Chapter Text
When Damian was 8, he thought he'd be ruling over an empire. He believed he would have already acceded the throne and long since taken over the mantle of the Bat. When Damian was 8, he most definitely did not see himself slumped over a hardwood desk long enough to leave red lines on his cheek. He did not see himself drowning in the encompassing noise that was high school history. He DEFINITELY didn’t think he’d be stuck listening to a walking midlife crisis try and fail to accurately explain the spoils of ancient war to a bunch of hormone-pumped and nicotine-hungry teens, but you know, life’s funny like that. To his credit, 8-year-olds tend to have a crazy imagination, but then again, it wasn't his imagination, was it? Now Damian is 17 and really, really wishing he was back home. Not because he wanted to train or anything. That seemed less and less appealing each day that goes by. In fact, the one thing Damian wanted right now was his bed. He closed his eyes, imagining the feeling of cushions and velvet sheets under his skin, and slowly felt himself dozing off.
“Mister Wayne!?” A scratchy, irritating voice stabbed through his beckoning slumber.
“Kill me,” Damian deadpanned, his eyes still fixed on the wall across the room.
“What was that, Mr. Wayne?”
“Nothing, and Mr. Wayne is my father.” The teen sat up with an annoyed sigh. The classroom snickered, soft at first, then swelling as a few brave souls let their laughter breathe. Damian’s eyes flicked toward the offenders, a cold, measuring green that promised future retribution. The laughter died as quickly as it had risen.
At the front of the room, Mr. Hargreeves, tie crooked, coffee stain blooming proudly over his shirt pocket, blinked behind thick lenses. “Well. Since you’re awake, perhaps you’d like to enlighten us on the causes of the Peloponnesian War?”
Damian resisted the urge to correct the man’s pronunciation.
He drummed his fingers once against the desk, calculating the minimum number of words required to satisfy the question without encouraging further interaction. “A power struggle between Athens and Sparta,” he recited flatly. “Fueled by Athenian imperial expansion, Spartan fear of losing regional dominance, and a complex web of alliances that ensured everyone else was dragged into their mess.”
Silence.
A girl two rows ahead slowly turned around in her seat. “Dude,” she mouthed.
Mr. Hargreeves cleared his throat. “Yes, well, exactly. And what might that suggest about-”
“That war is rarely about honor and almost always about insecurity,” Damian cut in, already slumping back into his chair. “Next question.”
A few students actually clapped.
He hated that.
Mr. Hargreeves frowned. “There’s no need for attitude, Mr.-”
“Wayne,” Damian finished, sharper this time. “Yes. I’m aware.”
He could feel it again, that restless itch beneath his skin. Not the familiar call to train, to fight, to prove. Something else. Something duller. Suffocating. He wasn’t eight anymore. Empires were theoretical. Mantles were complicated. And the Bat-
He pushed the thought away.
The clock ticked obnoxiously loudly on the wall. Five more minutes. He could endure five more minutes. He’d endured far worse.
A folded piece of paper hit his shoulder.
Damian didn’t move.
Another followed, this one striking the side of his head before sliding down onto his desk.
He stared at it for a long moment before unfolding it with slow precision.
You always look like that?
His jaw tightened.
He didn’t need to look to know who it was. The whispering behind him had been constant all semester — just low enough to avoid detention, just loud enough to make sure he heard it.
A third note landed.
Like you’re planning something.
Soft snickers drifted from the back row.
Damian folded the paper once. Twice. Neatly. Controlled.
He turned in his seat.
Three boys. One smirk. One fake-innocent shrug. One filming on a phone, they weren’t even pretending to hide.
“Is there something you require?” Damian asked evenly.
“Relax, Wayne,” one of them said. “We’re just saying you’re kinda… intense.”
“Yeah,” another added. “Like, do you even like… exist outside this room?”
A few nearby students laughed, the kind of laugh people use when they’re relieved the target isn’t them.
Damian studied them. Measured posture. Breathing patterns. The weakest link. He catalogued it all automatically.
It would be effortless to humiliate them.
It would be effortless to do worse.
Instead, he faced forward again.
“You are mistaking restraint for absence,” he said calmly.
“Oooookay, psycho,” someone muttered.
The word slid under his skin more than it should have.
The bell rang.
Chairs screeched. Conversations erupted. The room dissolved into noise.
No one waited for him.
No one walked beside him.
Damian packed his bag with mechanical efficiency while the last of the students filtered out, laughter echoing down the hall without him.
He stood only when the classroom was empty.
For a moment, he remained there, hands braced on the hardwood desk, faint red lines still pressed into his cheek from where he’d nearly fallen asleep.
When he was eight, he knew exactly where he belonged.
At seventeen, surrounded by hundreds of people, he had never felt more misplaced.
He stepped into the hallway alone, the noise swallowing him whole.
But he was beginning, reluctantly, to suspect that surviving high school might require just as much strategy.
The hallway was a river of bodies and noise.
Lockers slamming. Sneakers squeaking. Someone shouting about algebra as if it were a personal betrayal.
Damian moved through it untouched but not unaffected. People parted around him instinctively, not out of respect. More like caution. Like they weren’t sure what he might do if jostled.
He preferred it that way.
Lunch meant thirty-seven minutes of tolerating fluorescent lighting and the smell of reheated regret. He adjusted the strap of his bag and turned the corner toward the cafeteria-
-and stopped.
It was faint at first.
A vibration, more than a sound.
Low. Warm. Intentional.
A guitar.
Not the mindless strumming of someone showing off. Not the aggressive, sloppy noise of a beginner hammering out power chords.
This was deliberate.
Clean fingerpicking. Slightly calloused technique. A missed note- corrected instantly. Restarted.
Again.
Damian’s head tilted almost imperceptibly.
The sound wasn’t coming from outside.
It was coming from the old music lab near the auto shop, the one no one used because the speakers buzzed and half the amps were older than the teachers.
The door was cracked.
The guitar cut through again, sharper now, distorted. Not delicate fingerpicking. Power chords. Fast downstrokes. The kind of sound that didn’t ask permission to exist.
Damian slowed.
Then stopped.
A drumbeat crashed in, messy, confident, slightly ahead of tempo, like the drummer was daring the rest of them to keep up. A bassline followed, thick and grounding, just a little grimy around the edges. Then keys, bright, almost sarcastic, layered over the top.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t school-sanctioned.
It was loud.
He shifted closer to the doorway and looked inside.
Four of them.
The lead guitarist, tall, with dark hair falling into his eyes, stood in front of a battered amp covered in peeling stickers. His fingers moved fast, aggressive, like he was trying to outrun something.
Behind him, the drummer, a girl with sleeves pushed up and a smirk that looked permanent, hit as she meant it. No hesitation. No apology. She grinned every time she landed a full clean.
The bassist leaned back against a locker, scruffy jacket, ripped jeans, hair that hadn’t met a comb in days. He played steady, unfazed, like the chaos happening around him was expected.
At the keyboard, someone with chipped black nail polish and a half-shaved haircut adjusted a setting mid-song, then jumped back in without missing a beat. They moved as the sound lived in their bones.
Early 2000s punk. Raw. Reckless. A little too fast. A little too loud.
Alive.
Everything Damian couldn’t allow himself to be.
He didn’t step inside.
He didn’t announce himself.
He just watched from the threshold.
They were laughing between missed notes. Swearing when the mic squealed. Restarting without arguing about who messed up.
No one looked over their shoulder.
No one checked to see who was judging them.
They belonged to each other in a way that didn’t require explanation.
The song crashed to an abrupt end when the guitarist flubbed a transition.
“Dude,” the drummer groaned, tossing a stick at him.
“I slipped,” he defended.
“On what? Air?”
The bassist snorted. The keyboard player just shook their head, already adjusting a dial.
Damian felt something sharp settle behind his ribs.
A little envy, though he wouldn’t say it.
Not exactly.
Recognition, maybe.
They were building something.
And he was standing outside of it.
A floorboard creaked under his shoe.
Four heads turned at once.
The room went quiet except for the faint hum of the amps.
The guitarist squinted at him. “You lost?”
Damian held their gaze evenly.
“No.”
A beat.
“Just passing through.”
The drummer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been standing there for, like, a full minute.”
“That is not an excessive amount of time.”
The scruffy bassist shrugged. “You wanna say something, or are you just doing the creepy silent thing?”
Silence stretched.
He could walk away.
He should walk away.
Instead, his eyes flicked to the guitar in the lead player’s hands.
“You’re rushing the second chorus,” Damian said calmly. “If you pull back half a beat before the drop, it’ll hit harder.”
The band exchanged looks.
The keyboard player tilted their head. “You in band?”
“No.”
“Then how would you-”
“I have ears.”
The drummer let out a short laugh.
The guitarist studied him more carefully now.
“You play?”
Damian hesitated, just barely.
“…Not like that.”
A slow grin spread across the guitarist’s face.
“Good,” he said. “We don’t need another one of me.”
The guitarist jerked his chin toward an empty space near the lockers. “Come in. Show us what you mean.”
The invitation hovered there.
Open.
Simple.
Dangerous.
Damian looked at the threshold.
At the scuffed tile where dozens of shoes had crossed without thinking.
In the easy way, they stood with each other. The unspoken rhythm between them. The way they didn’t brace when someone spoke.
He knew formations like that.
He also knew what it was to disrupt them.
The speaker system crackled overhead before he could answer.
Static split the air.
“Attention students and faculty—”
The band groaned in unison.
Damian didn’t move.
“Damian Wayne, please report to the main office. Damian Wayne to the main office.”
Silence filled the lab again.
Four sets of eyes returned to him, sharper now.
The drummer lowered her sticks slowly. “You in trouble?”
“That depends,” Damian replied.
The announcement repeated.
The guitarist shifted his weight. “You should probably—”
“Yes.”
He straightened slightly.
The bassist frowned. “You coming back?”
It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t pleading.
Just a question.
Damian looked at the room one more time: the crooked mic stand, the peeling amp stickers, the drummer’s expectant smirk, the keyboard player’s steady gaze.
For a second, just a second, he allowed himself to imagine stepping inside.
The sound swallowed him whole.
No expectations. No legacy. No mantle.
Just noise.
“I can’t,” he said.
Not sharp.
Not cold.
Just honest.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
He stepped backward instead of forward.
The hallway light swallowed him again.
The guitarist held his gaze a moment longer. “We’re here most days,” he said.
Damian gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Then he turned.
The door stayed open behind him.
A second later, the drums kicked back in. Louder this time. Defiant.
The guitar followed.
By the time the announcement echoed a third time down the hall, Damian was already halfway to the office, the unfinished chorus trailing after him like something he almost reached for.
But didn’t.
The main office smelled like paper and overbrewed coffee.
Damian stood in front of the principal’s desk, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He refused to sit.
Across from him sat Principal Harris, square shoulders, careful smile, and beside her, the guidance counselor, Ms. Patel, who had the kind of soft eyes people used when they thought something was wrong with you.
“Damian,” Principal Harris began, folding her hands on the desk. “We’ve received several reports from your teachers.”
“I find that unlikely,” he replied evenly. “Most of them struggle with basic observation.”
Ms. Patel gave a small, patient smile. “This is exactly what we mean.”
Damian’s jaw tightened.
“You’ve been falling asleep in class,” she continued gently. “More than once. And when you’re awake, you’re… disengaged.”
“I answer questions correctly.”
“That isn’t the point,” Principal Harris said.
“Then perhaps you should clarify it.”
A thin pause.
Ms. Patel leaned forward slightly. “Your history teacher mentioned you told him to ‘kill you.’”
“I said it quietly.”
“That’s not better,” Principal Harris replied.
Damian held their gaze. He did not fidget. He did not look away.
“I complete my assignments. My grades are exemplary. If I choose to conserve energy during redundant lectures, that is hardly cause for alarm.”
“It’s the attitude,” Principal Harris said.
“There’s a pattern,” Ms. Patel added. “Isolation. Irritability. Lack of participation. You don’t seem… happy here.”
Damian almost laughed at that.
“Happiness is not a requirement for academic performance.”
The two women exchanged a look.
There it was.
That look.
The one adults used when they’d already decided what you were before you spoke.
Principal Harris exhaled softly. “We think it would be beneficial to bring your father in. Just to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
Damian’s spine went rigid.
“That will not be necessary.”
“I think it might be,” Ms. Patel said gently. “Sometimes students need support they don’t realize they need.”
“I do not require support.”
“Damian-”
“I am not failing. I am not disruptive. I am not violent.” His voice sharpened just slightly on that last word. “So what precisely is the issue?”
“The issue,” Principal Harris said carefully, “is that you don’t seem to want to be here.”
Silence.
Damian didn’t answer.
Because that, at least, was true.
Ms. Patel glanced down at a file on the desk. “We’ve also noticed you haven’t joined any extracurricular activities. No clubs. No sports. No-”
“That is correct.”
“High school is about more than grades,” she said.
“For some,” he replied.
Another look passed between them.
Principal Harris leaned back in her chair. “We’ll have our secretary contact Mr. Wayne to schedule a meeting.”
Damian’s expression didn’t change.
“You may do as you wish,” he said. “He will attend.”
He knew that much.
He always did.
There was a long pause.
Then something shifted.
The adults’ posture changed subtly, but there.
They stopped looking at him.
They started looking at each other.
“Well,” Principal Harris said quietly, as if the conversation had already moved past him. “This is typical for students under… certain pressures.”
Ms. Patel nodded. “Especially with high-profile families. The expectations alone-”
“And the fatigue,” Principal Harris added. “He looks exhausted.”
“He probably has a very structured home life,” Ms. Patel said, lowering her voice. “Rigid schedules can manifest as defiance in less controlled environments.”
Damian stood exactly where he was.
They did not lower their voices enough.
“Bringing Mr. Wayne in will clarify whether this is adjustment-related or something deeper,” Principal Harris continued.
“Yes,” Ms. Patel agreed softly. “It might just be attention-seeking.”
The word hung in the air.
Damian’s hands tightened behind his back, knuckles whitening.
He was still in the room.
Two adults.
Talking about him.
Like he had already stepped outside.
Principal Harris nodded once, decision made. “We’ll proceed with the parent conference.”
Ms. Patel finally looked back at him, a smile returning as it had never left.
“You can go back to lunch now, Damian. We’ll see you after school.”
He held her gaze for one long, unreadable moment.
Then he turned and walked out without another word.
The hallway felt louder than before.
And somehow smaller.
Damian sat in his usual space in the near back corner of the cafeteria. A good portion of his lunch break already been ruined by incompetence.
The cafeteria noise swelled and dipped in uneven waves.
Damian had just taken another measured bite of his apple when a tray slammed down onto the table beside him hard enough to rattle his milk carton.
He didn’t look up.
“Yo,” a familiar voice said. “It’s the psycho historian.”
Damian sighed, slow and controlled.
The three boys from history class stood around his table like they’d been rehearsing it. Same smirk. Same restless energy. One of them still had his phone half-raised, like he was hoping for a performance.
“You always sit alone like this?” one of them asked. “Or are we interrupting your terrorist planning?”
Students went quiet, whether it be from shock or fear,
Possibly a silent agreement.
Someone snickered.
Damian set the apple down carefully before answering.
“If you are attempting humor, you are failing.”
“Ooo, big words,” another said. “Guess that’s what happens when your dad buys the whole school a library wing.”
“Pretty sure he bought the whole school,” the third muttered.
They laughed at that.
Damian’s expression didn’t change.
“We were just talking about you in class,” the first one continued. “Wayne. Funny name, by the way.”
“It is my name,” Damian replied evenly.
“Yeah, but like… You don’t really look like a Wayne.”
There it was.
He felt it before they said the rest.
The second boy leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to pretend it wasn’t meant to carry.
“You adopted or something?”
A pause.
“Or is that just, like, the aesthetic?”
The word landed ugly.
Another laugh from a table over.
Damian’s fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
“I assure you,” he said quietly, “my parentage is not a topic open for discussion.”
“Relax,” the first boy said, hands raised in mock surrender. “We’re just saying. Kinda wild how the richest white dude in the country has a kid who—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
The implication hung there, obvious and sour.
Heat climbed up Damian’s spine, sharp and electric. He catalogued distance. Angles. Weak knees. Poor balance. He could dismantle them in under thirty seconds without spilling his milk.
He exhaled instead.
“You mistake difference for deficiency,” he said calmly. “That is a common error among the mediocre.”
“Ooooh,” one of them mocked. “He’s mad.”
“Careful,” another added. “Don’t want him calling in his bomber cousins or whatever.”
The phone lifted higher.
That did it.
Damian stood slowly.
The movement alone shifted the air.
“You will leave,” he said, voice low. Controlled. “Now.”
“Or what?” the first boy challenged, stepping closer.
A chair scraped loudly behind them.
“Or you’ll look even dumber than you already do.”
All four of them turned.
The guitarist stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, expression flat in a way that wasn’t playful anymore.
The drummer and bassist were a few steps behind him. The keyboard player hovered near the end of the table, arms crossed.
“This doesn’t involve you,” one of the boys snapped.
“Sure it does,” the guitarist replied. “You’re being loud. It’s ruining lunch.”
The bassist tilted his head. “Also racist. That’s a bad look.”
“We didn’t say anything-”
“You didn’t have to,” the keyboard player cut in evenly.
The cafeteria had gone quieter in that subtle way rooms do when something might happen.
The guitarist stepped a little closer to Damian’s table, not blocking him, not shielding him. Just there.
“You guys done?” he asked.
The first boy scoffed. “Why do you care?”
The guitarist shrugged. “I don’t. I just don’t like bullies.”
The word was simple.
Accurate.
The boy with the phone lowered it slightly.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Freaks can sit together.”
They backed off with forced laughter, returning to their table like they’d won something.
The noise of the cafeteria gradually swelled again.
Damian remained standing.
His pulse was steady. Controlled.
The guitarist looked at him sideways. “You good?”
“I was handling it.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Looked like it.”
A beat.
“I’m not-” Damian began, then stopped.
Not what?
Not fragile?
Not offended?
Not ashamed?
The guitarist stuck out a hand like it wasn’t a big deal.
“Ethan,” he said. “Since we skipped that part earlier.”
Damian looked at the offered hand.
After a moment, he took it.
“Damian.”
“Yeah,” Ethan said lightly. “I figured.”
He let go and jerked his chin toward the band’s table.
“You don’t have to sit alone, you know.”
Damian glanced toward the back corner.
Then toward the center of the cafeteria.
Then back to Ethan.
“I prefer distance,” he said.
Ethan studied him for a second.
“Cool,” he replied. “We prefer volume.”
A faint, almost imperceptible shift tugged at the corner of Damian’s mouth.
Not quite a smile.
But not nothing.
Ethan stepped backward toward his friends.
“We’re in the lab after school,” he added casually. “In case you feel like correcting our tempo again.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Damian sat back down slowly.
The cafeteria felt different now.
Not safer.
But seen.
And that was… unfamiliar.
Today had drained Damian. He wanted nothing more than to be back in the confines of his Wayne Manor bedroom, but unfortunately, the universe was still deciding his turmoil wasn’t complete. He dragged himself through slowly emptying halls, making his way reluctantly to the office lobby.
The late afternoon light stretched long across the tile floors. Lockers slammed shut in the distance. Laughter faded toward the parking lot.
Normal endings to normal days.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and stepped into the office.
The secretary offered him a tight smile. “Your father’s on his way.”
Of course he was.
Damian took a seat in one of the stiff vinyl chairs along the wall. He did not slouch. He did not fidget. He folded his hands in his lap and stared straight ahead at a framed motivational poster about perseverance.
The clock ticked.
Each second felt like an accusation.
He could already predict how this would go.
Measured disappointment. Controlled concern. A conversation disguised as a strategy session.
The front doors opened fifteen minutes later.
Even without looking, Damian felt the shift in the room.
Footsteps. Confident. Unhurried.
A low murmur from the receptionist that changed in tone, more polished now.
He lifted his gaze.
Bruce Wayne crossed the lobby in a tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses still on despite the dim interior lighting. He looked like he had stepped out of a magazine spread instead of a board meeting.
Effortless.
Composed.
Every inch the public image.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Mr. Wayne,” the secretary said.
“Of course,” Bruce replied smoothly.
His eyes found Damian.
The sunglasses came off.
The shift was subtle, but real.
Public Bruce faded at the edges.
Private assessment replaced it.
“You alright?” Bruce asked quietly.
“I am fine,” Damian said automatically.
A beat passed between them.
Bruce didn’t push.
The office door opened again.
“Mr. Wayne?” Principal Harris stood there, smile professionally wide. “We appreciate you coming.”
Bruce’s public smile returned instantly. “Happy to.”
Damian stood.
The three of them, Principal Harris, Ms. Patel, and Bruce, moved into the conference room.
Damian followed.
The door shut behind them with a soft click.
He chose the chair at the far end of the small table.
Bruce sat beside him.
Principal Harris folded her hands. Ms. Patel opened a file.
“Mr. Wayne,” Principal Harris began, “we’ve been observing some concerning patterns with Damian.”
Bruce’s posture was relaxed, but his attention sharpened. “Concerning how?”
“He’s been falling asleep in class,” Ms. Patel said gently. “Displaying persistent irritability. Social withdrawal.”
Damian stared at the grain of the wooden table.
“My grades remain exemplary,” he said.
“Yes,” Principal Harris acknowledged, “but academic performance isn’t the only indicator of well-being.”
Bruce glanced at him briefly.
“Damian,” he said evenly, “are you sleeping at night?”
“Yes.”
A lie.
A small one.
But still.
Ms. Patel cleared her throat. “We’re also noticing resistance to engagement. He doesn’t participate in extracurriculars. He isolates himself during lunch.”
Bruce leaned back slightly, considering.
“That doesn’t sound entirely out of character,” he said mildly.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Principal Harris offered a diplomatic smile. “We understand he may be under unique pressures.”
“There’s a rigidity,” Ms. Patel added. “Sometimes that kind of environment can make students act out in subtle ways.”
Damian’s eyes flicked up sharply.
“I am not acting out.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted to him, sharp now.
“Let them finish.”
Silence.
Ms. Patel continued carefully. “We’re concerned he may be struggling to adjust socially. Perhaps feeling disconnected.”
Bruce steepled his fingers.
“He’s always preferred structure.”
“Yes,” Principal Harris said gently. “But teenagers also need space to… belong.”
The word hung in the air.
Damian felt something cold settle in his chest.
Bruce’s expression was unreadable.
“And what are you suggesting?” he asked.
“A collaborative plan,” Ms. Patel said. “Encouraging involvement. Monitoring behavior. Open communication at home.”
Damian opened his mouth.
Bruce spoke first.
“I’ll handle it.”
The tone wasn’t dismissive.
It was decisive.
The adults nodded, satisfied.
And then-
They shifted.
Not physically.
But conversationally.
Principal Harris leaned slightly toward Bruce.
“High-achieving students sometimes struggle with identity outside of expectations,” she said quietly.
Ms. Patel nodded. “Especially in households with strong authority figures.”
Damian sat three feet away.
They didn’t lower their voices enough.
“We see this often,” Ms. Patel continued. “They internalize pressure. It comes out as detachment.”
Bruce’s face hardened by a fraction.
“I assure you,” he said coolly, “Damian is not under undue pressure.”
“Of course,” Principal Harris replied quickly. “We simply want to ensure he feels… heard.”
Damian remained perfectly still.
Three adults.
Discussing him.
Diagnosing him.
Strategizing him.
As if he were a case study.
Not present.
Not listening.
Not capable of speaking for himself.
Bruce finally looked at him.
“Anything you’d like to add?” he asked.
All three of them turned.
Waiting.
Damian held their gaze.
There were a thousand things he could say.
About exhaustion.
About expectations.
About how belonging felt like standing outside a door he didn’t know how to open.
Instead, he said the simplest thing.
“No.”
The meeting dissolved after that. Polite nods. Professional smiles. The kind of adult language that wrapped concern in sterile phrasing.
Bruce thanked them.
Damian didn’t.
They walked down the hallway side by side.
Most students had already left. The building felt hollow now, lockers sealed shut, fluorescent lights humming overhead like tired insects.
Their footsteps echoed against the tile.
Bruce said nothing.
Neither did Damian.
They turned toward the side corridor that led to the parking lot.
And then-
A guitar ripped through the quiet.
Distorted. Aggressive. Too loud for the space it occupied.
Damian’s spine went rigid.
The drums crashed in a second later, reckless and fast. The bass followed, thick and grounding. Keys shimmered on top, just slightly chaotic.
The music lab.
The door was cracked open again.
The riff was unmistakable.
And then Ethan’s voice cut through the distortion.
Not polished.
Not trained.
But loud.
“Don’t wanna be an American idiot-!”
The words bounced off the lockers, sharp and defiant.
Damian’s steps faltered, just barely.
Bruce continued walking at the same measured pace, eyes forward, expression unreadable.
The chorus slammed in behind Ethan’s voice.
Cymbals crashing. Guitar overdriven to the point of almost breaking.
“Don’t want a nation under the new media-!”
The drummer was slightly ahead of tempo again. The bassist anchored it stubbornly. The keyboard stabbed bright notes into the gaps like sparks.
It was messy.
It was alive.
The lab door stood ten feet away.
Sound pouring out of it like heat from an open furnace.
“And can you hear the sound of hysteria?”
Ethan’s voice cracked with hysteria.
He didn’t stop.
He just sang louder.
Damian slowed again.
The hallway seemed to narrow around him. The music filled the space his thoughts usually occupied.
He could step inside.
Just once.
Just to prove he could.
Bruce reached the exit doors and pushed one open, holding it without looking back.
Afternoon air rushed in.
Cool. Quiet.
“Subliminal mind-fuck America!”
The final word blurred under distortion and laughter.
Damian stood there for half a breath too long.
The song barreled toward the next chorus.
The invitation wasn’t spoken.
It was screamed.
He turned away.
Walked through the door.
The music dulled immediately, muffled by brick and distance.
By the time he reached the car, the chorus was only a faint vibration behind him.
Bruce opened the passenger door.
Damian got in.
The door shut.
And the sound was cut off completely.
He stared straight ahead as the engine started.
He did not look back at the building.
But the echo of Ethan’s voice lingered in his head long after the school disappeared in the rearview mirror.
The drive back to Wayne Manor was quiet.
Not the heavy kind. Not yet.
Just controlled.
The city blurred past the tinted windows of the black town car as it merged into late afternoon traffic. Skyscrapers gave way to older stone buildings, then to the tree-lined stretches leading toward the outskirts of Wayne Manor.
Bruce hadn’t spoken since they left the school parking lot.
Damian sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands folded in his lap again, a posture that felt increasingly like armor. He watched the rhythm of passing streetlights reflect in the glass.
“You’re tired,” Bruce said at last.
It wasn’t a question.
“I am functional.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Damian’s jaw tightened slightly. “I am not incapable of attending school without falling asleep.”
“You have been.”
Silence.
Traffic slowed. A horn blared somewhere behind them.
Bruce kept his eyes on the road. “You’re training late.”
It wasn’t accusatory. Just observational.
Damian didn’t respond.
“You’re pushing yourself,” Bruce continued. “And it’s bleeding into other areas.”
“With respect,” Damian replied evenly, “I am exceeding academic standards. The school’s concern is exaggerated.”
“It’s not about grades.”
“Then it is irrelevant.”
Bruce exhaled quietly through his nose.
The car turned off the main road, tires crunching over gravel as iron gates opened automatically ahead of them.
The manor loomed in the distance, all stone and shadow and inherited expectation.
“You don’t have to treat this like a mission,” Bruce said.
Damian’s eyes flicked toward him.
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
The gates closed behind them.
The world narrowed to the long driveway and the silhouette of home.
Bruce’s voice softened, but didn’t weaken. “You don’t have to win high school.”
“I am not attempting to win.”
“You’re attempting to endure.”
That hit closer than Damian liked.
He looked back out the window.
The trees lining the drive cast long shadows over the car, striping the interior in alternating light and dark.
“I do not belong there,” Damian said finally.
The words were quiet.
Precise.
Bruce didn’t answer immediately.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the manor steps.
“For now,” Bruce said.
Damian’s gaze sharpened slightly. “That implies a future change.”
“It implies that you’re seventeen,” Bruce replied. “Not finished.”
The engine cut.
The quiet this time was heavier.
Alfred opened the front door before they even reached it, as if he’d been watching the drive.
“Welcome home,” he said smoothly, though his eyes lingered on Damian just a second longer than usual. Assessing.
Damian stepped out of the car.
The air here was different. Colder. Cleaner.
Contained.
Bruce rested a hand briefly on his shoulder before heading inside.
“Get some sleep tonight,” he said. “We’ll adjust training.”
“I do not require-”
“That wasn’t a debate.”
Bruce disappeared into the manor.
Damian stood on the steps for a moment longer.
Behind him, beyond the gates, was noise. Fluorescent lights. Cafeteria laughter. A half-finished punk chorus still echoes somewhere in his head.
Ahead of him was a stone. Structure. Certainty.
He went inside anyway.
The manor doors closed behind them with a low, echoing thud.
Alfred stood waiting in the foyer, hands neatly clasped behind his back.
“Welcome home,” he said smoothly. His eyes flicked between them once, reading the room in a single glance. “I trust the academic engagement was… illuminating.”
“It was unnecessary,” Damian replied.
Bruce removed his cufflinks as he stepped further inside. “We need to talk.”
“I have already spoken sufficiently for one day.”
Alfred took Damian’s bag quietly. “Might I suggest tea in the sitting room?”
“No,” Bruce said gently. “This won’t take long.”
Damian stiffened almost imperceptibly.
That phrase never meant what adults thought it meant.
Bruce stepped out of his shoes and moved a little closer, not looming, not crowding. Just present.
“You’re exhausted,” Bruce said plainly.
“I am capable.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. “The school exaggerated minor behavioral inconsistencies.”
“You’re falling asleep in class.”
“My coursework is unaffected.”
“That’s not the point.”
“There seems to be a collective inability today to define what the point is.”
Alfred’s expression remained neutral, but he subtly retreated a few steps, giving space while still listening.
Bruce’s voice lowered. “The point is that something’s off.”
“Nothing is off.”
“You’re withdrawing.”
“I am selective.”
“You’re irritable.”
“I am surrounded by incompetence.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between restraint and frustration.
“This isn’t about winning an argument, Damian.”
“I am not attempting to win.”
“It feels like you are.”
Silence stretched between them.
The foyer felt cavernous suddenly, too much marble, too much air.
Bruce studied him carefully. “If something’s bothering you, we can adjust.”
“I do not require adjustment.”
“Training can shift. Patrol can shift.”
At that, Damian’s eyes flashed. “I am not being removed from patrol.”
“I didn’t say removed.”
“You implied limitation.”
“I implied rest.”
“I do not need rest.”
Bruce’s tone hardened slightly. “You’re seventeen.”
“And fully trained.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Damian took a step back, distance reestablishing itself like instinct.
“You spoke with them,” he said, voice tightening. “You allowed them to speculate.”
“They’re educators. They’re doing their job.”
“They were discussing me as if I were absent.”
Bruce paused.
That hit.
“I asked if you had anything to add,” Bruce said.
“In a room where the conclusion was predetermined.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is being summoned for fatigue when I am the only one maintaining operational standards.”
Alfred shifted slightly at that but remained silent.
Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Operational standards?”
“Yes.”
“This is school.”
“It is inefficient.”
“It’s not a battlefield.”
“No,” Damian agreed quietly. “It is worse.”
The words hung in the air.
Bruce stepped closer again. “Damian.”
There it was, the tone that meant stay.
He didn’t.
“I completed my obligations,” Damian said evenly. “If further adjustments are to be made, you may inform me.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is how I prefer it to work.”
“Damian.”
But he was already turning away.
He didn’t storm off.
He didn’t slam anything.
He simply walked past them, controlled, deliberate, up the sweeping staircase without looking back.
Halfway up, Bruce called after him.
“We’re not finished.”
Damian paused.
Just long enough to respond without turning around.
“Yes,” he said. “We are.”
Then he continued up the stairs, footsteps echoing against stone until the sound disappeared into the upper corridors.
Silence settled over the foyer.
Alfred spoke first, voice calm as ever.
“Adolescence, sir, is rarely a linear campaign.”
Bruce didn’t look away from the staircase.
“I know,” he said quietly.
But his hands had tightened into fists at his sides.
And upstairs, behind a closed door, Damian stood alone, jaw set, pulse steady, convincing himself that walking away felt like control.
Damian remained standing in the center of his room long after the echo of his own footsteps faded.
Control.
That was what it was supposed to feel like.
Instead, it felt… hollow.
He crossed to his desk, unbuttoning his cuffs with deliberate precision. The fabric of his uniform slid from his shoulders, folded with exactness, and placed over the back of his chair. Shoes aligned. Watch set down parallel to the wood grain.
Order restored.
Except it wasn’t.
His jaw tightened again as he replayed the foyer conversation in clinical fragments.
Operational standards.
It is worse.
Yes. We are.
All efficient. All sharp. All impenetrable.
So why did it feel like a retreat?
He moved to the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to look out over the darkened grounds of Wayne Manor. The city beyond flickered faintly against the horizon. Distant. Separate.
He could hear movement below, muted voices. Alfred’s steady cadence. Bruce’s lower, more clipped responses.
They were still talking about him.
Of course they were.
Damian let the curtain fall back into place.
A faint sound threaded through the silence in his mind before he could stop it, distorted guitar, messy and unapologetic.
Not the polished strings of classical training.
Not disciplined.
Loud.
Unrefined.
Alive.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, annoyed at himself for letting it intrude.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of his bed, elbows braced against his knees.
They thought this was about sleep.
About attitude.
About adolescence.
It wasn’t.
It was about sitting in rooms where the ending was already written.
It was about fluorescent lights and whispered comments and the quiet understanding that he did not quite fit the picture printed on the brochure.
He leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
Bruce wanted him to adapt.
The school wanted him to assimilate.
Everyone seemed to want him to soften the edges.
The guitar riff resurfaced again, louder this time.
A voice cutting through it, imperfect but fearless.
Don’t wanna be-
Damian shut his eyes.
-An American Idiot.
He hadn’t gone into the room.
He hadn’t accepted the invitation.
He had walked away.
Control.
His breathing evened, though tension still coiled tight in his chest.
Downstairs, a door closed.
Somewhere in the manor, a clock chimed the hour.
Damian turned onto his side, facing the wall, pulling the blankets up just slightly, not for comfort. Just containment.
The music in his head didn’t fade.
It lingered.
Persistent.
And for the first time that day, exhaustion pressed heavier than pride.
He kept his eyes closed.
Just for a moment.
Just until the noise in his head quieted.
It didn’t.
But eventually,
He did.
