Chapter Text
The heat of the Nanda Parbat forges was long gone now. Damian had grown used to watching the smiths shape and perfect blocks of steel harvested from mines far away, beating and morphing them into sleek swords and armor—or, for Damian, a prosthetic leg.
Damian had used to hate the heat, but now he yearned for it as the frigid breeze of Gotham seeped down to his bones.
"So, Damian," Batman—no—Bruce began from the driver's seat of the Batmobile. "How was your ride here? I imagine the waters surrounding Gotham were not nice to you."
"It was alright, Father," Damian responded, hoping that was the correct form of address. Damian had assumed the Batmobile would be loud and obnoxious, but it was quite the opposite. "Is there anything I should be aware of? Tali—your mother gave me your files, but I was wondering if there was anything she left out." The unspoken question of whether Talia had left something out was pressing down on him.
Surely Mother told him about my deficit, right? Damian thought.
"What did Mother tell you about me? Did she give you my medical file?" Damian asked, trying to figure out just how much Mother had told him.
"The basics. Conditions, disabilities, past injuries, the whole spiel," Bruce said, waving his hand in expression.
Damian calmed a bit. "What did she say I have?" Damian attempted to feign innocence and make Bruce believe that he was simply curious.
"She said that you were a healthy kid. No conditions, physical ailments, or major past injuries. Though, Alfred may request to check old injuries just to ensure that they healed properly. We would hate for your ability to be hindered due to something as simple as an old broken arm, right?"
Damian nodded. His panic receded, his brain already forming ways to guarantee Bruce would never find out about his fault. Surely he will find out eventually, he realized. I just have to make sure he doesn't find out soon and send me back to the League.
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Damian's first few days at the Manor were spent figuring out what his leg allowed him to use and what it didn't. Stairs? No problem. The high chair next to the island? Absolutely not. Damian avoided that chair like the plague. He had quickly found out just to simply use the chair, he had to maintain a certain position at all times just to make sure he wouldn't fall to the ground instantly and reveal his secret. Instead, he opted for the heavy oak chairs in the dining room, which provided him much more flexibility regarding his position, and provided much more cover to his leg just in case. He has also discovered that not only the dining and cooking areas, but also the general area of the Manor was filled with obstacles. The wet tiles on the floor of the shower were just abominable. He had already slipped twice, and was not willing to slip again. Even the simple act of putting on socks was an obstacle. No matter how horrible and cruel the League was, he missed being able to walk freely without having to stress about whether his pant leg was down enough, or being able to walk around without shoes to prevent the sound of metal hitting the hardwood floors and destroying his well woven façade. Every time he even though about just telling Bruce, he would remind himself that he had already burdened them enough. His failure was his alone to bear, and as long as he remained strong and endured, it would stay that way.
Although, the gym made it impossibly harder to mantain that.
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The rythmic thud- thud- thud of Damian's fists hitting a black punching bag echoed through the gym, a sound Damian had grown used to throughout his 3 weeks here. He had been careful to ensure that he kept his movements normal: not leaning heavily onto his real foot, and not dragging his left.
"Hey, Damian?" Dick called from the pull up bar, "Do you want to spar with me?" Dick swung forward, building momentum, then swung back, realeasing his grip on the bar and executing a perfect double back flip, landing perfectly on his feet. He walked up to the bench, grabbing his towel and drying off his neck and forehead, then grabbed his waterbottle and took 5 generous gulps.
"That would be alright." Damian replied, unwrapping his fists. Dick took his position on the sparring mat, waiting for Damian to drink some water.
"We don't have all day!" Dick called from the mat, already in a one handed handstand. Damian had noticed that Dick tended to do many gymnastics moves spontaneously, no doubt due to his parents. Damian walked up to the mat, his stump aching from all the streneous activity, and got into a fighting stance. After Dick counted down, they begun. They circled around eachother for a bit, looking for an opening. Damian was the first to strike, attempting to land a punch to Dick's side but failed, his opponent blocking the hit, going low and swiping at his feet (or foot?). Damian jumped back just in time as Dick's foot was about to hit him. Panting, Damian began circling him again. This time, Dick was the first to strike, landing an upperpunch on Damian, causing him to tumble to the floor. No matter what insults Damian said, he knew that Dick would always be a more skilled figter. While Damian was great with many types of weapons, Dick had more sheer strength.
"Good fight, Damian." Dick stuck out his hand for Damian to grasp, but he swatted his hand away. Dick frowned but didn't comment. "I liked how you jumped up right before I was able to swipe your legs."
"Thank you." Damian responded, bowing his head. "You were also a... sufficent sparring partner."
"Awhh!!" Dick exclaimed, wrapping his arms around Damian. "That's huge coming from you. I'm totally telling Steph. She's going to die!" Dick released his grip on Damian, grabbed his stuff, and left, already typing out a text to Steph. Damian rolled his eyes and gathered his stuff. He made the descision to use the elevator to go up to his room, his stump throbbing even more.