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The words still rang in his ears, sharp as batarangs. Damian shoved the door to the study open, its heavy wood slamming against the frame with a crack that echoed down the hallway. He didn’t care if the whole manor heard. Let them. Let them know that Batman’s perfect soldier had failed yet again.
His boots struck the polished floor in clipped, furious rhythm as he stalked away. Shadows stretched long in the evening light filtering through the tall windows, and every step made the manor feel more cavernous, more suffocating.
He clenched his fists so tight his knuckles burned. I don’t care. That was what he told himself. Over and over, like a mantra. He had endured harsher words than Bruce Wayne’s disapproval. He had endured blades, whips, the League’s punishments. And yet—
His chest ached. His throat constricted. It was humiliating. That his father’s voice could still cut deeper than a sword.
Damian blinked rapidly, quick and sharp, willing away the sting at the corners of his eyes. Tears were weakness. He would not give them the satisfaction. Not Bruce. Not anyone.
He turned sharply down another corridor, cape snapping behind him, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and the study.
The hallways stretched endlessly, every step carrying Damian further from the study and yet not far enough from the sting of Bruce’s words. He hated how they clung to him, each syllable heavy with judgment.
At last, he ducked into the library, the familiar scent of old parchment and polished oak wrapping around him like a shroud. It was dark, the only light spilling in from the high windows where the sky had begun to bruise with evening. The hush inside was absolute, as though even the books held their breath.
Damian closed the door carefully this time, the sharpness of his anger fading into something heavier, quieter. He moved between the towering shelves until he found the alcove near the fireplace, the one he had claimed long ago as his own corner of solitude. He sank to the floor there, cape pooling around him, and pressed his back against the shelves.
He curled his knees up, clasped them tightly, and focused on keeping his breathing even. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Simple. Controlled.
But no matter how disciplined the rhythm, his chest still hurt. His father’s voice wouldn’t leave him.
Reckless.
Not ready.
You’ll never learn if you don’t listen.
Each word echoed like a brand. Damian pressed his forehead against his knees, teeth grit. He was not a child to be scolded. He was not weak. And yet his throat tightened anyway, betraying him.
The silence of the library pressed in, and for the first time since the argument, Damian realized how alone he felt.
“Hey, kiddo.”
The voice cut through the silence, soft but unmistakable. Damian’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of Dick leaning lazily against the doorframe. Of course. Grayson always found him.
“You gonna let me in,” Dick asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips, “or should I call in Alfred as backup?”
Damian turned his face away, resting his cheek against his knees. “I do not need another lecture.” His voice was sharp, clipped — but not quite steady.
Dick pushed off the doorframe and walked in anyway, quiet as a shadow despite the creak of his boots on the floorboards. He stopped a few feet away, crouching down until his eyes were level with Damian’s.
“No lectures,” Dick promised. “I’m retired from that job. I’m just here to check in on my little brother.”
Damian scowled, but it lacked its usual bite. “You shouldn’t waste your time. Father has already made his opinion perfectly clear.”
“Yeah?” Dick’s tone was gentle, almost amused. “You know, I used to hear that exact same line. More times than I can count.”
Damian blinked, his frown shifting into something almost uncertain. “…You argued with him?”
“All the time,” Dick said with a short laugh, sitting back on his heels. “Over patrols, over training, over whether or not I could eat cold pizza for breakfast. You name it, we argued about it. Pretty sure half the manor’s walls still have dents.”
Damian’s lips twitched, though he bit it back quickly. “Tt. That sounds childish.”
“Maybe.” Dick tilted his head, smile softening. “But the point is… you’re not alone in this. You’re not the first Robin to butt heads with Bruce, and you definitely won’t be the last.”
Damian’s frown was stubborn, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed him. Dick noticed, of course. He leaned a little closer, elbows resting lightly on his knees, voice soft.
“Look, I’m not saying arguing with Bruce is fun,” Dick said. “It’s exhausting. He’s… well, you know him. Everything has to be perfect, every detail has to be controlled. And yeah, sometimes he goes overboard. Trust me—I know.”
Damian’s jaw flexed, a muscle twitching. He wanted to argue that Bruce wasn’t overboard, that he had to be that strict, that Damian had to be better. But Dick didn’t wait for a rebuttal.
“I used to storm off after fights just like this,” Dick continued, voice gentle, like he was telling a story to ease a restless mind. “I’d hide out in the training room or the library, feeling like I’d failed. And Bruce… he didn’t always soften. Didn’t always say it was okay. Didn’t always—” Dick let out a small sigh, “—didn’t always tell me I was doing okay.”
Damian shifted slightly, curiosity flickering through the stormy glare.
“But you know what helped?” Dick said, leaning a fraction closer. “Knowing that someone had my back, even if it wasn’t him. Someone who didn’t need to argue or punish me to show they cared.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the dim library, the silence stretching and stretching. Damian’s posture softened just imperceptibly.
“You’ve got me, Damian,” Dick said finally, quieter now. “No lectures. Just… me, telling you that you matter.”
Dick crouched there, watching, and it struck him again how much Damian tried to hold himself together. The small quiver of his shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched, the faint sniffle Damian thought no one would hear—Dick heard it all.
And behind the sharp eyes, the scowl, the haughty words, Dick saw something fragile. Just a boy. A child. The same age he had been when he first came to Gotham, running from a past that had been stolen from him. Damian, for all his skill and bravado, had never had the chance to be that boy. To just be himself without the weight of expectations, without the mantle of Robin pressing on his shoulders.
Dick’s heart tightened. He thought of the summers he had spent in the circus, the nights spent in makeshift tents with people who loved him without conditions, without judgment. The way he had been allowed to laugh, to cry, to make mistakes without fear. He wished, fiercely, that Damian could have that too.
He reached out slowly, just a hand hovering near Damian’s shoulder, not touching yet, not wanting to scare him. “You know,” he said softly, voice almost a whisper, “even with all this…” he gestured vaguely at the dark library, the suit, the armor of discipline, “…you’re still just a kid.”
Damian flinched at the words, a tiny hitch in his breath, but didn’t pull away. And in that quiet acknowledgment, Dick’s chest ached a little, wishing he could steal some time for Damian—a childhood, stolen from him by duty and expectation.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” Dick continued, voice breaking slightly with the weight of it. “You don’t have to prove anything. You’re allowed to be… just Damian. And I’m here. Always.”
Dick let the words settle in the quiet, letting the pause stretch long enough for Damian to hear the unspoken understanding in his gaze. Then, softly, deliberately, he spoke:
“You know…” Dick began, voice low, careful, “through all of it… through the arguing, through the fights, through all the… messiness…” He paused, watching Damian’s sharp gaze flicker downward, unsure, braced. “…you’ve always been my favorite.”
Damian froze, the words striking him like a bolt of lightning. His eyes widened, blinked once, twice, and then darted away, too fast, too sharp, to hide the flush creeping up his neck.
“You… what?” he hissed, half disbelief, half incredulity.
Dick’s hand moved now, gentle, steady, resting on Damian’s shoulder at last. “I mean it,” he said. “You’re my Robin, Damian. No one else. Doesn’t matter what Bruce says, doesn’t matter the mistakes, doesn’t matter anything. You’re mine. My favorite. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.”
The library was still, save for Damian’s uneven breaths and the quiet hum of the manor beyond the windows. For a long moment, Damian said nothing. He wanted to argue, wanted to deny it, wanted to prove that he didn’t need this, didn’t need anyone—but the walls around him had begun to crumble, and he couldn’t quite close them fast enough.
Finally, a small, almost inaudible sniffle escaped him. Dick tightened his hold, careful not to squeeze too hard, and murmured, “It’s okay, kiddo. You can… just be you. That’s enough for me.”
Damian’s head lowered, just slightly, a single shiver running through him, and for the first time since the argument with Bruce, he let himself feel something other than anger or frustration.
Damian’s shoulders slumped just a fraction, the tension draining away as Dick’s hand rested steady on him. He still didn’t lift his head, didn’t meet Dick’s eyes, but the smallest hint of relief softened the rigid lines of his posture.
Dick waited, giving him space, letting him breathe, letting him decide how much to let in. Finally, Damian shifted, ever so slightly, until he leaned just a little against Dick’s side. It wasn’t much, but for someone like Damian, it was everything.
Dick let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and gently wrapped an arm around Damian’s shoulders, tugging him closer. “There you go,” he murmured. “See? Not so bad.”
Damian made a sound — half-grunt, half-sniffle — and allowed himself the smallest lean, enough to feel the warmth, the steady presence, the brotherly comfort he usually denied himself.
For a long moment, they stayed like that. The library was silent, the world outside fading into shadows. For once, Damian didn’t have to fight. Didn’t have to prove anything. He could just be a boy. Just be a brother.
And for Dick, holding him there, it was enough.
Eventually, Damian pulled back just enough to glance up, eyes still wary but softer, and whispered, “Thank you.”
“Anytime, kiddo,” Dick replied with a smile that didn’t need words to carry all the meaning. “Anytime.”
The shadows in the library deepened, the night outside settling over Wayne Manor, but inside that small corner, there was warmth. There was safety. There was family.