Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne had always been exceptional. That's just how things are. Otherwise he would never have earned the title of Ra’s al Ghul’s heir, never risen to become someone to be reckoned with among heroes, never carved out his own sharply defined place in a world overflowing with legends.

And yet somehow none of that greatness spared him from being trapped at one of his father’s endless gala dinners. Tonight, the dubious honor of attending fell on him and Grayson out of all his siblings. And of course, if he had to endure this bizarre endurance trial, then standing beside Grayson made it infinitely more tolerable than pairing with any of his other siblings (well maybe Drake was another person he can consider for that position). Grayson drew attention the way the sun drew dawn—effortlessly, blindingly—and Damian was perfectly content to let the spotlight cling to him like glitter.

He appreciated his brother’s noble, if utterly thankless sacrifice. While Grayson dazzled guests with easy charm and that infuriatingly bright smile, Damian slipped away into the quieter corners of the hall becoming as close to invisible as it was humanly possible.

But apparently middle-aged women in Gotham possessed tracking skills rivaling League assassins. Damian had no other explanation for why they kept finding him with disturbing consistency, materializing beside him like ghosts scented with expensive perfume and nostalgic smile on their face.

What is even worse, he couldn’t escape. His father had requested, more like ordered, him to behave sensibly and avoid conflict. Damian had been raised in the League of Assassins, trained by the greatest warriors in the world. He could absolutely withstand a bit of empty chatter and cheek-patting from women who desperately missed the fleeting illusion of eternal youth. He could endure this.

Or so he used to believe.

But his confidence eroded with every slow sweep of the second hand on the antique clock in the corner. He kept glancing at it, watching the minutes drip away like water torture. As it passed 9:30, a thought passed in his mind - most of the family had already started their nightly patrols. The city was alive with shadows and danger, and Damian would much rather be out there with them than suffocating among tuxedos and chandeliers.

Instead he was here. Listening. Well, not really.

He returned his attention to the woman in front of him. Mrs. Ketcher. He tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear fifth time for last three minutes. The strands were streaked with silver she tried to conceal, though the years betrayed her faster than her hairdresser could dye her hair again. She continued her story, a rambling monologue he had stopped properly absorbing twenty minutes ago. He was only half-listening, mind racing with potential escape plans.

“…You remind me so much of my grandson Jack when he was few years younger than you are,” she chirped warmly. “He was such a sweet boy. Though personality... oh no, he’s nothing like you. That little scamp was always dreaming up something new. Once he became obsessed with the circus. My poor daughter and her husband have learned more circus trivia than any sane adult should know. But that’s only half the trouble! Little Jackie back then decided he wanted to reenact the tricks. At the gala they attended at the time—oh dear—it was a disaster. He tried to juggle, lost control, and toppled an entire champagne-glass tower! They had to end the evening early and send everyone home…”

Damian suddenly focused. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Everyone left early because of that?” he asked, interrupting her for the first time.

Mrs. Ketcher placed a hand on her cheek, sighing dramatically. “Oh, it was dreadful. Half the floor was soaked—slippery, you know—and it was already getting late. Most guests decided it was better to go home than wait for the staff to clean it all up. Quite unfortunate. Such a shame for the hosts.”

A beat. Then another.

And then Damian understood.

If a toppled champagne tower could end a gala early… then surely something similar would work here. He only needed a suitable substitute—something else delicate, precarious, and breakable. Something already sitting in this lavish hall, waiting for gravity to betray it.

His gaze wandered over Mrs. Ketcher’s shoulder. Past her sequined dress. Past the drifting clusters of guests.

And then he saw it.

The perfect solution.

A small, slow smile crept over Damian’s face as the plan unfurled in his mind—sharp, efficient, elegant. The kind of plan that would end this wretched evening immediately.

All he had to do now was get into position.

------

His feet touched the floor with the soft, controlled thud of someone who had been trained to make gravity itself obey. The flip he executed on the way down was unnecessary—pure flourish, really—but it made his descent look effortlessly graceful.

Behind him, the massive chandelier he had been swinging from just seconds ago reached the end of its doomed arc. It tore free with an earsplitting crack, plummeted, and collided with the banquet table in an explosion of crystal and light. Shards burst outward like frozen fireworks, scattering across the polished floor. Gasps rippled through the hall. Someone screamed. Someone else dropped their drink.

And every pair of eyes in the room snapped to Damian.

Including Grayson’s. Dick stood halfway across the room, valiantly attempting to smother a grin behind his hand. He failed spectacularly. His shoulders were shaking. His eyes were bright with delighted, horrified pride.

Damian didn’t have long to enjoy the sight.

Within seconds, his father appeared in front of him—materializing with that uncanny, silent speed that always reminded Damian where he’d gotten his own talent. Father towered over him, even though Damian had grown almost alarmingly quickly these past years. Fifteen now, taller, stronger, broader in the shoulders—but still shaded by Batman’s silhouette.

Father’s first instinct was not anger. It was concern.

He grabbed Damian by the shoulders, his grip firm and searching, scanning him with that sharp, assessing gaze from head to toe. Damian brushed his father’s hands away with a small scowl.

“I’m fine,” he said. “A stunt that simple won’t injure me.”

His Father exhaled, the faintest breath of relief, then straightened—slipping effortlessly back into his public mask. The charming billionaire, collected even as a chandelier lay in ruins behind them. He turned to the crowd with a cool apology and announced that the evening would have to conclude early. Then Grayson to help escort everyone out safely, ensure no one cut themselves on the debris, and keep things calm.

Dick saluted with two fingers and moved instantly, corralling panicked socialites with cheerful efficiency.

His Father then turned on his heel and strode toward the main building.

Damian didn’t need a spoken command. He followed.

------

The atmosphere in the office was still, heavy with the quiet ticking of the old grandfather clock. Father stood with his back to him, staring through the window as guests trickled down the driveway toward their cars, escorted by staff with flashlights.

Damian remained in the center of the room, waiting.

Prepared for the familiar routine: a lecture on recklessness, responsibility, consequences. At least two hours of stern, relentless scolding. Possibly a grounding. Absolutely a suspension from patrol.

He braced himself.
He waited.
Time crawled.

Finally, Father turned around.

Damian straightened, ready.

But instead of the expected scowl, his Father’s lips twitched into a small, unmistakable smile.

Damian blinked.

A trap. It had to be.

Some psychological tactic, some new interrogation method. His father didn’t smile usually.

Yet Father walked toward him, reached out, and ruffled his hair in an affectionate, maddeningly casual gesture.

“As soon as the guests are gone,” Father said, “you’re cleaning up that mess. Which means you probably won’t be joining patrol tonight.”

Damian stared at him, thrown completely off-balance. He nodded slowly, processing.

“You’re not going to yell at me? Aren't you mad?” he asked not being able to stop his curiousness. 

Father let out a low hum, tilting his head.

“I should,” he admitted. “I really should be.” He glanced toward the window again, amusement softening the hard line of his jaw. “But the way you swung on that chandelier… Damian, it felt like going back in time and watching Dick at your age. You have no idea how many chandeliers he destroyed trying to perform acrobatics on them.”

He shook his head, letting out a small, disbelieving huff of laughter.

“I can’t even be angry. Not with those memories of the old days resurfacing. So I’m letting it slide for today. Just don’t forget to clean up the mess, alright?”

“I understand, Father. You don’t need to worry,” Damian replied before turning and leaving the study.

When he returned to the ballroom, staff hired for the evening had already begun cleaning up the glittering chaos of broken crystal and overturned decorations. Without a word, he grabbed one of the brooms set aside for the workers and began sweeping. His movements were automatic, efficient, but his mind kept circling back to the conversation in the office.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the strange, lingering feeling that something about the whole situation was… unusual.

Chapter Text

A week passed, and his family still hadn’t stopped bringing up the chandelier incident. Every day someone found a new way to compare him to Grayson: his reflexes, his theatrics, his dramatic timing, the way he moved, breathed, existed. At first Damian tolerated it. By the end of the week, the constant teasing gnawed at him until he felt stretched thin, worn down in ways he didn’t know how to articulate.

He needed space.

And there was only one person in the family who didn't live in the manor kept enough distance from everyone else that Damian could breathe around him. So he left the manor for a few days and headed to Jason Todd’s safehouse.

Todd opened the door halfway, gave Damian the usual unimpressed once-over, and grumbled something under his breath. But, as always, he stepped aside to let Damian in. His brand of hospitality was barbed, grumpy, and barely verbal, but it was unchanging, reliable in a way that Damian found grounding.

He didn’t ask questions. Never really did. Instead, he recited the house rules, as he always did when Damian showed up:
1. Don’t touch anything he didn't allow to use.
2. Don’t go into his bedroom without permission.
3. Don’t let Batman in the house.

Damian armed with Jons constant stories of how younger brothers were contractually obligated to be their older brothers’ most persistent source of annoyance, broke the first two rules almost every visit. He touched things he shouldn’t. He wandered too close to Jason’s room. Once he even moved a few books out of order just to watch Jason’s eye twitch.

But the third rule was different. That one he would never break unless there is no other way.

Jason never interrogated him about his problems. He gave Damian space to solve them on his own, offered help only when asked, and never tried to drag him back into the family’s orbit before he was ready. So Damian returned the courtesy. Jason would decide for himself how close or distant he wanted to be from Batman. Damian wouldn’t sabotage that.

There were other advantages to staying with Jason too.

Unlike Alfred, who monitored everyone’s sleep schedules like a hawk and enforced balanced meals with tyrannical precision, Jason allowed certain… freedoms. He still made sure Damian ate 'real food' and got enough rest, but he wasn’t above letting him stay up late on occasion or replacing a proper home-cooked dinner with a questionable late-night trip to Batburger.

And Damian loved Batburger nights.

The greasy neon glow, the terrible mascots, the employees who didn’t blink at Gotham’s strangeness anymore. It felt oddly comforting. But what he loved most were the small toys that came in the children’s meals: tiny plastic figures of Gotham’s vigilantes in costume. His Family.

He would never admit it to anyone in manor, that he had a little shelf at Jason’s place dedicated to them. All of them. A miniature army of his family in brightly colored plastic, standing in a crooked line that he rearranged every visit. Jason pretended to hate that Bruce’s Batman figure sat among them, scowling down from the top shelf—but he never moved it. He never threw it out. When Damian wasn’t looking, he even dusted it.

So when Jason tossed him a jacket and jerked his thumb toward the door with a gruff, “Batburger instead of dinner?”

Damian didn’t hesitate. He nodded and followed him out. 

------

Damian ordered his usual kids’ combo and a Mr. Freeze shake, barely glancing at the menu. Jason, in contrast, ordered two large combos and then, because of course he did, added an extra cheeseburger on top of that. The cashier didn’t even blink; by now, Todd’s appetite was a known hazard.

This time the toy inside Damian’s combo turned out to be a Red Robin figurine—specifically Drake’s newest updated costume. Damian felt the familiar flicker of satisfaction at getting one of the new models, but he schooled his expression into disinterest and set the figurine aside with practiced nonchalance. Still, he kept one eye on it to make sure no stray grease got anywhere near it.

This was challenging, given how Jason practically inhaled his food, leaving a scatter of crumbs in a radius that expanded with every bite.

Damian, by contrast, ate slowly—precisely, methodically. A few fries at a time, a measured sip of his milkshake.

Todd paused mid-devouring his burger and looked at Damian with exaggerated annoyance.

“Oh, gush,” he groaned. “you are exactly the same. I should’ve known better than to leave my tiny bloodthirsty demon brother alone in a mansion with that weirdo nepobaby.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “What made you decide I resemble Drake?” he asked coolly, while simultaneously sliding the Red Robin figurine farther toward the very edge of the table—away from Todd’s dangerously messy hands.

He jabbed a fry in Damian and his food direction. “That,” he said.

Damian stared at him, unamused and waiting for a more intelligible explanation. Todd sighed dramatically and ran his fingers through his hair—with the same greasy hands he’d just eaten with.

Gross.

Finally calming down, Jason leaned back. “You both eat slow. And polite. Like you’re at some fancy noble dinner.” He lowered his voice, continuing more like to himself than to Damian. “Though neither of you has gone to ‘Batburger with fork and knife’ eating level … yet.”

Then, louder, he continued, “Y'know, last time I mentioned to Tim how he eats—slow and all prim and proper—he just stopped chewing and stared at me like I’d just told him gravity was a real thing. Like, ‘What do you mean, Jason, how dare you observe reality?’”

Damian genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was with eating neatly and not wanting to stain himself. But Todd threw his hands up.

“There! See? You’re doing it again!” he barked, pointing directly in Damian’s face.

Damian swatted his hand away with a scowl. “It isn’t that I eat too neatly,” he corrected coldly. “It’s that you eat like an animal.”

Todd’s grin spread slowly, turning into that infuriatingly smug smile he always wore when he decided to be unbearable.

“Don’t you like animals?” he asked innocently.

Damian was offended on principle. “How dare you compare yourself to this adorable and innocent creatures,” he snapped. “Animals have soft fur and if you had fur, at least I wouldn’t have to see your face.”

Todd’s grin only widened. Wiggling his eyebrows, he leaned forward.

“I could show you some real manly body fur, y’know. Since your baby hands are still smooth and soft. Might take you a while before you get a decent layer.”

He laughed at his own joke. Loudly.

Damian, irritated beyond measure by this idiocy that he was expected to call an older brother, grabbed his untouched kids’ menu burger and hurled it at Jason’s face. He hadn’t even unwrapped it—he never cared for the burger in this combo. He only ever ordered the combo for the toy. He’d be much happier if Batburger offered a vegetarian alternative, but that was apparently too much to expect from fast food.

At least it made a decent projectile.

“Didn’t Alfred teach you not to throw food?” Jason said, catching the burger one-handed. But he immediately pivoted. “Speaking of—are you gonna eat this one, or is it another ‘no thanks, meat is murder’ moment?”

Damian was really annoyed by this parody of a grown man. “Until they introduce a vegetarian option, I am not eating that.”

Todd shrugged. “Cool. I’ll make sure it doesn’t go to waste, then.”

“Do whatever you want,” Damian muttered. “As long as it makes you shut up.”

But as he returned to his fries, annoyance simmered in his chest. The comparisons had been bothering him more than he wanted to admit. People always loved to compare him to someone—his father, his mother, Grayson, Drake, Cassandra, or even to Todd and Brown at times. But the two people who had never played the comparison game before were his Father and Todd themselves.

And now both had joined the chorus.

Why would they do this meaningless act of nostalgia? What purpose did it serve?

He needed an explanation from someone capable of giving one without drowning it in sentimentality, nostalgia, or assumptions about “trauma from growing up in the League.” Someone rational. Someone blunt. Someone who wouldn’t turn the question into a therapy session or an emotional revelation. Someone who can answer honestly and taking his  question serious.

Damian glanced at the Red Robin figurine sitting at the edge of the table and let out a long, resigned sigh.

Unfortunately… this idiot was probably the most logical and reasonable person he could get in this bizarre parody of a normal family.

Chapter Text

Damian approached the slightly ajar door — the silent sign they all used to show they didn’t mind someone coming in. According to the unspoken agreement of the manor, a closed bedroom door was an impenetrable boundary unless the owner granted permission. It had taken Damian a long time before he could allow himself to leave his own door open.

Just as it had taken Drake a long time to start leaving his open again after Damian first arrived at the manor. Back then, with both of them feeling the other was a potential threat to their standing, neither could risk leaving their room undefended — terrified that someone would peek in, find something, and use it against them.

But much had changed since then. And now Damian could easily admit that Drake was his brother. Not that he would ever say it out loud, unless there is no real need in it. in any other case, he will not, even under torture.

Damian didn’t bother knocking as usual. He pushed the door further open and stepped inside.

Drake was sitting at his desk, one leg pulled up, his tablet propped comfortably on it as he worked on something. His other leg swung lazily in a steady rhythm. He nodded his head along with whatever he was listening to through the oversized headphones covering his ears.

Damian rapped his knuckles against the doorframe, announcing his presence, in case his brother was too concentrated on his own work. He knew Drake well enough: no matter how relaxed he looked, he never played music so loud that he couldn’t hear what went on around him. The moment Damian knocked, Drake slid the headphones down around his neck. He spun his chair toward him with practiced ease and, with a faint smile, asked, “What brings you to my humble domain today, young gremlin?”

Damian stepped further into the room. “I have a question,” he said, tone stiff but purposeful, “and I decided you are the most adequate candidate to answer it.”

Drake set his tablet aside and gestured him toward his bed. Damian silently crossed the room and, after giving the pile of plush toys a brief, judgmental glance, picked up a plush Robin — complete with a tiny plastic sword sewn into its hand.

“Pretty cute, isn’t it?” Drake asked, already grabbing his phone from the desk. His thumbs flew across the screen, typing something rapid-fire before he locked the phone and set it aside again.

Damian looked over the remaining mound of plush replicas of their family. it was Grayson and Brown’s idea. They believed that if they released a line of Gotham-hero plush toys, it would help soften their public image, make them seem less terrifying to the average civilian. Father had supported it, since it aligned with his belief that only criminals should be afraid of them.

And Drake had been in charge of making the idea a reality. So it made sense that he had access to every prototype version. Though, Damian still didn’t quite understand why he kept them.

But on the other side, he couldn’t honestly judge him. Not when Damian himself had a collection — though his was obviously far cooler.

“Not bad,” Damian admitted, inspecting the Robin plush. “Though I thought the finalized design for the retail didn’t include a katana?”

Drake nodded. “Yeah, we decided the plastic sword wasn’t exactly the safest or most practical accessory for a plush meant for kids. Too flimsy in lightweight material, too dangerous if we made it sturdier. We’re considering a wooden variant for the next batch, though.” He shrugged. “I just thought this prototype was cute, so I kept it.”

“I see,” Damian murmured, lowering his gaze to the plush in his hands. Hearing Drake insist that the dolls were cute made him uncomfortable, but they were figurines of their family, so he chose to ignore the wording.

“So,” Drake said, turning his attention fully back to him, “what’s the question?”

Damian noticed the phone slip back into Drake’s hand, but forced himself to ignore it and focus.

“I wanted to ask… what is the point of everyone comparing me to other people?”

Drake blinked at him, surprise flickering across his face before his expression sharpened with unmistakable purpose.

“Did someone start messing with you at school again?” he asked, already leaning forward. “Just give me a name. First and last. I’ll dig up enough dirt to make them rethink their entire life philosophy.”

Before Damian could respond, Tim flipped open his laptop with practiced efficiency. The screen lit up, revealing the familiar interface of one of his private databases, the kind he pretended didn’t exist when Father asked too many questions. Tim’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to unleash righteous, and questionably legal, vengeance.

Damian sighed and shook his head. “No. This has nothing to do with school. I am actually referring to Father and Todd in this case. Though, to be honest…” he paused, thinking just how frequently it had been happening over last few month, “everyone in this family has been doing it more frequently lately.”

Tim froze. Then, slowly, he closed the laptop with a soft click and gave Damian his full attention.

“I see,” he said carefully. “In what way exactly are they comparing you?”

Damian didn’t miss the sudden stiffness in Drake’s shoulders — small but obvious if you knew what to look for. And Damian always noticed such things.

He remembered how Grayson had told him during his first months living at the manor something about Drake's inferiority complex.  How Drake, in his first year as Robin, had practically torn himself apart trying to excel in everything. How he felt the weight of being compared to Todd, the reckless fallen hero, and Grayson, the original and the golden standard. It is hard to win when comparing yourself to someone who build a legend and someone who become idealized ghost living in peoples mind.

And Drake believed he was always competing with a legend and a ghost, and for a long time, he never felt good enough for position of Robin, yet performing his duty perfectly.

So Damian decided to clarified, so not reminding dark period of time in Drake's history, “The comparisons are… mostly positive, I think.” He frowned. “But I do not understand their purpose.”

“But the comparisons made to me,” Damian pressed on, “are mostly positive. Or at least… that is the intention, I suppose.” He tightened his grip on the plush Robin in his hands. “I still don’t understand the purpose behind them.”

“They compare my fighting style, my sense of humor, my tactics, even my eating habits,” Damian continued. “Everything I do — someone in this excessively large family apparently resembles me in it. And I don’t understand the point. Is this some tradition? Another bizarre ritual I was never taught because of the environment in which I was raised?”

He exhaled, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “There is a constant sense that no matter what I do, they will assign me a counterpart. And I wish to understand why.”

He lifted his gaze, meeting Drake’s eyes with an intensity that left no room for deflection. “Explain it to me.”

Drake let out a soft, relieved smile when he heard Damian’s explanation, then folded his hands and spoke plainly.

“It’s because you’re growing,” he said.

Damian blinked as if the answer were obvious and somehow irrelevant. “I fail to see the connection between the simple fact that I, like all living things, grow, and why the family must then hunt for likenesses in every movement I make."

Drake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching him closely. “It’s not just that you’re getting older,” he said. “It’s what happens when someone grows up inside a family like this. We see ourselves in you.”

He didn’t let Damian interrupt. He kept speaking, slow and careful. “You came in here a kid. A sharp and furious kid who wanted to fight everything that you consider as a threat to your position, which was almost everything in your judgement at the time. But you’ve changed. You’re not the same blade you were. You laugh differently, you fight differently, you make choices—small things and big things—and to the rest of us, those differences are evidence that we mattered. That whatever we did, however we behaved, somehow shaped you. When we point out a similarity — your stance, a joke, the way you roll your shoulder before you strike - It’s a mirror we use. We’re looking for the parts of ourselves we recognize.”

Damian listened, jaw clenched. The explanation sounded almost sentimental, and that made him bristle. He could feel his temper rising — the reflexive armor that had kept him sane since he was a child of the League.

“That is absurd,” he said after a beat. “I am not a reflection of anyone. I am not anyone’s copy or follower. I decide. I choose. I build my own path.”

Drake’s smile softened; he nodded. “Yes. You are your own person. Nobody here is trying to erase that. But denying that we’ve influenced you is… pointless. Influence isn’t the same as identity. You’ll pick up mannerisms. You’ll learn patterns from people you spend years watching. It happens to everyone. The trick is—” he paused, searching for the right word, “—to be aware of which parts you keep and which you toss.”

Damian’s mouth tightened. “I am unique,” he snapped. “I am the original, not some patchwork from this ridiculous family.”

Drake drew back with an almost indulgent chuckle. “In a family like this? Being the ‘only one’ is harder than you think.” He tilted his head, amused and a little exasperated. “Name something you do that you believe no one else here has ever done before.”

Damian gave him a cold, quick list, certain he’d cornered the argument: “I became Robin at ten.”

Drake’s brows lifted in mock alarm. “Dick did it at eight,” he offered immediately. “So you’re late.”

“I trained from a ridiculously young age,” Damian continued. “I was taught to kill—”

“Cass was also trained from birth,” Drake interrupted. 

“I have toke someone life,” Damian insisted. Not exactly what he liked to remember, though.

“Jason."

"Was trained by League."

"There is like three people who was also trained by them at some point before you even been able to walk."

Damian stared at him, stung by the ease with which every accomplishment became… ordinary.

Drake’s tone softened. “Look, I’m not saying you’re not extraordinary. You are. You know you are. But extraordinary doesn’t always mean ‘first.’ You can still be singular without being the only one to walk a certain road. And even if someone else walked it, that doesn’t make your steps any less yours.”

Damian didn’t answer. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted victory.

Or at least one example.

Just one.

Drake watched him wrestle with it, before saying, “You’re not going to win this,” he said lightly. “Not because you’re not impressive—but because this family is an impossible benchmark. Every insane achievement on earth? Someone here has tried it before breakfast.”

Damian rose from the edge of the bed in one swift, decisive motion. He threw his little plush version back to the bed, heading to the door.

“I will find something,” he declared, voice edged with steel. “Something none of you have ever done. And when I do, you won’t have a single name to throw back at me.”

Tim didn’t even try to stop the smirk tugging at his lips. “Good luck. With us? That’s practically a research project.”

Damian’s glare was sharp enough to cut through Kevlar. “Watch me.”

And with that, he left—determined, irritated, and absolutely certain he’d prove he wasn’t just an echo of the people around him.

He would find something unprecedented.

Something undeniably his.

Something no Wayne, Grayson, Drake, Todd, Brown, Gordon, or Cain had ever touched.

He’d make sure of it.

Chapter Text

By the fourth week, the entire challenge had sunk into Damian’s bones like a splinter he couldn’t pull out.

It had begun as irritation. A simple, stubborn refusal to let Drake win. But now it had grown into something heavier and sharper, something that followed him everywhere like a shadow just out of sight.

The first week had been the worst. Drake’s challenge clung to him like a burr, catching on every corner of his thoughts. It trailed him through patrols, clung to him in the training room, gnawed at him during conversations, even ones that was important and which he should listen carefully. His focus, usually diamond-sharp, kept fracturing.

One moment he was tracking a thief across rooftops, the next he caught himself wondering whether anyone else in this family had ever performed an aerial flip at that exact angle before him. During training, his mind drifted toward the question of whether his sword form was inherited or invented. In conversation, he found himself zoning out halfway through sentences, mind spinning on the same impossible loop.

Mistakes. Small ones, but unacceptable all the same.

A mis-timed step on patrol. A missed cue from his partner. A question from Bruce he didn’t hear the first time. Even Alfred raised an eyebrow at him—Alfred, who could read them all like open books—and that only made Damian more irritable. Their worried glances, their quiet questions, their attempts to figure out what was wrong… each one grated at him until his skin felt too tight.

So during the second week, Damian forced himself to be… strategic. He reserved his spiraling thoughts for quieter moments, moments where his attention wasn’t demanded at knife-point. While brushing Titus, feeding Bat-Cow, checking on Jerry, Bat-Cat, Alfred the Cat, and the rest of the menagerie. While chopping vegetables with Alfred—almost cutting his own thumb once because he drifted too deep into thought. While doing his tedious schoolwork. During breakfast, lunch, dinner. While brushing his teeth. While lying in bed waiting for sleep to come. While pulling on his uniform. While straightening his blankets.

He treated the problem like a puzzle he could pick at, never fully drop, never fully solve.

Every idle minute became fuel for the question: 'What have I done that no one else in this family has done before me? '

By the third week, he had a handful of answers. Not many, and none he liked.

He was undeniably the youngest in the family to commit his first kill. Younger than anyone wanted to imagine, younger than he could stomach thinking about. An 'achievement' he would rather never claim, yet one that was undeniably singular.

He had taken a long solitary journey to understand life beyond the League, and to decide what existence he wanted after his short time living with his father. No one in the family, as far as he knew, had taken such a journey so young—not even his father. His travels had started when he was around sixteen, coming back only when he was closer to be the man who would become Batman. Cass might have had something similar, but even then, their experiences would never truly align.

He was the first and only vegetarian in the family.

And he had, without question, the largest number and widest variety of pets under his care. No one else in the family came close.

He could have stopped there. Claimed at least one of these things as his victory. Declared himself unique. Ticked the box and ended Drake’s ridiculous challenge.

But Damian dismissed them. 

Each answer felt… insufficient. Hollow. Not at all the kind of achievement that echoed through the halls of Wayne Manor.

Nothing he listed had the weight of his father reshaping an entire city. Turning Gotham, a city drowning in corruption, of all places, into a place where hope wasn’t a foolish dream.

Nothing compared to Grayson, who were first sidekick, giving idea of taking young protege to other heroes around his father, and with that also giving kids around the world they can change the world around them. Also being the first to grown from boy wonder into Nightwing, in the meaning of becoming independent hero. And Grayson was the first to build a team of peers and lead them like he’d been born for it.

Nothing stood up to Jason, who had died and clawed his way back into a life where he protected children the world ignored. He carved a path separate from Father and Grayson yet worthy of respect in its own right.

And Drake, who had uncovered Batman’s identity without powers, without resources, purely by intellect and relentless conviction. He had been the first Robin Batman didn’t choose. Instead, Drake had chosen Batman, by rescuing the man from drowning in grieve after loosing his son. He was the Robin Batman needed more than any before or after. And Drake was the one whose intellect was recognized by everyone, by allies and enemies.

How could he weigh anything he’d done against Stephanie and Barbara, who both forged themselves into heroes before they ever entered this family? Against Cass, who rejected a destiny written for her and created her own? Against Duke, who stepped up to lead a literal movement of children in the darkest era of Gotham before he ever put on an 'official' suit?

Even Alfred had a lifetime of achievements, sacrifices, and victories that dwarfed anything Damian had yet lived.

Every member of his family carried something monumental. Something meaningful. Something earned.

And all of them had made decisionsthat had shaped who they became.

Compared to that, Damian’s “unique” traits felt like scraps. Barely even worth writing down.

Being the youngest killer? Shameful, not admirable.

Vegetarianism? Hardly heroic.

A long journey alone? Not unprecedented, not earth-shattering.

Animals? A fondness, not a legacy.

So as the fourth week dawned, Damian was still thinking. Still chasing. Still searching for something, anything, that might measure up.

And every morning he woke with the same hollow certainty:

There had to be something.

Something that proved he wasn’t just a pale imitation of the legends around him.

Something that proved he wasn’t just following footsteps laid long before his own.

There had to be something that was undeniably, unquestionably, Damian Wayne.

------

By the sixth week, the question had twisted itself into something far darker—something Damian hadn’t expected, and certainly hadn’t wanted.

It was no longer simply “What have I done first?”

It had become: “How many of the important decisions in my life were actually mine?”

And the answer, when he forced himself to look at it honestly, was nauseating.

Not his training, not the League, not the blood on his hands, not the shape his childhood had taken, not being vigilante, not being kind. None of it had been his choice.

Every major turning point before he arrived in Gotham had been engineered by his mother’s ambition, by his grandfather’s fanaticism. They had carved a path for him long before he had the chance to even understand he was walking one.

And afterward, even after joining his father’s family, after stepping into the Manor, adopting the mantle of Robin, learning what it meant to stand for something, Damian was struck by an uncomfortable realization:

How many of those decisions had actually been his?

Becoming Robin? -Father's decision.

Joining the mission? -Father's insistence.

His training regimen? - Set by Grayson, then by Bruce, then by whichever sibling thought they knew best that week.

His schooling? - Alfred and Father.

Every major change in his life seemed to come from someone older. Someone more experienced. Someone who assumed they knew better.

He wasn’t ungrateful.
He wasn’t.
At least, he tried not to be.

But when he compared himself to the rest of the family—each of them marked by defining choices they made themselves—he felt like a shadow cast by the decisions of others.

Grayson chose to become Robin. Todd chose to fight for what he defined right, even if other didn't agree with him. Drake chose Batman, chose the mission, chose a life that no one ordained for him. Barbara chose to be a hero  herself instead of waiting for help from her father or Batman. Brown chose to walk into heroism even if it meant to go against her father. Cass chose to become someone wholly different from the weapon she was raised to be. Thomas chose to rise up and lead when Gotham needed it most. Even his father, as a boy, had chosen a purpose that would remake the entire city.

And Damian?

Every path he had walked felt pre-written.

Predetermined.

Something he had been pushed into, molded into, shaped into, without ever stopping to ask if he wanted any of it.

His decisions, when he truly thought about them, felt small, minor, insignificant, ripples that never grew large enough to matter.

He began to wonder if he had ever made a decision that changed anything at all.

Had he ever genuinely shaped his own life? Had he shaped its direction? Had he shaped its purpose? 

By the sixth week, the question wasn’t a question anymore.

It was a quiet, heavy dread under his ribs.

A suspicion he couldn’t shake: Maybe nothing he’d ever done truly belonged to him. Maybe he had never actually lived his own life.

------

Damian was on a routine patrol with Jon. The arrangement had been established back when they first met, and both of them had relatively few heroic responsibilities. Patrolling together, whether in Metropolis or in the Gotham, had always been nice thing, which they used to use as a chase to prove themselves to their dads. They used to go them at least twice a week when started. 

Over time, however, Damian’s duties had increased significantly. His family had begun to trust him with more serious missions, allowing him to take part in operations that required greater responsibility and skill. On top of that, his role as leader of the Titans consumed a large portion of his time. His civilian obligations also demanded attention: with his father’s support, Damian now organized charitable art exhibitions once a month, raising funds primarily for animal shelters. And, as was tradition in the family, he had been made part of the student council, which Father insisted would teach him leadership skills and the ability to handle organizational challenges. He said this skills are useful both for team management and life in general.

Jon’s life, by contrast, remained simpler. Though he, too, had become busier, sometimes working with various teams or groups, but his parents believed he should primarily enjoy his youth without being weighed down by excessive responsibility, so at least his normal life stayed pretty chill.

But since they both become more busier, even if it mostly Damian, their joint patrols had become increasingly rare. But Damian should say that while they patrolled together less frequently, he can't say his meetings with his dear friend was so rare.

Jon had begun visiting the Manor that often that he already had his own room in it. He was also constantly invited Damian to the city apartment of his parents, to his grandparents’ farm. No matter the location, Jon insisted on bringing Damian along.

Today happened to be one of those rare days when both of them were free. Damian hoped that patrolling in Metropolis might help him find an answer to the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks.

The patrol had nearly run its course by the time their duo had stopped a robbery, survived two shootouts, and gathered intelligence on what appeared to be a new sinister scheme by Lex Luthor. Yet Damian was no closer to resolving his own internal inquiry.

Now, Damian sat cross-legged on the edge of the rooftop, his cape fluttering lightly in the night breeze. The city below was a mosaic of lights and motion, more vibrant, more alive than Gotham could ever hope to be. He could hear faint laughter from the streets, see people lingering outside cafés and theaters, and it only deepened the weight pressing on his chest. Metropolis wasn’t just brighter—it felt freer, more human, and Damian couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in a world that had yet to demand the kind of vigilance his own city required.

The only thing preventing Damian from sinking fully into his dark, familiar thoughts was the persistent, attentive gaze that had not left his face for the past ten minutes. Deciding distraction might help from both, his thoughts and too attentive gaze, he began drafting a report for his father on tonight’s events, reminding Jon that at the very least he should write a brief report as well, so that Superman would know that the obsessive mind of Lex Luthor was up to something again. Jon agreed, but he couldn’t stop glancing at Damian every few seconds, which annoyed him even more than the continuous stare before had. Each glance made Damian’s irritation grow; ten minutes of uninterrupted attention felt almost invasive. He tried to ignore it, concentrating on summarizing the patrol and the minor victories, but John’s persistent look made it impossible to focus fully.

After producing a significantly shorter report than intended, Damian finally asked, “What ?”

Jon answered, “Robin, you’ve been distant the entire patrol… and, honestly, for the last month and a half. I want to know what’s been on your mind for so long.”

Damian didn’t want to voice his worries to Jon. The idea of saying them out loud made his stomach twist. Jon might think they were foolish. Or worse, he might try to fix them. And the thought of Jon’s bright, but uncomplicated head trying to grapple with something that had managed to occupy far more superior Damian for weeks made him want to scoff.

He wanted to say something scathing, something like “Your empty head would short-circuit trying to handle the kind of thoughts that kept me preoccupied for this long.” 

But instead, what slipped out was raw and completely unfiltered:

“Have I ever done anything in my life that was actually my own choice and something no one in my family did before me?"

Chapter Text

They move from the street into Jon’s house, where his friend made them both a cup of hot cocoa. Jon's mom taught him that when someone is sad, you need to give them hot beverage, even if Damian was not sad.

When both was sitting at the kitchen island with hot cocoa in hands, Damian finally explained the situation under the relentless hail of Jon’s questions. Jon, as always, tried to understand everything at once, interrupting himself halfway through one question because another one had already crashed into his mind.

Jon’s eyebrows slowly drew together, that familiar little crease forming between them, the one he got whenever he was thinking so hard that it almost hurt. Damian pretended not to watch him, pretended not to care. He refused to admit, even to himself, that despite how certain he’d been earlier that Jon’s “empty head” could never produce a helpful answer, he still waited. He waited, and he hoped.

If there was anyone who could see something in Damian that he himself couldn’t… it was annoyingly likely to be Jon Kent. Well, except of his family, of course.

“There is nothing at all?” Jon finally asked, brows furrowing even tighter as he leaned forward in his chair.

Damian stirred his cocoa with unnecessary focus and shook his head gloomily.

“What about—uh—taming a dragon?”

Damian lifted a shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether any member of his family had done that before him. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised. If they truly wanted to, they could probably have done it in half the time.

“Parallel-reality travel?”

“Drake did it,” Damian muttered. “Several times. Todd, probably. Father… certainly.”

“Going to space?”

Damian shot him a flat look over the rim of his mug, one eyebrow arching high in silent judgment. Jon flushed.

“Right, okay, stupid question.”

Then, as if retrieving something from the bottom of a messy drawer in his brain, Jon frowned thoughtfully. “How much does having both your parents count?”

“That’s just rude,” Damian said instantly. “And not something I achieved.”

Jon shut his mouth with a sheepish nod. A long silence followed. Damian didn’t push. Expecting Jon to answer in ten minutes the question that had tormented Damian for six weeks would be foolish.

“Well…” Jon eventually said, dragging the word out slowly.

Damian raised his head. Jon was red. And not his usual embarrassed flush—this was deeper, creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. His hands fidgeted around his mug, turning it back and forth as if it could hide him.

Damian wasn’t sure what could possibly embarrass Jon Kent after the absolute nonsense he’d already said.

“What about… dating S-Superboy?” Jon stammered, going an even darker shade of red. Damian wondered if Kryptonian physiology allowed for that level of blushing, that seemed impossible for human being.

Damian considered the suggestion. Then shook his head.

“Nightwing has dated other heroes. Father as well. And Red Robin is—currently—dating Superboy.” He paused, sipping his cocoa. “So no, Jon. That wouldn’t make me first in anything. Except perhaps the first brother to steal another brother’s partner and I do not wish for such an achievement.”

Jon shot to his feet so fast that seemed like he started flying. Which, considering his abilities, were possible variant too. 

“No—I didn’t mean—! That’s not—!”

He froze mid-sentence, face burning. Damian looked at him, waiting for him to continue. Jon shut his mouth, shook his head, muttered something like “bad timing,” and sat back down, clutching his drink.

Damian had no idea why Jon would suggest stealing his brother’s boyfriend, but he decided not to waste time analyzing Jon’s strange attempts at help, and return to his question instead. 

Was there truly nothing Damian accomplished first? Nothing he did because he wanted it—not because of his bloodline, training, legacy, or expectations that had shaped his entire life since birth?

The thought pressed down on him again, heavy and hollow.

They sat in silence for a long time. Damian focused on the last lukewarm sip of cocoa, Jon focused on not looking at Damian at all.

Then the front door opened.

Miss Lois’s voice echoed down the hallway, warm and brisk in the way only she could manage. “Jon? Are you guys finished for tonight? Also, Is Damian staying over tonight?”

“Both answer is yes!” Jon called back immediately, voice cracking just slightly with the force of it.

Several minutes passed—rapid footsteps, the rustling of a coat being hung, papers shuffled on the entry table—before Lois finally stepped into the living room. Her eyes swept over the two boys with a reporter’s sharp instinct, taking in Damian’s brooding posture and Jon’s tomato-red face.

She crossed her arms.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Why does Damian look like someone kicked his puppy, and why are you redder than your cape?” she asked, waiting explanation from her son.

Yet it was Damian who answered without hesitation—dry, blunt, and brutally factual.

“Jon suggested I steal Conner from my brother and start dating him.”

Lois blinked once.

Then twice.

Her gaze flicked to Jon, who was now burying his face in his hands and mumbling something like“ohmygodpleasekillme” into his palms.

“…He what?” Lois asked, voice very calm in the dangerous way that made even Kryptonians reconsider their life choices.

Damian nodded. “He proposed it as a potential unique accomplishment to differentiate myself from my family.”

“Damian!” Jon practically yelped, launching forward as if he could physically clamp a hand over Damian’s mouth. “That is NOT—! That’s not what I meant!”

Lois raised a hand, stopping Jon mid-flail.

“I’m going to need context,” she said. “All of it. Preferably before Clark gets home, because I’m not explaining this.”

Damian sat straighter, ready to deliver his report, while Jon looked ready to dissolve into the nearest cushion and live there forever.

“Drake challenged me,” Damian began crisply, “claiming there is nothing I have done or achieved that someone else in my family has not already accomplished before me.”

Lois tilted her head. “And?”

“And,” Damian continued, a muscle in his jaw tightening, “the last six weeks of reflection have unfortunately led me to consider that he may be correct. My family has achieved a vast array of feats, each through their own decisions. They have influenced the world, carved out unique roles, and secured legacies defined by choice rather than obligation. Meanwhile, I…” He exhaled sharply. “I am uncertain I have ever made a decision of true consequence that was fully my own.”

Jon shifted, looking wounded on Damian’s behalf. Lois, however, only hummed thoughtfully.

“That’s true,” she said lightly.

Damian stiffened, nodding once, solemn and resigned. Even Jon’s mother agreed — there was nothing special about him. No exception. No accomplishment that was his and his alone. A hollow, familiar weight settled in his chest.

But then she continued.

“if we’re talking about your superhero identities.”

Both boys’ heads snapped up.

“What do you mean?” Jon asked first, brow furrowed.

Damian, more wary, echoed, “Clarify.”

Lois stepped closer, leaning on kitchen island. She regarded Damian with a softness that never dulled the edge of her insight.

“I mean,” she said, “that you’re comparing yourself to their hero careers. Capes, titles, missions and other save the world stuff. And sure—if that’s your only metric—your family has done… practically everything.” She gave them a knowing look. “Some of them twice.”

Lois’s voice softened, but her words landed with the same clean precision as any well-aimed batarang.

“But that’s not all people are. Hero work is one slice of a whole life. Not the entire measure of it.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t sure he believed that. How could anyone accomplish anything worthwhile without being a hero? Without shaping the world in costume, under a symbol, in the shadow of something greater? What value could a life have if it wasn’t marked by extraordinary choices?

Seeing the doubt flickering openly across his expression, Lois raised a brow.

“So you think that just because I don’t run around in tights at night, I have no meaningful achievements?”

Damian immediately shook his head. “Your investigations have saved lives,” he said before he could stop himself. “And prevented harm. More than once.”

Jon nodded enthusiastically beside him. “Mom’s just as awesome as Dad. Sometimes even more than him.” That earned him a lightly scandalized look from Lois and a grin he didn’t bother hiding.

She moved to sit beside Damian, close but not crowding him, her presence steady and grounded in a way that made the room feel less heavy.

“Then let me ask you something,” she said. “Why did you decide to become a Robin? Jon did it because he admired Superman, long before he even knew Superman was his dad. But what about you, Damian?”

Damian’s fingers tightened around his now-empty mug. “…It was my mother’s command,” he admitted quietly. “First to take the mantle of Robin. And one day… Batman.”

“And is that still what you want?” she asked gently.

Damian hesitated. Then shook his head. “I don’t know if I ever truly wanted it,” he confessed. “I don't want to replace my father.”

Lois nodded slowly, absorbing that. “Then why stay? Why keep going out on patrol every night? You’re old enough now that no one could force you.”

He stared down at the swirling scraps of cocoa at the bottom of his cup, thoughts tumbling in on themselves. It took him a moment to find the truth beneath them.

“…Because it felt like only way I can be useful while doing something good.” he said finally. “ I was raised to be a weapon, but I… wanted to at least turn into weapon that protects people instead of harming them. If I exist as a tool, then I want to choose the purpose of that tool.”

Jon’s face fell instantly, blue eyes soft and aching. Lois’s expression darkened with something protective and maternal, like she wanted to gather Damian up and shield him from every cruelty that had shaped him. But she didn’t interrupt.

She leaned forward instead.

“And do you really think,” she asked softly, “that being a hero in a mask is the only way you can protect people? The only way you can help them?”

Her voice held no judgment — only genuine curiosity, coaxing him to think in a direction he’d never let himself consider.

The room went quiet, Jon holding his breath, Damian staring down at his hands as if the answer might be etched somewhere on his palms.

Lois didn’t retreat from that silence — she leaned into it, giving Damian space to breathe before she continued, her voice warm and unhurried.

“I’ve heard about the charity exhibitions you and Bruce put together,” she said. “The ones supporting animal shelters and youth programs. I know you volunteer at shelters yourself. And Alfred has mentioned—more than once—that you keep ‘mysteriously acquiring’ injured strays and hiding them in your room until they recover.”

Damian’s head snapped up, offended. “I do not hide them—”

Lois smiled. “Sweetheart, Alfred used the phrase 'smuggling in wounded wildlife like a Victorian orphan smuggles biscuits.' I didn’t have the heart to ask for details.”

Jon snorted into his cocoa.

Lois continued, gentler now. “You’ve already helped people, and other creatures, in ways that have nothing to do with a mask. And there are a thousand more ways you could do it. You could be an artist who gives people a way to see the world differently. You could be an activist. A police officer. A politician. A doctor. Someone who protects and uplifts others in ways no cape ever could.”

Damian’s skepticism flickered visibly; his shoulders tensed, mouth tightening into a thin line. It all sounded… too simple. Too mundane. Too far from the shining legacy he’d spent his whole life pressed up against.

He glanced at Jon, seeking either confirmation or contradiction, and found his friend already nodding with earnest, unfiltered certainty.

“Mom’s right,” Jon said, leaning forward on the couch. “You’re the most ridiculously multi-talented person I know. Like, in everything. If you decided tomorrow that you wanted to be a surgeon, you’d probably finish med school in three years and become the best one in the country. If you focused on art, half the planet would have your paintings in their homes. You could do anything. And you’d be great at it.”

Damian felt the praise like a weight and a warmth at the same time, confusing in how much he didn’t know what to do with it.

“…But would that be enough?” he asked quietly. “To stand on equal footing with the rest of my family? With what they’ve done? What they represent?”

Lois laughed, soft but clear, like she genuinely couldn’t help it.

“That,” she said, smiling at him, “depends entirely on you. What do you value. What you decide your worth is. What kind of life you choose to build. Not on what they’ve already done. Not on what you’ve already done ”

She tapped a finger lightly against his shoulder, not pushing, just reminding.

“You don’t need to outdo them, Damian. You just need to decide what future you want to build. And more specifically how you want your future to be.”

Lois rose from the seat with a gentle stretch, but her expression stayed warm and soft.

Damian murmured a quiet, almost embarrassed, “Thank you.”

Not dramatic or overflowing, just sincerity, that made Lois’s smile deepened.

Jon, however, was grinning outright. “See? This is why my mom is cooler than Superman.”

Lois laughed as she reached out to ruffle both boys’ hair at once, ignoring their synchronized noises of protest.

“That’s enough soul-searching for one night,” she declared. “The rest of the answers you’ll have to find yourself, Damian. That’s how it works for everyone. Even heroes.”

She turned toward the hallway, waving them up like two very stubborn, very tired cats.

“And now,” she added, “both of you need to get some sleep. You have classes in the morning, and Damian—sweetheart—you still have to get home in the morning before Alfred starts calling every Kent in the phonebook.”

Damian stood, brushing nonexistent dust off his clothes, expression settling into its usual determined neutrality, but now moving felt so much lighter and easier that in was for past month.

Jon looped an arm around his shoulders the moment he was upright, which was too comfortable for Damian to bother pushing away, and steered him toward the guest room.

“C’mon, man. If Mom says sleep, we sleep. It’s like a commandment in this house.”

Damian nodded, following his friend to his room. 

------

Damian stepped out of the Batmobile beside his father as the vehicle settled onto the platform. The cave was unusually crowded tonight—everywhere he looked, someone from the family was waiting. He had arranged this intentionally, timing his message for a night when Cass and Brown would be back from their mission, when Grayson could free himself from Blüdhaven, and when Todd could finally be convinced to show up. It had taken effort. It had been worth it.

He pulled off his mask slowly, blinking against the cooler air of the cave as he took in the faces of his siblings—unmasked already, relaxed in the familiar safety of home. It wasn’t surprising; he had asked Father to give him just thirty more minutes on patrol. He’d wanted to soak in Gotham’s rooftops, to memorize the rhythm of the city beneath his feet, to hold onto the feeling of moving through the night with purpose. He wanted the memory to stay sharp.

So when they were back, everyone was waiting for them for some time already.

Now, with everyone gathered; his brothers, his sisters, his father, his grandfather standing just behind everyone, and Barbara’s face hovering on the Batcomputer’s screen, Damian took a breath.

Yet, predictably, Todd broke the silence before Damian could start. “What’s the deal, little demon?” He demanded, arms crossed, half suspicious and half annoyed. “You call the whole family down here. Are we prepping for some cosmic battle we’re apparently supposed to win?”

Damian shook his head. “No battle.”

Todd looked bored, yet next second his face changed in exaggerated mix of shock and disgust. “What? Old man adopting another kid?”

“I have not been informed of such plans,” Damian replied dryly, then, just to be sure, looked toward his father. Everyone looked toward his father.

His Father pushed his cowl back, scowling at all of them. “Why does everyone assume that?”

“Because you’re a serial adopter,” Jason said immediately. The rest nodded in agreement—Grayson, Thomas, Cass, brown, even Drake didn’t bother hiding it. Damian also agreed with their perception of their father.

Father glowered, but Drake stepped forward with the actual question. “So, Bruce… are you? Adopting someone new?

“No,” Father said, clipped and irritated, as he moved deeper into the cave, leaving parking platform two of them were standing until now. Damian followed him, until there were a few steps left before reaching the main platform. He decides that kind of scene to perform his prepared speech should work. 

Grayson moved closer, concern softening his features. “Okay, babybat, seriously, what’s going on? Your message freaked everyone out. You said you had news. Big news. And that you needed us all here.”

Damian nodded, steady. “I star for the very beginning. Everything began two months ago,” he said, “when Drake issued me a challenge.”

Tim’s hands flew up. “I didn’t issue a challenge! I made an offhand observation! And I assumed we’d both forget about it within a week!”

Cass tilted her head with interest. Brown folded her arms and mouthed sure you did at Tim. Jason looked like he’d pay money to watch Drake dig himself deeper.

Damian ignored him with practiced grace.

“I questioned him,” Damian continued evenly, “why this family insists on finding similarities between me and someone else in the family every time I make a decision. Every skill. Every achievement. Everything I do is somehow compared to one of you.”

Grayson’s brows rose, the corner of his mouth tilting in something between amusement and concern. “We do that? ”

Before Damian could answer, Todd scoffed. “Of course we do. Kid’s a walking scrapbook of the family greatest hits. Half the time he opens his mouth, I hear Bruce-from-the-90s, if he was as insufferable as Alffie says.”

Brown raised a hand. “I’ve literally kept a tally in my notes app.”

Cassandra nodded once, solemnly, as though confirming the findings of an official report.

Damian inhaled, slowly counting inside, ignoring the heat rising to his ears. He’d prepared for this. He’d rehearsed this in his head from yesterday.

“As I was saying,” he continued, voice even, “two months ago, Drake claimed there was nothing I’ve done that someone in this family has not done before me.”

Drake opened his mouth to object again, but Father’s raised hand silenced him. He gave his youngest son his full attention, expression unreadable but undeniably focused.

“So,” Damian said, letting his gaze sweep across every familiar face. “I have spent the next six weeks considering that statement. On forth week, question changed. I started to ask myself instead if 'Was I really ever first in something?', then to, 'Am I actually unique?'. Finally it went to, 'Did I ever make decisions that were truly my own, or have I simply been following the will of someone else all my life?' ”

He paused briefly, scanning their faces for any reaction. Grayson looked as if someone had just crushed his favorite childhood pet toy, a mixture of shock, guilt and concern etched across his features. Todd and Drake exchanged uneasy glances, Cassandra tilted her head slightly, caught somewhere between curiosity and discomfort. Thomas looked genuinely sad, same as Brown was. Barbara was trying to keep her face neutral^ but he can see pity in her eyes. And his Father, though outwardly unreadable, had subtly leaned in closer, his presence quietly urging Damian to continue.

Yet, no one spoke; they waited, granting him the space to finish.

After a moment, Damian drew a steadying breath and pressed on. “Two weeks ago, while I was staying with Jon, after six long weeks of unproductive reflection, I finally found an answer. Well, at least a starting point for understanding what could make me unique.”

A ripple of immediate reactions spread through the group. “Omg! You started dating Jon?” Brown exclaimed, eyes wide with incredulity.

“Dude, I thought he wasn’t interested in this stuff,” Thomas muttered, tossing a twenty-dollar bill to Drake without even looking at him.

Damian rolled his eyes. “No. I am not dating Jon, and I don’t understand why anyone would leap to such a conclusion.”

Grayson’s face softened, a mix of curiosity and teasing warmth. “So… you didn't find your love, then?”

Damian let out a quiet sigh, resisting the urge to facepalm at the absurdity of his family’s assumptions. He gestured to all of them, his voice low but firm. “No. I did not. Instead, I spoke with Jon about my concerns, my thoughts, my endless questions about what I have done and whether I have ever been first at anything. He suggested several possibilities for what could make me unique. And, as expected, the little Kryptonian’s brain of his offered a series of solutions that ranged from absurd to utterly ridiculous. I am still unsure how dating Superboy could be considered a notable achievement. And why he even offered such a way of solving my problem?”

Several of his siblings blinked, some muttering “What?” in disbelief. Damian’s gaze fell on Drake, whose looked a bit confused. “Drake,” Damian said carefully, “you should not worry. I have no intention of pursuing anything with Conner, and I do not understand why Jon even suggested such a thing.”

A few siblings shifted uncomfortably, some with what appeared to be pity directed toward Jon, but Damian brushed the subject aside. He returned his attention to the more important matter, "Person who assisted me to step back and have a different look on a question wasn't Jon. It was Lois Lane. She helped me to change my focus from my past to my future."

“The decisions I made in the past,” Damian continued, his voice measured, “may have been influenced, directed, or even imposed by others. But that is irrelevant now. What matters, and more significant, is the question how I see the future. What decisions will I make for myself? Which choices will reflect my will and my values, rather than those of my family or my upbringing?”

He let the thought hang in the air, heavy and deliberate. The family absorbed it in silence, a mixture of contemplation and surprise settling over the group.

“And so,” Damian concluded, tone firm but thoughtful, “for the past week, I have been asking myself what kind of future I want. What truly matters to me. What I enjoy, what I am willing to strive for, and how I intend to shape my life moving forward.”

He stepped down from the staircase, moving deliberately toward his father. Standing face to face with him, Damian held out his Robin mask. “I will no longer be Robin,” he stated plainly. “I will no longer continue Batman’s legacy.”

Bruce took the mask from his son’s hands. For a brief moment, his expression registered surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his usually impassive features. But the hesitation softened quickly into a gentler, more tender gaze. “And what, then,” he asked quietly, “do you want to do instead, Damian?”

Damian’s eyes held a determination that left no room for argument. “I want to continue my grandfather’s legacy.”

A murmur spread through the gathered family. Cassandra and the others exchanged glances, several of them tilting their heads.

Grayson starts, sounding disappointed . “We thought you had already abandoned the League of Assassins.”

Todd leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed, voice sharp. “And all of this, this speech, this declaration, is only to tell us you’re going back to Ra’s al Ghul?”

Drake’s tone was low, serious, tinged with frustration. “We can’t let you walk that path again, Damian. You’ve seen where it leads.”

Even Barbara’s voice carried that mix of concern and disbelief, though filtered through the Batcomputer video feed. “You’re not thinking this through, Damian. You’re putting yourself in danger, and the rest of us, too.”

Damian looked around at his siblings, feeling a bit disappointed. And this people call themselves the greatest detectives? he thought silently, a wry edge to his internal scorn.

He turned his attention back to the one remaining figure whose judgment mattered most, his father. Calmly and silently his Father observed him. Damian straightened, locking eyes with him. “I am going to continue my grandfather’s legacy,” he repeated. “I want to build on what he started. But I’ve decided that path is not about revenge or power. I will focus on my education. I will go into medicine. I will become a doctor, a surgeon probably. I will be someone who saves lives.”

The cave fell into stunned silence. Father’s expression remained measured, almost as if he had expected the bold declaration, in contrast with his siblings around them who were visibly shocked, mouths slightly open, trying to process what they had just heard.

Damian, tilted his head slightly and asked, “Did you know?”

Father’s gaze softened even more. “I saw the form you filled out for your career orientation,” he admitted, a faint smile breaking through his typically stoic mask. “You listed surgeon under your future specialty. But I am glad to hear it from you personally, Damian. Glad to hear that you want to continue something what I was never really able to.”

Without another word, his Father stepped forward, enveloping his youngest son in a firm, encompassing embrace. Damian stiffened for a moment, unsure what reaction he had expected—but the warmth, the undeniable pride in his father’s arms, was overwhelming. For once, it wasn’t a lecture or a warning, or a challenge to outdo some dark path. It was acknowledgment, support, and an unspoken trust in his judgment.

As soon as they broke the embrace, Grayson swooped in, enveloping Damian in a bear hug so tight it was almost comical. One by one, the others moved closer too, each of them expressing genuine pride and happiness at Damian’s decision.

When Damian was finally set back on his feet, released from the firm grips of his siblings, he met Drake’s eyes. “I won.” he said simply, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. 

Drake didn’t look angry in the slightest at his lost. Instead, he ruffled Damian’s hair affectionately and smiled. “You definitely did,” he said. “And you did it in the best way possible.”

The rest of the family expressed their pride in a mixture of words and gestures—grins, nods, subtle pats on the shoulder. They were genuinely happy that Damian had accomplished something no one else in the family had managed: stepping away from the shadow of vigilantism and taking new path.

Barbara, still on the Batcomputer feed, gave a thumbs-up. “I’m proud of you, Damian. Truly.”

Todd grinned, a rare softness in his expression. “Finally, someone in this family doing something we can’t one-up. Well done, Damian.”

With all the praise and congratulations, Damian felt genuinely happy—his family supported him, and they were truly glad for his choice.

Alfred, ever practical yet with a twinkle in his eye, spoke up from across the room. “I believe this calls for a proper celebration,” he said warmly, “Master Damian’s new beginning deserves my signature cookies. But first,” he added with a hint of amusement, “everyone must change out of their… costume attire and get presentable.”

The group scattered, teasing and chiding each other as they hurried to the changing rooms. Damian was reminded that Alfred’s sense of order extended to even the most celebratory moments, and he followed the others, moving at his own pace. Barbara gave a final wave from the Batcomputer feed before signing off, wishing them to have fun. Father also headed to changing rooms to remove his costume as well, leaving Damian to approach the changing area slowly.

Damian stopped beside Alfred. “Do you really believe,” he asked softly, “that I can ever measure up to my grandfather?”

Alfred’s smile was gentle, warm, and full of pride. “Undoubtedly, Master Damian. You have the mind, the determination, and the heart. But truthfully,” he added with a slight chuckle, “I would be just as delighted if I could attend at least one of your college graduation ceremonies for once. Perhaps it will stop curse of dropping off school and college habit of this family?”

Damian chuckled as considered Alfred’s words, feeling a rare and quiet pride. He might not yet fully grasp the full scope of his own path, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like he was stepping into a future entirely his own, with his family behind him. 

"That's why I'm your favorite, isn't it?" Damian asked half playfully. 

"We should;d keep it secret, Master Damian." Alfred liked at him, heading upstairs. Damian smiled and hurried to change, he wants to reach kitchen when there  still be some cookies left.