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Damian was… wavering.
It was not outwardly apparent; he performed his duties as he always had. He was quick, precise, and exactly what was demanded of him.
He trained, he went on missions, and shadowed his grandfather during meetings.
But his sword faltered.
It was imperceptible to most. A hesitation no longer than a breath, a weight building upon his shoulders whenever he aimed his sword toward an enemy.
Soft whispers in his ears of an era long-forgotten, his father’s teachings that were easily swept aside now blaring in his ears every time he stared down into the eyes of those about to fall by his blade.
Father, quiet but relentless, demanding to be heard: There is always another way.
He knew grandfather had noticed, and his mother had too.
The Al Ghul prince was weakening, a crack in the perfect soldier exterior.
Damian knew that was the reason why he now found himself standing in a lavishly decorated bedroom. Entering the property was laughably easy, and slipping inside the room even more so.
Damian dragged his eyes across a child's bedroom, taking in the surplus of toys scattered on the floor, and found, just above the bookshelf with dinosaur figurines—posters of the Justice League—a small Batboy situated at Batman's side.
His chest began to ache, the phantom weight on his shoulders tripling and beginning to squeeze his heart, crushing inward until each breath scraped like glass against his lungs.
He knew without a doubt which Batboy it was.
Jason Todd had always used his father’s equipment. Dick Grayson had never wielded a katana. Timothy Drake favored a staff. The boy in the photo could only be—
Himself.
A younger Damian Wayne, clutching a katana that gleamed with promise.
The blade in his hand now was sharper, its edge heavy with the blood of countless deaths. It burned hot as iron in his grip as he looked at the father and son cowering before him.
Not from a villain. A League assassin. From him.
He was no longer the boy on the wall. No longer a child seeking redemption. No longer atoning. No, Damian had stepped back into the life he had thought he'd left behind for good.
It was so wrong.
But they were Damian’s target.
From the moment his grandfather assigned him the mission, Damian had known something was amiss. A businessman with no training, no treason, no crimes beyond a debt of less than sixty million. A mission fit for recruits, yet handed to the League’s heir.
Grandfather had smiled as if bestowing him with an honor, the mockery plain in his eyes.
It was the most piercing of humiliation he could do nothing but accept.
Only when Damian had been told of the target's address did the picture paint itself. Metropolis.
In the wealthy district beside the bay, the border between Superman's gleaming city and the city that was once his home. A glaring and obvious test.
'Where does your loyalty lie?'
If Damian failed this, he would be discarded. Hunted down. By grandfather, and by extension, his mother. And if the embrace they shared before he left indicated anything, she expected him to fail.
And so the assassin stood, his servant’s robes clinging wetly to his back, glaring at the trembling pair before him.
He watched as the boy whimpered, his father uselessly trying to shield him, his pleading gnawing against Damian's ears, “P-please,”
“We’ll leave the country. I’ll pull out of the deal—whatever he wants, I’ll do it, just don’t—”
The boy held his father’s shirt in a tight grip, and despite the terror in them, his eyes stared resolutely at Damian, “You should get away, Batman and Batboy will save us! And-and you’ll be in prison!”
The man’s hand tightened protectively over his son’s shoulder, even his voice broke. “We aren’t in Gotham anymore, sweetheart.”
Resigned. Broken. He was a man awaiting the gallows.
He watched as the man knelt before his son, forcing a smile. “Turn around, darling boy. It’ll be okay. And don’t turn around until an adult tells you to, okay?” the man coaxed, shaking hands, petting the boy’s head.
Later, the man stood shakily on his feet, his gaze locking on Damian’s. “I don’t know how exactly your organization works. But please, don’t involve my son. I won’t run, I promise. I’ll lead you to another room, but please, just not here.”
It was not the first time Damian had witnessed sacrifice. But despite it, he felt himself breathe in disbelief.
If this had been Damian and his father—Would Bruce Wayne have knelt, as this man did? Would he have told Damian to turn away before the killing blow fell?
Or would the mission have come first?
And perhaps it was the way that he did not know the answer that he took a step back.
And another.
Until his back hit the windowsill and he whispered, “Leave, take the boy and go back to Gotham. Leave all of your assets here and flee. Seek help from Gordon.”
He could have finished it—quick, clean, efficient. One strike, and it would be over. His grandfather’s will would be fulfilled, and Damian would return to honor.
But instead Damian found himself doing the one thing an Al Ghul heir was never meant to do.
He spared them.
He didn’t check to see if they heard, or if they had even moved from the embrace they were in. Damian leapt out of that window and fled. Like a child.
A child he never was.
He jumped across rooftops, quick and quiet, nothing like the soft whir of a grapple, the artful arcs he moved in costume, proud to fly at his father’s side. He moved like an assassin, a criminal. Worlds away from his father’s work as a hero.
Would he even take Damian back? Knowing that during the past five years he has been mourning him, Damian had only soaked his hands deeper in blood?
He scaled the city almost absently, breath ragged though this was nothing compared to his training.
And then—he stopped.
At the city’s highest point, the sun began to rise. Gold bled over the skyline, washing him in warmth he did not deserve.
As he watched the sun begin to rise from the city’s highest building, he knew he must make a choice.
And Jonathan, he…
He had promised Damian, hadn’t he?
That no matter how much blood he had spilled, the number of those felled by his sword, Jon was his.
That no matter the blood on his hands, Jon would never turn away. That like Jon, his father would welcome him back. That Damian was loved.
The thought was foolish, but it let the name rise in his throat, a call, a lifeline.
He breathed, once, and then twice.
But he couldn't seem to find the strength.
The name caught behind his teeth, heavy and desperate, but he did not speak it. He could not speak it—not now, perhaps not ever.
The Pit had burned the syllables from his throat.
He only watched. Stood until the rooftops gleamed gold, until the bay shimmered. He stood on that ledge, frozen, watching the city wake.
And when the light began to warm his face, Damian stood frozen.
He did nothing.