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The smoke of incense coils lazily through Damian’s room, thick and almost suffocating. No matter how far he runs from Nanda Parbat, the habit clings to him, as unshakable as his bloodline. The scent drags him back to memories he shouldn’t crave—his mother sharpening weapons with quiet precision, his grandfather’s lessons echoing in the League’s hidden chambers.
Tonight, though, the incense isn’t habit. It’s ritual. Cinnamon and oranges—her scent. His reminder. His tether. Tonight is August 9th. His sixteenth birthday.
It is their secret, guarded more fiercely than any mission. At 5:30 sharp, every year, he and Talia meet at a modest Greek restaurant tucked just beyond Crime Alley. To outsiders, it is nothing. To Damian, it is everything—the one night he allows himself to simply be her son.
Yet the ritual carries weight. Keeping it hidden from his father never feels easy, and a quiet tension coils in his chest. Still, he tells himself it is necessary, that some things can’t be explained—at least, not yet.
He always takes his birthday off. If he misses tonight with his mother, he’ll have to wait another full year before seeing her again. This is the one night a year when he can feel and act his age—not trying to live up to his brothers’ legacies, not bending to his father’s expectations. Tonight, all he has to be is his mother’s son.
He won’t let this small burden take away that.
The clock on Damian’s bedside table strikes 5:00. He sets down his book and straightens, bracing himself for the small deception he knows is coming.
Rising from the table, he extinguishes the candles one by one. The soft glow fades until the room is cloaked in shadow, and the faint scent of burnt wax mingles with the lingering aroma of incense. Carefully, he turns off the remaining lights and steps into the silent hallway.
Every footstep is measured, deliberate. The polished floorboards hum softly beneath his boots. At the first intersection, he makes a sharp left, heading toward his father’s study, thoughts lingering on the small, unspoken truths he keeps tucked away.
He knocks three times.
“Father? Are you in there?”
“Yes, Damian. Come inside.” A sharp, low voice answers from the study.
Damian opens the door. The walls are lined with books, their leather spines worn and familiar, and the desk in the middle of the room is scattered with papers, knickknacks, and pictures of Damian and his siblings. He closes the door behind him, the soft click sounding louder in the quiet.
“Father, I am off to spend the evening at Kent’s farm.” He feels himself shrink slightly under the weight of his father’s gaze, a familiar pressure that makes his chest tighten.
“Alright, Damian. Are you sure you don’t want to spend the evening of your birthday at the manor? I could always have Alfred make some of your favorites for dinner.”
Bruce leans back in his chair, finally taking his eyes off the case he’s studying. His gaze is intense, as if he can see straight through Damian, reading every hesitation.
“No, thank you. I am quite content to spend the night with Jon.” Damian notes the twitch in his father’s brow, a silent acknowledgment that confirms what he already suspects. In truth, Jon is the only one who knows where Damian is really going tonight—he’ll cover for him without question.
“If that’s what you really want to do tonight, I won’t stop you. Have fun.” The questioning look fades from Bruce’s face, replaced by a faint smile and warmth in his eyes.
“Thank you, Father. I will be sure to tell you tales of what Jon and I accomplish tonight.”
Even in the quiet of the study, Damian feels the weight of keeping some things to himself. The lingering scent of incense, the worn spines of the books, the photographs on the desk—all of it is familiar, comforting, steadying. For a moment, he simply breathes, letting the small comforts of the room and the memory of his mother anchor him.
Grasping the doorknob and leaving the study feels like the first step toward freedom. Giddiness courses through him as he hurries down the stairs, careful to keep his footsteps light but fast. All his siblings are on patrol tonight, except Duke, covering for him in their absence. The fewer people in the manor, the easier it is to slip out unnoticed.
“Ah, off to Jon’s, are we, Master Damian?” A loud, polite voice with a heavy accent breaks the quiet of the manor. Alfred is in the kitchen, beginning preparations for dinner for when the rest of the family returns from patrol.
“Yes, Pennyworth. I will give Mrs. Kent your greetings. Have a good night.” Damian keeps his composure, aware of Alfred’s watchful eyes, but anticipation hums through his chest with every step. In truth, Jon won’t be seeing him tonight—the dinner is only a cover, and Jon alone knows the truth.
Just a few steps from the door, his excitement grows, the air feeling lighter around him. The faint scent of polished wood and Alfred’s cooking lingers in the hallway, grounding him even as his mind races toward the evening ahead. Thoughts of Talia, her smile and presence, make his pulse quicken.
“You as well, Master Damian,” Alfred replies, his tone warm but firm, carrying the weight of familiarity and care.
Damian doesn’t linger. He moves quickly through the main hall, barely noticing the polished floor beneath his boots. The front doors of the manor come into view, framed by the cool night air drifting in from outside. In his eagerness, he hardly pauses, forgetting for once to check his surroundings. One final glance at the quiet house behind him, and he steps into the open, the city night wrapping around him like a cloak.
The walk from the manor to Crime Alley usually takes fifteen minutes—twenty if you account for foot traffic. Checking his watch, Damian sees it’s 5:15. He’s going to be late. Damian Al Ghoul Wayne is a punctual person; he’s never been late to see his mother before. Normally, he’d be calculating every possible delay, but tonight his mind is too focused on her. At best, she’ll wait thirty minutes before returning to Nanda Parbat. At worst… well, she’s usually early, almost always early.
Reaching the bottom of the Wayne driveway, Damian veers left onto the main road. Usually, he’d turn right, but time is short, and he knows a shortcut he only takes as Robin. The familiar city smells—the faint smoke, damp stone, and the occasional distant siren—brush past him in fleeting glimpses. He barely registers them, too consumed by the thought of seeing his mother.
Logically, she won’t miss his sixteenth birthday dinner. For six years, she’s never skipped a single one, always punctual, always present. Tonight is a milestone, after all. She’ll be there. Damian lets himself hope, letting the tension in his chest loosen as each step carries him closer to her waiting presence.
Walking across the rooftops, Damian is hit with the signature Gotham chill. The cold in his bones hasn’t left since he entered the city; suddenly, he feels underdressed. His black hoodie with red accents, layered under a light green jacket, offers little protection against the wind, and his baggy, light-wash jeans do even less. But none of that matters—soon he’ll see his mother, and nothing else will feel real.
Smoke curls from chimneys below, the city’s lights flicker in puddles on the streets, and distant sirens hum in a monotonous rhythm. Damian barely notices, his mind fixed entirely on her.
It’s been ten minutes of rooftop travel, and he’s surprised he hasn’t run into Jason yet. The closer he gets to Crime Alley, the more he feels his cover could be blown. Pulling up his hood, he walks faster, boots scraping over slick shingles. It’s 5:25. Only five minutes until he’s officially late. He can’t sprint—not yet. One wrong move, one sibling spotting him, and tonight would be lost.
Every careful step hums with anticipation, each heartbeat carrying him closer to her. For the first time tonight, Damian allows himself to forget everything else, letting the pull of Talia’s presence guide him through the chill and the shadows of Gotham.
The restaurant comes into view. Damian can make out the glowing neon sign: Elysian Eats, its big blue letters cutting through the night. From his vantage point on the roof, he can’t spot Talia, but he knows she’s there. It’s only 5:35—just five minutes late.
Climbing down from the roof with his hood up, Damian feels the slick shingles give way under his boots and the cool, damp night air brush against his face. Gotham smells of wet asphalt, smoke, and something faintly fried from nearby street vendors. He knows he’s getting mud on the bottoms of his pants, but none of it matters.
A surge of anticipation hums through him as he lands on the street. The neon glow reflects off puddles, painting the sidewalk in fractured blues and whites. His pulse quickens, heart thudding with a mix of relief and excitement—Talia is here. Tonight, nothing else exists but this moment.
He prays silently that there are no rogue attacks or Arkham breakouts tonight, though his thoughts barely linger on danger. All that matters is that he’s close, so close to seeing her.
From the street, the restaurant looks closed—but Damian knows it isn’t; he called ahead to confirm they were open. Stepping through several puddles of who-knows-what, he approaches the door. He still hasn’t spotted his mother, but she’ll appear—she always does.
The moment he steps inside, the warmth hits him first, a sharp contrast to the Gotham chill. The air smells of fried foods, fresh vegetables, and something faintly sweet from the kitchen. The low hum of conversation, the clatter of plates, and the occasional sizzle from the stove blend into a comforting rhythm. Damian is seated quickly and handed a menu, though he barely glances at it.
No matter how many years pass, the small restaurant always stays the same. The low-lit atmosphere is highlighted by pops of blues, whites, and browns. Posters of bands and newspaper clippings hang from the walls. Some clippings are decades old, like the one near him from his father’s first year as Batman. Others are more recent, documenting battles of Batman and Robin against Gotham’s rogue gallery. The familiar surroundings stir a quiet comfort in Damian, grounding him even as his pulse quickens in anticipation of seeing his mother.
The door opens, and the bell rings. Damian’s eyes snap to the entrance. Talia Al Ghul, his mother, steps in, radiating quiet authority. She’s dressed in black from head to toe, gold jewelry glinting against her skin and catching the restaurant’s low light. She isn’t dressed for Gotham’s chill—black leggings and a loose jacket leave her exposed—but in Nanda Parbat, she would look perfectly at home. Her hair falls straight and sleek, rather than the usual frizz and curl Damian knows so well.
Even in this small, crowded restaurant, she draws attention. A few heads turn briefly, drawn to her presence, while the hum of conversation seems to quiet slightly around her. Damian can’t help it—his chest tightens, and a small, almost involuntary smile spreads across his face. She’s here.
Talia moves calmly through the restaurant, letting the waitress know she already has a table and needs no help. Every step is measured, deliberate, full of the grace and command Damian has seen countless times before. As she approaches the back corner where he waits, his anticipation grows. When she finally takes her seat across from him, he can feel the tension in his shoulders ease. For tonight, all else fades away.
“Hello, mother. I’ve missed you since you’ve been gone.” Damian’s smile grows as he speaks, and he feels a small warmth in his chest at finally seeing her again. He shifts slightly in his seat, trying not to fidget, as the ambient hum of the restaurant fades into the background.
“Damian, I’ve missed you as well. It’s hard not being able to visit you more often, but it’s what’s best for the rest of your family. I would like to hear all about the major events of the past year.” Talia’s face gives little away, as always, but Damian knows her well. The small twitch of her lip tells him she’s genuinely happy to see him.
“I won first place in my art show… there weren’t many other competitors, but I still proved my worth with my art. I wish you could’ve been there… I hope to show you my art one day. I—”
Before he can finish, the waitress who seated Damian earlier approaches, notebook in hand. “So sorry to interrupt, but are you guys ready to order?”
“Yes, thank you. We’ll have two orders of Dakos and two waters,” Talia answers calmly, speaking before Damian can respond. Even as she interrupts, her gaze remains warm and focused on him, letting him know she’s still fully listening.
Damian hands over his menu, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the interruption. The waitress returns his smile and steps away, leaving the two of them alone again. Damian feels a fleeting tug of frustration at the pause in their conversation, but seeing his mother’s attentive expression makes it melt away almost immediately. He leans slightly forward, eager to continue sharing, knowing she’s absorbing every word he’s trying to say.
“A victory is still a victory, my son, and it’s important to feel proud—whether it’s a triumph in combat or in the arts. I will see your art one day, my little warrior. I promise. How have you been doing in school?” Talia’s lips curve in a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Feeling proud is always easier with his mother behind him.
“You know I’m leagues ahead of my classmates—all thanks to you.” Damian straightens his posture slightly, chest puffing up as he speaks. His pride is unmistakable, and he can’t help a small grin at the thought of how his education makes the other students at Gotham Academy look like amateurs.
“Of course, Habib. I just feel the need to check that you don’t give your current teachers the same treatment you gave your old tutors.” The gentle curve of her smile and the slight twinkle in her eyes make Damian puff up with pride even more. A small flicker of amusement passes through him; he enjoys these subtle exchanges with his mother, the quiet understanding and approval they share without needing words.
“Providing you with their heads was a good way to show I understood the material and was ready to move on—that’s what grandfather said, at least.” Damian feels a flicker of regret for his past actions, though he can never feel fully shameful. After all, murder is a family tradition. He pauses for a moment, fingers tightening slightly on the menu as the memory brushes against him.
“Alright, guys, here are your salads and waters!” The waitress sets the plates down in front of them. “Do you guys need anything else?”
“No thank you, that’s alright,” Damian replies before she can finish. She smiles politely and steps away, returning to her other tables.
“Assassination is a good way to show progress—father was right. I’m not sure what my beloved would say about that, though…” Talia’s words trail off as if lost in thought, though she already knows what Damian will say. A small, almost imperceptible curl of her lips suggests she’s amused by his seriousness, but she keeps her expression composed, letting him explore the subject while observing quietly.
“Mother, you know exactly how father feels about killing—he’s made that very clear to both of us.” For the second time tonight, Damian can’t help but feel like rolling his eyes; he knows his mother is only teasing him.
“Oh, well, we can only hope he changes his mind in the future. Now, eat your food. I love you very much, but I can’t stay all night.” Talia begins picking at her salad, silverware in hand, subtly encouraging Damian to do the same.
“How long do you wish to stay after we finish eating, mother?” Damian asks, making sure to finish his sentence before lifting his fork and starting to shovel salad into his mouth.
“Not very long—you know how your grandfather is, my love. I do wish I could stay longer. I’m very sorry, my son.” His mother’s words and expression shift into a somber tone. Damian notices the change immediately; his chest tightens, and he grips his fork a little more firmly. He knows all too well the hardest part of these visits is the goodbye, knowing he must wait another full year to see her again.
Talia, though composed, allows herself a brief, fleeting thought—a quiet hope that her son understands why these visits must be limited, and a pang of sorrow that she cannot linger longer. Even in her calm demeanor, the weight of their parting hangs between them.
“You know you will see me again next year. I won’t leave you forever.” Taking a sip of her water, Talia stares across the table at her son. Damian nods, hearing and understanding her words, but he can’t take them entirely to heart. Knowing his mother’s work is dangerous, he is painfully aware that any day could be her last.
“I know, mother… I just miss you awfully. I worry.” Damian picks at his salad, shoulders slightly hunched, and avoids her gaze. His fingers tighten around his fork as he struggles to keep his voice steady, refusing to let tears slip in front of her.
Reaching across the table, Talia gently places a hand under his chin, lifting his eyes to meet hers. “Oh, my love, my light, I will never leave you like that. You should know that no one is capable—or worthy enough—of killing the Talia Al Ghul, or, for that matter, Damian Al Ghul.”
Damian swallows hard, a mixture of relief and lingering worry stirring in his chest. He wants to believe her fully, but the knowledge of her dangerous life tugs at him. Still, her eyes are steady, warm, and unwavering, and for a moment, he allows himself to lean into that reassurance, to trust her completely.
After Talia retracts her hand and begins picking at her salad, a comfortable silence settles over them. Damian glances over at his mother’s plate; she’s barely touched it. He frowns slightly, a small flicker of concern passing through him, then looks back at his own nearly finished salad. Taking the last few bites, he wipes his mouth and looks up at her.
“Mother, are you not hungry? You have barely eaten your food while I have finished mine.”
“Oh, no, my son, don’t worry. I am just not that hungry.” Talia’s lips curl into a faint, knowing smile, and a twinkle in her eyes hints at the secret she is about to reveal. “I do, however, have a present for you.”
The quiet hum of the restaurant, the soft clink of cutlery, and the faint aroma of fried foods fade slightly from Damian’s awareness, replaced by a flutter of anticipation. Even in the calm, ordinary moment, he senses that something special is about to happen.
Reaching into her jacket pocket, Talia pulls out a slender package. It’s a deep green, tied neatly with a black bow. Damian takes it carefully from her hands, feeling its light weight, and treats it with utmost care. He doesn’t know what his mother could have possibly gotten him, and anticipation tightens his chest.
He carefully unties the bow and unwraps the paper, revealing a beautiful, slim, and dangerous dagger. The hilt is wrapped in dark brown leather, encrusted with red rubies and dark green emeralds that catch the light. The faint scent of polished leather rises as he lifts it, and the cool gleam of the blade sends a shiver down his spine. Damian’s eyes widen slightly, and he takes a small, sharp inhale, impressed by the craftsmanship. His fingers linger over the hilt, already imagining the feel of it in his training and the legacy it represents.
“This is the dagger that my father gifted me for my 16th birthday. I entrust that you will treat it well and with care.” Talia watches her son carefully, pride warming her chest as she sees him hold one of her first prized weapons.
“Mother… you shouldn’t have. This is so beautiful. Why did you want to give it to me?” Damian’s eyes stay fixed on the dagger, tracing the hilt with his fingers, a small inhale escaping him at the craftsmanship. The thought of using it in battle doesn’t even cross his mind—this will join his other treasured possessions from his mother, safely stored beneath a wooden plank under his bed, always carefully secured after every use.
“I thought it was time to pass it on. Whatever you choose to do with it is your business; it is no longer my possession.” Talia watches him fondly, a soft smile touching her lips. She can’t help imagining the look of shock and horror on her beloved’s face if he ever saw the gift she just entrusted to their son, and a quiet warmth of amusement and pride stirs within her.
The atmosphere inside the small shop shifts, and Talia knows what time it is. She levels her son with a somber look, mentally preparing herself to leave him for another year.
“My love, you know what time it is.” The heartbreak on Damian’s face is barely visible, but it must be faced.
“Do you have to go? I’m sure father will accept you, and my siblings will get used to you. You could come home with me. Please, mother… please, don’t go.” Damian’s chest tightens, a small tremor passing through his hands. Walking back home alone is always the worst part, knowing he could go with her if he really wanted to, yet he won’t.
“Like I said before, my son, it’s not goodbye, only see you later. I always hold you in my heart and will never let you go. I’m always thinking of you.” Talia retrieves her wallet from her jacket pocket and leaves $200 on the table—more than enough to cover the bill, but she wants to be sure. She rises slowly, barely able to meet his eyes. The sight of his heartbreak, mirrored in her own chest, makes her misty-eyed as always.
Damian sets the dagger carefully on the table and rushes around to her side, enveloping her in a tight hug.
“I love you, mother. I will miss you very much.” Tears blur his vision, dampening her jacket.
Hugging him back with equal warmth, Talia feels her own eyes mist over. “I love my little warrior. I will miss you more. Enjoy the gift, and be good for your father.”
“Of course, mother.” Pulling away, Damian lifts his new dagger and begins his walk out of the restaurant, leaving his mother’s warm embrace behind.
Exiting into the night, Gotham feels colder than ever. He shivers, the chill biting through his clothes, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the restaurant. Checking his watch, it reads 8:00. Time always flies when he’s with his mother. The fastest route back to the manor is fifteen minutes, the longest an hour. Choosing the long route, Damian starts his trek through the dark streets, a small smile tugging at his lips at the thought that if a mysterious presence ensures he gets home safely, it’s a secret only he and his mother will ever know.