Chapter Text
Damian knew a lot of things, no one could deny that. His teachers and professors at Nanda Parbat made sure of it. So why didn't he understand what was happening before him?
Jason clutched his head as Drake fell off his seat laughing and Grayson hit his leg. What did they find so funny? He wanted to ask, but he knew if he said anything, he'd break the spell the adults were under.
He'd already confirmed this once before, when he asked them why they were laughing while playing a game in which they were trying to poorly imitate the figures on the screen. His question echoed around the room, causing them to stop playing and look at him in annoyance. Was it forbidden to ask? Or was it because it was an activity only the fortunate ones on Father's side could enjoy? From then on, he avoided entering the room when these kinds of incidents occurred.
He clutched the sketchbook tighter to his chest and took a couple of silent steps back. The last thing he wanted was to disturb that ritual. The last thing he wanted was to be slapped like when he interrupted Grandfather's chess games.
But he wasn't lucky. Of course.
From behind him, he heard Titus running in his direction. He nimbly dodged out of his path, but the Great Dane was coming too fast to stop him in time. He could only watch, his throat tight, as he burst through the half-open door and crashed into the game console. The three older ones jumped up in unison, yelling, trying to do damage control. He had to get away, to hide before he was branded guilty and punished. He didn't take two steps before he heard Jason's furious howl.
“For fucks sake brat, can’t you control your fucking dog?!”
“Titus, no! Put that down!” Tim could be heard in the background, but he could barely register his words as he tried not to lock eyes with Jason. If he looked, he didn’t know what punishment he might face. The same went for if he tried to defend himself, so he summoned all his strength and, trying to keep his voice neutral, tried to explain the situation.
“Titus was running from the other end of the hall, it was impossible to stop him.”
That's when he saw Dick get up and grab Titus by the collar. His face was filled with disappointment. "I understand that you don't like being with us or playing Mario Kart or Just Dance, but that's no excuse to make Titus smash the console.This… This isn’t Nanda Parbat. You’re not a prince here, or the heir to the demon’s head. You can’t act as you please.”
Those words felt like a slap. The back of his mouth began to taste like gall, and he no longer knew if it was because Grayson's disappointment or his own. He knew he couldn't be close, and yet he had been a miser trying to peek in, to get a glimpse of what it would feel like to be there too. Suddenly, fingers appeared in front of him, snapping impatiently. Had he buried himself that deep in thought?
“Are you even listening to me?” Her voice had become impatient. “Look, Damian, we’re supposed to be a family, but you’re not doing anything to try to fit in, and it’s starting to border on absurd.” His whole body tensed, waiting for the blow that usually accompanied such words, but to his surprise, all he received was a sigh. He almost preferred the blow. “If you’re not going to talk, then leave.”
That cold voice pressed into his bones, and his body followed that order. His brain didn't care. It was better to escape now that he could. Hide in his room and find a way to fix everything. He still had a week. A week to fix everything.
He took the stairs two at a time to his room. Carefully closed the door behind him. He threw the notebook onto the bed before heading to the dresser. Damian opened it and walked to the far corner, where he kept a small box hidden under his sweaters. Fortunately, Pennyworth never went into his closet that deep. He left and placed the box on top of the desk, where he slowly pulled out its contents: an old notebook, the last gift from his mother for his birthday, a nearly blunt pencil, and a small bag of spices.
He brought the bag to his nose before taking a deep breath, letting his muscles relax at the scent of Nanda Parbat. His home.
Or what had once been his home.
He knew he couldn't set foot there again, that ever since his mother handed him over to Batman, he couldn't call that sea of metal and spices home anymore. Now he had to learn in a country where they didn't even know what salt was. (Or was it because Pennyworth is British? Nah, he's seen Dick and Tim make meals for themselves; lucky if they remember the existence of garlic.)
Damian opened his notebook and reread his list of mistakes that could land him on the street.
–Being skittish.
–Not answering in a complete sentence when asked.
–Don’t praise Pennyworth’s cooking.
–Bringing weapons out of the cave.
–Disturbing your superiors when they are doing their weekly ritual.
–Leave your room unless necessary.
–Speaking out of the stipulated unwritten social cues.
–...
Nearly four pages filled with his mistakes, another four with American rules he'd never understood but had to follow, and the last ones filled with thoughts scribbled in Chinese, Arabic, and Urdu detailing different plans to follow to avoid his exile. Or, in other words, to bring about his own death.
He gripped the pen tightly and plunged into a new entry. The week in which he could scrape a parapet in the family to avoid falling had just begun, and he'd already screwed it up big, really big.
The next time he had to go downstairs, he'd make sure neither Ace nor Titus were running around loose. As much as it pained him to see them tied up. Maybe he could leave them with Batcow? But that would cost him time, which he could have used to curry favor with his predecessors. What if he locked them in his room? Yes, that would be enough, wouldn't it? No?
He felt a burning in his eyes and pressed them with the back of his hands. He wouldn't cry. This was nothing. He could do better. He was the grandson of R'as Al-Ghul, son of Batman himself. For fuck's sake! He was already twelve! He wasn't going to succumb to whatever feeling was strangling his entire body! He was strong.
He was strong…
…True?
That day he never left his room again.
His body was too heavy to open the door, that wooden monster that sometimes whispered honeyed songs to him and other times tried to gnaw at his bones. It wasn't his fault the door was haunted.
He didn't come down to dinner, nor that he was called. He could hear the laughter slipping through the floorboards, the rustling of dishes, and even the succulent aroma of focaccia.
It's not like he was hungry or wanted to be with them, and even if he did, he'd never admit it. Just like he'd never admit to sitting in the middle of the room, hugging his pillow, smiling and pretending to be with them in the kitchen.
Never.
He only dared to go down late at night, when the bats and birds left their cave.
Supposedly, Father had strictly forbidden him from going out as Robin while he was away. And normally, Damian would not have obeyed. But this time was different. Father hadn't used his usual tone of voice. No. There was a dangerous undertone, the same one his teachers used to examine him. This was a test of temperance, of obedience and submission to him.
And he knew what that meant. If he failed, he'd kick him out of the house.
Would he have time to grab his katana?
He sighed as he closed the door behind him. His heart was using his stomach as a trampoline. He was the only one home. Why was he so nervous?
He crossed the halls and went down the stairs to his father's office. The stone stairs greeted him with a comforting chill. He descended using all the stealth he could muster, his entire body trembling, and approached the Batcomputer. Someone had left the coms open, and he could clearly hear the conversation between his elders.
“How strange that Robin isn’t with you,” Oracle commented. He held his breath.
“Well, you know, B isn’t here,” Nightwing replied. “He’s too unstable to go alone or with one of us.”
“That’s it. The last time I had to patrol with him, I almost died from a stab wound from him.”
Damian's eyes widened in horror. Granted, he had tried to stab him at the very beginning, when he still didn't know his place in the family two years ago. But while patrolling? Patrolling!?
Never.
That night, it was one of Two-Face's henchmen who injured him. Not him, not Damian. And even when he got him back to the cave's medbay in record time, everyone assumed he was the culprit. He didn't bother defending himself when they harshly reprimanded him or grounded him without Robin for weeks. He knew they wouldn't listen to him, wouldn't believe him.
Something in his stomach sank, but he didn't make a sound. He just kept listening.
“Well, that night was a hell of a night, haha. But since then, he hasn't tried anything else, right?” Hood interceded. “If he touches even one hair on your head, I swear I'll skin him, even if I have to face Bruce.”
“At least you wouldn’t be alone on that, Jaybird.”
“No one is interested in… wait, why would you take my side instead of demon spawn?!”
“You’re my brothers.” He heard Todd and Gordon sigh, each for different reasons. And Damian… Damian had forgotten how to breathe. “I’ve tried every way to reach out to him, carefully and giving him all the space he needed, but in two years, it seems my progress has gone backwards. He’s giving me fewer and fewer reasons to trust. That’s not family.”
“Hey, that’s a little harsh,” Damian thought he heard Oracle’s voice, but nothing registered in his mind anymore. The words of his elder, his Batman, his… his brother echoed relentlessly in his chest, shattering his heart once again. “I remind you, he’s barely twelve, and you haven’t given him any effort nor support to break free from that cult mentality.”
Damian couldn't stand it anymore.
He suddenly shut down the Batcave's communications and ran out of the place.
He no longer cared about leaving salty trails on his cheeks. Someone had left them on on purpose. Someone had wanted him to hear them. But who?
He thought he was close to Dick. He was the only one he'd ever tried to smile to and did not made fun of how badly he did it. The only one Damian trusted enough to show his illustrations to.
A sob escaped him.
And then another.
And another one.
And another one.
To the point of not seeing where he was going.
He didn't know how he got to his room or how he managed to fall asleep in the narrow hollow of the bed.
He didn't come down for breakfast the next day.
Not even to eat.
He had only just come down for dinner when he heard the engine of the motorcycles rumble in the foundations of the mansion.
The kitchen was dark, a comfort he only felt when Pennyworth made him nightly teas to soothe the gnawing terror his nightmares caused. Few people knew about this, and Pennyworth was true to his word about secrecy. Not even Father was aware of it.
He caressed the tiles, reluctant to release the warmth with which his superiors' laughter had painted them.
The only sound in that kitchen was the dishwasher, which only had five minutes left until its whirring stopped. He opened the refrigerator and wasn't surprised to find the leftovers improperly stored. A piece of zucchini lasagna too small to even be a snack, half a tomato thrown away haphazardly, the stew Alfred had left unopened, and one... two... three... three Tupperware containers full of macaroni. Who had let Drake cook?
With a sigh, he picked up the small plate of lasagna and the tomato. The rest probably had meat in it. He sat down at the table and ate the food.
Cold. Unseasoned.
As pathetic as his life.
He sighed as he listened to the dishwasher's song. He stood back up and put everything back, feeling Alfred's ghost guide his movements.
_____________________________
He continued with that routine for some days more. Relaying in the bed’s pressure to keep him grounded, to make him forget about the hollow knot in his stomach. Helping him to forget his atrocious reality.
Until that morning. That damn morning.
It had all started like the previous days, waking up under his bed. He groaned and got up, but immediately had to grab onto the bed to keep from falling due to a momentary dizziness.
But he misjudged his aim, and his hand slipped, piercing onto the hidden dagger. He opened his eyes like a newborn deer. That same dagger his mother had left him with when she introduced him to Father.
It wasn't a deep cut, nor was it long. Just enough to draw a few drops of blood.
It was then that he felt it.
A spark of life, a breath of relief.
He got out of bed, staring at the cut, and without thinking, dug his fingernail into the wound. Little by little, digging deeper. The same sensation ran through him again.
He dropped his hands to his sides and stared silently at the dagger. He climbed onto the bed and took it in his two hands.
He knew it wasn't right, that the League would view this act as disobedience and execute them. Their bodies belonged only to Ra's.
But it was addictive. Once he started, he couldn't put the dagger down.
I didn't know how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Days?
He only stopped when there were no more places to decorate his arms and even his legs. When had he started lacerating them? He didn't remember.
Everything around him was blurry, both from blood loss and hunger.
Hunger?
That was impossible. The League had trained him to go weeks in perfect condition without eating. Has he become that weak since being with Batman?
It was a disgrace. A disgrace for the heir of the Al-Ghul family and for the heir of Batman.
I had to fix it somehow, but how?
He staggered to the bathroom and hissed when he turned on the lights. His head felt like it was submerged in mud, but that didn't stop him.
He bandaged his limbs as best he could and dragged himself back to the closet to get another pair of clothes. This time, long-sleeved.
It took him almost an hour to do those two things and think of a solution in between. But he couldn't think of anything. Perhaps Father had some kind of precedent from his superiors at the Batcomputer?
It was worth giving it a shot.
He quietly left his room and went down the stairs, praying he wouldn't meet anyone on the way.
However, as always, Damian wasn't so lucky. Their voices echoed throughout the ground floor, along with the loud music he'd heard before. The dance ritual.
Part of the knot in his chest settled. He could avoid them. And so he did.
He slipped into the office and went downstairs without arousing the slightest suspicion. The coldness of the cave was a balm for his wounds.
He admired the room as if it were the first time. Or maybe the last.
All sorts of weapons were arranged around him, but none seemed sufficient to endure his punishment. His mother's voice purred against his neck.
"Misfortuned"
"Shameful"
“Only warriors deserve an honorable death”
“You don’t deserve it”
He took a deep breath as he approached the medbay. And there he found it. Hidden among bottles of ibuprofen and diclofenac.
An unopened bottle of morphine.
What happened next was a blur. An echo of footsteps and something soft (his bed, perhaps?). Whispers from Father, Mother, Grandfather, and siblings, encouraging him, yelling at him, scolding him.
And then, all black.
___________________
"...mian!!..."
“Oh God what did….?
“Hurry up!...”
“...Morph…?!”
Their words came like a waterfall full of mud. He didn't understand anything that was happening around him.
Something cold touched his cheek, and he struggled to open his eyes. A dark figure loomed over him.
He couldn't even see anything else.
He let his consciousness sink back into the sea of dreams. Back to the dark embrace.