with no one but the smoldering remains of the apartment complex in sight, there was nothing Damian could fight but his own blood loss.
It was a miracle that he had even survived. But—ah, here was the pride again—Damian knew how to fall. Let his shoulder take the initial blow, roll back to distribute the force, and cover his head the entire time. The civilians were not so lucky. But he was in no state to help them, if they were still alive.
Clip, clip, clip went his footsteps as he walked through the streets of Gotham, today much quieter than normal, clutching his broken communicator in his hands.
Finally, Damian arrived at the gates of Wayne Manor. They clicked open for him, like servants beckoning their king forward. The trail of blood Damian left behind him trailed like a grand red cape.
He opened the door.
Alfred was there, with his long chin and piercing look. He was stood in the foyer, leaning over a table to do some indiscriminate work. He paused at the sound and turned around.
His mouth fell open in uncharacteristic shock for a second, but he quickly regained his composure. “Master Bruce!” he called calmly, as if it were just another day.
Damian and Alfred stared at each other for a moment. A door somewhere on the second floor opened.
Thump. Thump. Thump. went the steps as someone walked through the hall. Drip drip drip went Damian’s blood, oozing lazily from his leg.
Bruce turned the corner at a slow, almost begrudging pace. He faced them.
Damian’s father froze.
Thump thump thump thump thump heralded the sound of Bruce’s quick descent down the stairs and over Damian, wrapping his arms tightly around him wordlessly.
Damian stood motionlessly, one part tired, another part in shock at the blatant display of affection.
“We thought you had died,” Alfred supplied helpfully. He went into motion smoothly, walking out of the foyer. “I shall prepare the proper medical procedures for a full recovery.”
Alfred’s footsteps went click click click and they faded out. Another person, that Damian couldn’t see as his head was buried in Bruce’s chest, stumbled in.
“Damian?” said Tim’s voice, in stark disbelief. Damian didn’t respond, still wrapped up in Bruce’s arms.
After a moment of silence, Tim continued. “I’m calling Dick immediately, he’s been-“
“No need. It’s already been done,” Alfred’s voice said, now back. Damian couldn’t see what he was doing, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, Master Damian. Come down. I will stitch you up.”
Bruce’s arms slackened, releasing Damian from his hold. A bit of Bruce’s sleeve had been stained red. Damian grabbed Alfred’s hand like a lifeline. He thought he felt tears slide down his cheek. Alfred’s hand clenched tighter in response.
“You will be alright,” Alfred said, his voice softening. He turned back to Bruce. “Master Bruce, can you-“
“Yes,” Bruce said immediately, the first thing he had said so far. More footsteps went clank clank clank and away.
Damian was a proud person, son of the Bat, trainee assassin—
But as he found himself leaning against Alfred’s side, Damian also realized that he was
—a kid.