Chapter Text
Gotham’s night hadn’t spared anyone, not even those who believed they’d grown used to it.
Dick sat at the edge of the bed in the old room that still carried Bruce’s painful scent, rubbing his face with both hands as he tried to convince himself that this was temporary. He had been doing that a lot lately, never fully sure why he kept returning to this room in particular—perhaps because even after a month and a half, it still held that heavy scent of oud and coffee, or because of all the memories he had formed here, all the nightmares that faded every time Bruce walked in back when Dick was younger… or perhaps he simply didn’t want to forget.
Dick tried to think of a solution to all this—a temporary situation, probably for another day, another week, another month… until someone decided what would happen next.
But “temporary” meant nothing when there was a child upstairs trying to open locked windows at night.
Every night.
Without hesitation.
Without regard for anything but himself.
So instead of the quiet, peaceful nights being a symbol of calm, they became a sign of yet another escape attempt with no intention of returning.
Dick had counted them all—this was the forty-sixth time he’d run up the stairs to the mansion’s upper balcony. Damian escaped there often whenever he disappeared throughout the day, and neither Dick nor Alfred had any explanation why exactly, but it had quickly turned into his launchpad for every infiltration and runaway attempt that caused Dick unbearable insomnia.
When he opened the door, he found Damian sitting on the windowsill, dressed in black, staring with cold emerald eyes.
Dick spoke softly, a part of him relieved the boy hadn’t jumped out of the window like he had a few times before (and each time Dick’s heart had dropped at least twenty times per second). “What are you doing, champ?”
The boy answered without turning:
“Meditating.”
The lies dripped from his mouth, but Dick couldn’t tell him he wasn’t being truthful—otherwise he’d put himself in even more danger under these circumstances.
“From the attic window?”
“I’m observing my father’s horizon… height doesn’t matter.”
Damian never looked at him, and the wide green eyes didn’t even tremble.
Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair before stepping closer and trying again with carefully-measured gentleness. “The horizon will still be here tomorrow, you know. But if you fall tonight, no horizon is going to put your arm back together.”
Finally, Damian turned his head toward him.
His face was tight, controlled in a way far removed from childhood, and in his eyes Dick saw something he recognized well—a deeply rooted sadness that refuses to shed tears. Damian had not cried. Not like Alfred, who had wept in the mansion’s corners a month and a half ago. Not like Cass, who came for her last visit weeks earlier and left the same day, barely holding her breath steady. Damian’s small, round face remained empty of any emotional expression or tears—nothing but frowning or blank stillness.
“It wasn’t meant for you,” Damian said after a moment, ignoring Dick’s attempt at humor.
Dick swallowed hard. “What wasn’t?”
“The cape.” Damian turned his head away again, speaking in a soft voice sharp as a blade
“It’s not meant for you… It’s Father's.”
Dick leaned forward cautiously, unsure if he should laugh or collapse.
“I know, Damian, the cape is the last thing I want—” he continued quietly, “Look, I’m not trying to replace him. Believe it or not— I’m the last person who wants that cape. I’m just… making sure the cape stays here until he comes back.”
His last words were heavy and unconvincing.
He knew the lie was awful, but no one talked about Bruce’s disappearance.
No one explicitly meant “death”—only absence.
None of them was ready to admit the great man was gone; the idea alone was terrifying, let alone its reality.
The boy did not speak, but his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly—
a tiny, hidden signal only someone learning to read guarded hearts could notice, and Dick was still at the beginning of that manual.
But it was progress.
Dick moved closer and sat beside him on the windowsill—not too close, not too far. Damian didn’t budge.
With a small, tired but genuine smile, Dick said
“You know, we could’ve started the day with something easier than trying to escape from the roof. We need to stop starting most of our days like this, champ.”
Damian lifted his chin with a hint of annoyance.
“I wasn’t trying to escape. You’re the one who shows up every time, assuming dozens of ridiculous assumptions that have nothing to do with what you think my actions mean.”
Dick chuckled softly.
Why were children so complicated?
Actually, they weren’t. Damian was.
But not in a bad way.
Just… complicated. And again, Dick had not finished reading the ‘Guarded Hearts Manual.’
A faint glint flickered in Damian’s eyes—half irritation, half a tiny smile—but it was there.
Dick slowly extended his hand and placed it on the boy’s shoulder.
Luckily, Dick had no idea where he got this sudden confidence today or why he felt so gentle—
And the real surprise, the thing that strengthened his words and actions, was that Damian didn’t shove him away, unlike how he acted a month and a half ago.
Dick looked more closely at the child’s small, expressionless features, then said in a voice soft but not whisper-soft, and not bold enough for confrontation
“You know you don’t have to be this tough. Not here. You don’t have to be.”
Damian blinked, but didn’t speak. Dick had said this line several times over the past month, hoping for even a small emotional reaction.
Dick continued, eyes on the horizon instead of Damian’s face—
because saying these things directly was impossible, at least not at this stage in their relationship
“I just want you to know—you don’t have to be alone. No one is competing with you here. No one expects anything from you except… being okay.”
Damian clenched his jaw slightly. Not a big movement, but Dick noticed it as if he were watching his heartbeat.
With a softer, quieter tone—still trembling in a way only a child who has read thousands of body-language cues could detect—Dick added
“And I…
I’m not Bruce. And I don’t want to be Bruce.
But…”
He paused.
The word “but” stuck in his throat as if it were too big.
After two long seconds, he said
“But I’m here. That’s all I’ve got. And I just want you to keep that in your head.”
Damian remained silent.
But his shoulder loosened by a fraction beneath Dick’s hand.
A fraction…
But it was bigger than any hug or confession.
Dick gathered himself and added a vague, philosophical line—the kind of wisdom that ambushed his brain every now and then,
And Damian understood because Damian was never a normal child to begin with
“You know, sometimes…
When someone loses a person, they try to hold on to anything that resembles them, pretending everything is controlled.
But truth is… even the strong get tired.
And you and me?
We only have each other watching our backs.”
The air thickened suddenly, and Damian looked visibly unsure for a moment.
He turned his head slightly—just enough for Dick to see part of his face, the small chin, the tense cheek, the eye catching the light.
All trembling with stubbornness, refusing to yield.
“I…” Damian hesitated, then replied in a barely audible, stubborn voice, “I don’t get tired.”
Dick smiled—small, not pity and not mockery—and stifled a quiet laugh.
Damian’s stubbornness was legendary.
He lifted his other hand automatically, without thinking, and brushed his fingers through the boy’s hair in a quick motion, afraid the child would pull away if he lingered.
But Damian didn’t move.
As he lowered his hand, Dick said
“When you’re ready… for anything… even just sitting quietly without running—I’m here.”
Damian looked back at the horizon—
But this time, he wasn’t looking to escape.
He whispered, emotionless:
“Again, I am not running. And you can't sit still, Grayson. Even if your life depends on it.”
Dick let out a warm, pained, silent laugh:
“Come on… let’s go downstairs.
It’s getting colder.”
Damian didn't get up. Dick hadn't expected him to do what he'd asked immediately, nor had he answered yes or no. But Dick heard him mutter something like, "I'm not cold, and you're a total lunatic, Grayson."
Dick stared at him for a moment before Damian said firmly, "I'd rather stay and watch the sunrise. You can go ahead and stuff yourself with your awful cereal."
Dick stared at him sarcastically for a few seconds before watching the horizon slowly transform from the previous darkness into the familiar, warming orange glow. And despite his desire to defend his wonderfully sugary cereal as one of humanity's finest inventions, he said gently, with a small smile, "Or can I watch it with you? And we can go ahead and have the best breakfast ever."
Damian shrugged wearily and whispered, "Suit yourself, Grayson."
Dick sat close enough to feel the warmth of a small heart determined to endure... and far enough away for Damian to pretend he didn't depend on him.
This sunrise was... magnificent.