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Damian heard the first raised voice before he even reached the top of the stairs.
It vibrated through the old manor walls. Father’s voice was low but sharp, filled with tension that drenched every syllable he spoke.
Damian paused on the second to last step, his feet silent against the wooden stairs. Years of brutal practice had trained him to be completely silent, allowing him to hold his breath to reduce the likelihood of being discovered. His eyes narrowed as listened.
Another voice emerged. Richard’s. Louder and tinged with frustration.
They were fighting. About him.
He knew it before he even made out the words.
The hallway was dim, lit only by the glow of a single, dying, wall sconce. Shadows stretched along the floor, reaching its tendril like fingers towards the closed double doors of Father’s study. Damian moved quickly, hands at his side, chin lifted. He maintained a measured expression, though a heaviness settled into his chest, right above his heart.
He approached the doors but stopped just shy of pressing his ear to them. He didn’t need to. Father wasn’t shouting, not really, but the clipped tone he carried was enough to hear.
“... reckless. He’s reckless, Dick. He doesn’t think before he acts, and he doesn’t listen to orders.”
“And whose fault is that?” Richard shot back immediately. “He’s a kid, Bruce. He’s doing his best. Also, it’s way better than when he first arrived.”
“It’s not enough.”
Damian’s stomach dropped.
Father’s words were harder than the injuries he received in the League. They were delivered with that same false calm, which somehow made them feel harsher. Richard’s response followed, soft, but still fierce.
“He’s trying. He listens to you even when he pretends not to. He wants your approval more than anything.”
“He wants to be Robin.”
“He wants to be your son.”
Silence.
Damian blinked once, his breath shaking before he got it under control. A tightness pulled at his throat, and suddenly his clothes felt suffocating. He straightened his shoulders, jaw clenched, even as his chest felt painfully small.
He lifted a hand to the door and pushed, just enough for the latch to click.
The argument stopped instantly.
Richard looked up first, his eyes widening with concern the moment he spotted him. Father’s head snapped towards the doorway, his eyebrows furrowed together, not in surprise, but in something Damian couldn’t place. Guilt? Annoyance? He did not know.
Damian stepped inside. Not fully, but just enough for the warm, golden light from the fireplace to brush the side of his face.
“I apologise for interrupting,” he said evenly. “But since you are discussing me, I thought it logical to contribute.”
Richard took a step towards him, calm but careful, like Damian was a startled animal, or one of the child civilians that needed calming. Father held up a hand, stopping him.
“Damian,” Father said, voice tight, “this is a private discussion.”
“About me,” Damian reminded him.
Father rubbed a hand over his face, pinching his nose in what could only be seen as annoyance. “It’s complicated.”
“Then let me clarify whatever misunderstandings—”
“This has nothing to do with you.”
The words were snapped before Father could stop himself.
Damian’s breath lodged in his throat.
Richard whipped toward Father, anger flashing across his face. But that didn’t matter. Everything else in the room stopped mattering, because Damian could only hear the echo of those words.
Nothing to do with him.
Of course. Why would it?
He lowered his eyes. “Understood.”
“Damian—wait—” Richard tried, stepping forward quickly, but Damian had already stepped back through the doorway.
“I will leave you to your discussion,” he said quietly, the closest thing to defeat he had allowed himself to sound in years.
Then he closed the door.
He walked quickly down the hall, posture straight, steps silent. He allowed no weakness to show on his face in public. Only when he reached his bedroom did he let his shoulders fall the slightest fraction. He wiped the mask of indifference off his face.
He shut the door behind him, and locked it. No one would be allowed inside.
The room felt larger than usual. He crosses it with a mechanical efficiency, heading straight for the small duffel bag stored beneath his bed. It had been there since the day he moved into the manor. It was originally packed out of habit. Mother had taught him to always be ready to leave a place behind. It was coming into use now.
He’d unpacked it eventually. Filled the drawers with his meagre League clothes. Put his newly bought books on the shelf. Hidden his daggers and other weapons before they could be forcibly taken.
They were signs of permanence.
Signs of belonging.
Damian swallowed. Hard.
Belonging.
He wasn’t sure if he had ever actually earned that. All the blood on his hands, his threats and mistreatment of his family. No, he definitely had not earned it.
“This has nothing to do with you.”
The sentence repeated in his head with perfect clarity, as if his mind refused to dull the painfully sharp edges. He opened the closet and began pulling out clothes, training gear, socks, and gloves. Everything that could fit. He folded each item with precision and placed them into the duffel.
He tried not to think about what Richard had said. He wants your approval. He wants to be your son.
He tried not to think about how badly he wanted that to be true.
He grabbed his sketchbook from the desk. The one filled with drawings of his animals, Richard, Alfred and others. He didn’t have many possessions. Not ones that mattered. So the packing was quick.
He zipped the duffel slowly, quietly, trying to minimise the risk of exposure.
Where would he go? He didn’t know. Not back to the League, that was for sure. But he knew how to disappear. He’d done it before, survived on his own. More importantly, the manor would be peaceful again. Its inhabitants would stop fighting. Stop dreading morning breakfasts on the chance that they would encounter ‘the demon child’.
He wouldn’t be their problem anymore.
He set the bag on the bed. Then sat beside it, hands folded in his lap, staring at the far wall without seeing it. He waited for the night to deepen. For the manor to settle as the family began their nighttime activities. For the chance to slip away.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there before he heard soft footsteps in the hall. They approached his door, then paused.
A quiet knock.
“Dames?” Richard’s voice, low and gentle.
Damian stiffened.
The doorknob turned. One. Two. Three clicks against the lock.
Richard sighed on the other side. “Kiddo? You in there?”
Damian didn’t respond.
He heard a small rustle. Richard was leaning against the doorframe.
“Look, I know you heard us,” Richard said. “I know it hurts. And Bruce—he didn’t mean it like that. He just—he panicked. He doesn’t know how to talk about his feelings like a normal human.”
Silence.
Damian stared straight ahead.
Another breath. “I’m not leaving this hallway until you let me in. So you might as well unlock the—”
He stopped and Damian blinked.
There was a shift in the air. A hesitation. Damian imagined Richard’s eyes dragging along the floor, the hallway, the dim light under the door, and realising something didn’t add up.
He heard Richard crouch. Then, the soft sound of fabric brushing wood.
He must have seen the faint shadow under the door. The missing shoes. Or perhaps the unnatural stillness of the room.
“...Damian?” Richard said again, more worried now.
Another pause.
Then, Richard’s voice, barely above a whisper.
“Damian… please tell me you’re in there.”
Damian opened his eyes. He didn’t answer, but instead, he sat up and began to move towards his open window.
Richard inhaled sharply.
“...Oh God.”
A shuffle, then hands pressing against the door, forehead leaning on the wood.
“Dames, don’t—don’t do this. Please. Just open the door. We can talk. You can come with me for the weekend. Don’t worry about Bruce, I can deal with him. Just, whatever you think—you’re not the problem.”
Damian’s throat burned as he pressed his palms against the brick on the outside of the manor.
Richard knocked again, weaker this time. “Please still be in there.”
Damian didn’t answer.
He lifted the duffel bag on his shoulder, heavy with everything he thought he might need, and jumped outside.
The locked door stood between him and the one person desperately trying to reach him.