Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Damian left Gotham when he was nineteen. By then, he and Bruce were locked in constant, bitter conflict. Clashing over what was truly best for the city, and what was not. Damian had lost all faith in the system his father spent decades building, broken after witnessing something so devastating it changed everything for him. Batman, he had come to believe, was no longer the answer to Gotham’s crime and suffering. The city needed something far more permanent.

He proposed a new path: a new identity for himself, one dedicated to delivering final, unyielding justice to those who were truly beyond redemption, beyond saving.

Bruce refused outright. He insisted no single person had the right to act as judge, jury, and executioner. That laws and due process existed to ensure order, and that justice only held meaning when it was carried out the right way.

“Your system is broken!” Damian shouted, his voice raw with frustration. “This whole city is rotting from the inside out! The only way to fix it is to tear out the dead roots, remove the parasites that infest our home, and build something better, something that actually protects the people!”

Bruce would not listen. In his eyes, Damian’s judgment had already been poisoned by the teachings of his mother and grandfather. Talia had spent years carefully puppeteering events around him: orchestrating deaths, tragedies, and failures, all designed to plant doubt and erode his belief in Bruce’s ways.

The breaking point came when Talia arranged for the Joker to take an entire elementary school classroom hostage, thirty-five second-graders trapped inside a single building. By the time anyone could intervene, the madman had already committed an atrocity beyond imagining. He had skinned every child alive, then stitched their broken bodies back together so no parent would ever be able to recognize or claim their own child.

Damian was among the first on the scene. Bruce had been drawn across the city, chasing reports of bombs the Joker had planted elsewhere, leaving Damian to lead the rescue. He arrived too late. What he saw that day shattered whatever remained of his faith in the justice his father defended. Anger and grief burned through him, sharp and unforgiving; he wanted nothing more than to hunt the Joker down and kill him for what he had done.

Bruce stopped him. He held Damian back, and begged him to trust the system one more time.

“This justice you worship has failed us, again and again!” Damian cried, desperate to make his father understand. “Thousands have died before, and thousands more will die if nothing changes! Father, you are the smartest man I know. Surely you see it too? Surely you understand why this way of doing things has to change?”

But nothing changed. Bruce would not bend, and Damian would not back down.

Over time, Damian shifted. His methods grew harsher, sharper, far more brutal. He went into fights intending to end threats, not just subdue them. The restraint Bruce had spent years teaching him vanished; every confrontation carried the weight of his grief and his rage.

Then came the day he crossed the line completely.

He found a man who had locked his wife and two young children in their cellar for four months, leaving them with no food, no warmth, no escape. Starving, the mother had cut pieces from her own body just to feed her children and keep them alive. When Damian found them, he did not hesitate. He cut the man’s arm off, qnd forced him to eat it. The man bled out and died where he fell.

Bruce stripped Damian of his mantle that same night. The Black Bat was no longer part of Batman’s crusade.

Damian left soon after. Talia came for him at the Manor, drove him straight to the airport, and took him away from Gotham. Away from Bruce, and from everything he had once believed in.

…

«idk some time has passed. I'm thinking that Damian's around 27 in this.»

«uhmm… I'm not sure how it happened yet but somehow Damian has become the Hand of the Demon. Like, some sort of second in command for Ra's al Ghul. He's still the heir, it's just, Ra's ain't dying anytime soon. So.»

…

A banquet was held to mark Damian’s official ascension as the first Hand of the Demon. He now commanded the League’s elite lieutenants and oversaw the training of every new recruit, a position of immense power and responsibility.

To celebrate the milestone, Talia had organized a grand gathering, inviting only their closest allies and most trusted associates.

But by then, Damian had grown cold and detached. Depp down, the hurt still lingered, sharp and unhealed. He missed his father’s love, missed the quiet order of the Manor, missed Gotham and the life he had left behind. He may have run away, but his heart had never truly followe. It had remained there, in the city he still loved, even when it broke him.

His rule was strict, unyielding, and defined by his own code: never harm an innocent, never kill without just cause. Under his command, the number of deaths carried out by the League dropped sharply. Operations became precise, efficient, and purposeful. Stripped of all unnecessary bloodshed. Where Ra’s al Ghul had always valued grand displays, dramatic flair, and theatrics, Damian valued only results. He despised sensless killing, and he made sure every action served a clear, necessary end.

Damian sat at Ra’s right hand, the place of honor. His grandfather spoke endlessly of legacy, of heirs, and of suitable matches for him. Women of noble lineage, warriors’ daughters, those strong enough to carry on the bloodline. At one point, Ra’s gestured toward a dancer performing near the dais, his tone approving.

“Her father was one of my greatest warriors,” Ra’s said. “He fought with unshakable loyalty, and carried our mission in his very soul. A great pity, how he died. But it is good his wife had already gave him a son. That girl there is his youngest daughter, only seventeen. She is strong, well-bred. She would bear your sons well.”

Damian felt a wave of revulsion rise in his throat. He hated his grandfather. Hated this place. Hated everything they stood for. And yet… he told himself this was the only way. The only path to the true, unyielding justice his father had refused to deliver.

He did not answer. He did not even look up. His attention remained fixed entirely on the dark wine swirling in his chalice, as if it could drown out every word Ra’s spoke.

The hall was filled with guests, the deadliest warriors in the world, master assassins, mercenaries who had carved their names into history with the blood of their kills.

For a moment, Damian’s gaze locked onto one figure in the crowd: Deathstroke, The Terminator. He felt an old, familiar spark rise in his chest. He wanted to challenge him, right here, right now, for old time’s sake, to test himself against one of the few who had ever truly matched him.

But the chance was stolen away before he could move.

A new arrival stepped through the great doors, and the room seemed to go quieter just from her presence: Sandra Wu-san. Lady Shiva.

She was, without question, one of the most formidable warriors alive. Damian knew that a fight between them would end only one way, with death. And despite everything, despite the weight of his title and his duty, the thought did not frighten him. It thrilled him. More than anything, in that moment, he wanted to step forward, draw his sword, and challenge her to a duel to the death.

What she revealed during her visit made Damian’s heart burn with such pure, seething rage that he could not stop himself from hurling his wine cup hard against the nearest pillar. The goblet shattered, dark wine streaking down the stone like spilled blood.

“One of my own blood fell under the Bat’s guidance,” Shiva began, her head tilting slowly as she swirled the wine in her own cup, tone cool and dismissive. “He was weak as an infant, so I saw no use in keeping him. I let him go. But later… I heard Batman took him in, raised him under his wing. Gave him a name: the Black Bat.”

Anger rolled through Damian, heavy and hot, rising higher with every word.

“He died at the Joker’s hands, so they say.” She sighed, a sound of empty, indifferent regret. “A pity. It would have been fascinating to see just how far that boy’s potential might have reached. But in the end… he succumbed to the natural order of things. And truly, I think the Bat considered him a son. How tragic. Another child lost to a madman’s cruelty.”

That was the breaking point.

Damian surged to his feet, the heavy folds of his emerald robe sweeping behind him as he stormed out of the banquet hall, leaving the court, his grandfather, and every guest in the wake of his fury.

…

«oi, Jason is Shiva's son in this, okay? Don't ask questions. I'm thinking make Cass and him twins? Ehh .. idk. Perchance.»

«by some miracle, Jason gets resurrected again. Woah, Superboy Prime punch? Alright. Yeah. We can do that.»

«think that Talia's spies found baby Jason walking around Gotham zombified. Braiinsss…»

«also, he's like 13 when he died. Because. He would be 10 when Bruce adopted him, became Black Bat at 11 and got alt+F4 from reality at 13»

«so, Talia's men brought him to League of Assassin's evil lair. Cause he's Shiva's blood and y'know, Bruce's son.»

…

Damian found him lingering alone in the gardens.

He often walked here at night, seeking the quiet to think, to unwind, and more often than not, to let his mind drift back to everything he had left behind. But tonight, his usual solitude was broken.

A boy sat cross-legged on the grass, staring blankly up at the sky. There was something strange about him. Unnaturally still, quiet, completely vacant. He did not move, did not fidget, did not even seem to breathe deeply. His eyes were hollow, empty of any spark or thought. A jagged, heavy scar ran from his left temple all the way down to his cheekbone. Wherever his skin was exposed, it was marked with old burns, rough patches, and tissue that had healed badly, twisted and scarred over time.

Damian recognized him instantly.

He had kept close watch on Gotham, on his father, on everything Bruce did after he left. And what he had seen only fueled his bitterness. It was as if Bruce could not wait to erase Damian’s existence. He had adopted children one after another, dressed them in capes, and handed them the titles and identities that belonged to Damian.

It infuriated him. To think he had meant so little, that his absence had been filled so easily. Replaced as the only son. Replaced as the heir. Replaced as Batman’s second-in-command.

He knew of Tim Drake, of course. The boy had already been part of the circle when Damian left, but he had never expected such betrayal: Timothy had snatched up the mantle of Black Bat — his mantle — and wormed his way into becoming Bruce’s son as well. Then came Duke Thomas, another boy brought in, another replacement.

And now, years later, as if his father still wasn’t satisfied with tewo sons, he had taken in yet another: Jason Todd.

Damian had learned the truth about him later. This boy was Shiva’s son, the very one she had spoken of only months ago. Discarded by his own mother because he had been born frail, weak, and useless.

How pathetic.

Damian knelt before the motionless figure. He reached out, snatched the boy’s chin roughly, and forced his head up so he had to look directly at him.

Those vivid blue eyes held absolutely nothing. No fear, no curiosity, no anger. Just a blank, endless emptiness.

What a waste.

Disgust surged through him. Damian shoved the boy aside with unnecessary forcs, hard enough that Jason stumbled, lost his balance, and fell back onto the grass.

The moment it happened, Damian froze. Shocked at his own cruelty, he stood still, watching.

The boy looked up at him. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, glistening but he did not wipe them away. He did not speak. He did not try to defend himself. He just… looked.

Damian turned sharply, scanning the shadows and the paths behind him. When he was certain no one had seen, no one was watching, he knelt again and pulled the boy up gently, hands careful now, almost tender.

“You never should have come here,” Damian said. His voice had dropped, turning soft, low, and uncharacteristically gentle, almost sorrowful. “You will die a second time, child. Have you ever even heard of me?”

Jason just blinked. Slowly. Once. Then went still again.

“Tch.” Damian released him, shaking his head in disdain. What did he see in you?

The boy was small, smaller and shorter than others his age. And judging by that vacant, distant state, he wasn’t particularly bright either. Though… Damian admitted silently, he did have a certain look about him. For a street rat, his face was round and soft, dusted with faint freckles across his nose, framed by thick, dark curls. He had a cherubic, innocent face. Hthe kind that tugged at the heartstrings of any soft-hearted, well-meaning adult.

Perhaps that was all his father had ever seen in him. Just a helpless, pathetic little thing to be pitied and protected.

…

At first, every glance Damian cast toward the boy was sharp with distaste, heavy with the weight of old, unhealed wounds.

He told himself his anger was directed entirely at Jason. It was Jason who had taken his plac, Jason who had been adopted, welcomed, chosen by the father who had cast Damian aside. Jason, with his vacant eyes and soft, helpless demeanor, had been given everything Damian had fought so hard to earn, everything Damian had bled for. Every time he looked at him, he saw only replacement: a younger, softer, weaker version of himself, handed the love and belonging that had been Damian’s birthright.

Yet, for all his disdain, Damian could not bring himself to turn the boy away.

He found himself lingering near the gardens where Jason sat, watching him from the shadows, waiting for… he did not know what.

One evening, he approached again, driven by that strange, conflicting pull. Jason was sitting as he always did. Still, silent, eyes fixed on nothing. Damian knelt before him, and this time, he did not snatch or shove. Instead, he reached out, intending only to tilt Jason’s face toward the moonlight, to examine the ugly scar that split his skin from temple to jaw. His hand hovered near the boy’s throat, close enough that his fingers nearly brushed the fragile pulse beating there.

Before skin could touch skin, Jason flinched.

It was a small, almost invisible movement. A recoil deep into his own bones, but unmistakable. And then, the tears came. They spilled over his lashes and tracked down his scarred cheeks, but he did not pull away. He did not lift a hand to wipe them. He did not speak, did not beg, did not try to escape. He simply stayed perfectly still, trembling slightly, waiting.

Waiting to be hurt.

Damian froze. His hand hung suspended in the air, and suddenly, he understood. This was not fear of him. It was fear of everything. Jason did not react because he expected kindness, he did not defend himself because he had learned, long ago, that resistance only made it worse. He had been broken so thoroughly, so many times, that his body had forgotten how to do anything but endure.

Slowly, carefully, Damian moved his hand lower, resting it gently against Jason’s shoulder instead. And as he looked closer, really looked, he saw what he had refused to notice before.

The scar on his face was only the beginning. Where the loose tunic slipped down his shoulder, there were more marks: thick, puckered burn scars that wrapped around his upper arm, lines of old lash marks crisscrossing his back like terrible maps, pale patches of skin where flesh had been flayed and left to heal roughly. Every inch of him spoke of agony, of knives and fire and beatings, of pain inflicted over and over again, until his mind had finally shattered to protect itself.

This is what you replaced me with? Damian thought, and the old anger surged hot and bright, but this time, it did not settle on the boy. It rose instead toward the memory of his father. This is what you let happen to the child you took in? This is the life you gave him, after you threw me away?

The realization hit him like a physical blow. He had hated Jason for being chosen, for being loved, for taking his place, nut Jason had never been loved. He had only been taken. He had been handed over to monsters, broken and discarded and left to rot, and Bruce had never even known. Or worse, had not cared enough to find out.

The anger in Damian’s chest shifted, sharpened, and turned enbtirely outward. It was not Jason he hated. It was Bruce. It was the system. It was every person who had ever touched this boy and left him bleeding.

From that moment on, everything changed.

Damian began to seek Jason out deliberately. He brought food. Most were rich, warm meals, fresh fruit, some were sweet things he had learned children like, and sat beside him until he ate. He brought soft cloths and warm water, and gently, slowly, cleaned the layers of dust and grime from Jason’s skin, tracing over scars with reverent, careful fingers, as if by touching them he could take the pain away.

At first, Jason remained still and silent, eyes empty, but as the days passed, something shifted. He began to look at Damian. He began to lean toward him. He would follow Damian with his eyes across the garden, and if Damian stood to leave, his small hand would reach out, fingers curling weakly around the hem of Damian’s robe. Damian knew to stau.

Damian made his decision one night, his mind set and unyielding. He went to the quarters where Jason had been kept. It was a cold, windowless room far from the main halls, and ordered the guards to carry the boy’s few belongings to his own private chambers.

“Tell no one,” he commanded, voice low and dangerous. “Not my mother. Not my grandfather. If anyone asks, the boy is under my instruction, and my instruction alone.”

They dared not refuse him. He was the Hand of the Demon now, second only to Ra’s al Ghul himself. His word was law.

His chambers were vast, warm, and lined with books and soft carpets, far removed from the cold stone of the rest of the fortress. Here, Jason began to bloom.

It was slow, fragile growth, like a flower pushing through frost, but it was real. Around Damian, Jason became alive. He smiled. A small, wobbly thing at first, then bright and open. He spoke, too. Short, simple words, often whispered, but they were there.

When Damian sat on the large bed and opened a book, Jason would crawl up beside him, curling into his side, his head resting against Damian’s ribs, listening intently as Damian read aloud. He read him the poetry he had loved in Gotham. Some Keats, Shelley, Wordsworth, and the classic novels Bruce had once placed in his hands, stories of courage and honor and justice. He read slowly, his voice soft, and Jason would trace the lines of the pages with his fingers, or play with the tassel of Damian’s sash, completely at peace.

When they were not reading, they played. Damian taught him to wrestle gently, rolling across the thick carpets, letting Jason climb over him and tyg at his arms, laughing when Damian pretended to be pinned. He gave him small wooden swords, carved smooth by his own hands, and showed him how to hold them, how to move, how to defend himself. Never to inflict pain, but to be safe. And Jason laughed. A bright, clear, childish sound, full of innocence and warmth, a sound that should never have survived all he had endured. It was the most beautiful sound Damian had ever heard.

Jason craved touch. It was his language, his way of saying I am here, I am safe. He would hug Damian around the waist, burying his face in his chest, or climb into his lap and wind his arms around his neck, petting Damian’s dark hair with soft, clumsy hands. He needed to be touching him alwahsy, a hand on his arm, a shoulder pressed against his. And Damian, who had spent a lifetime guarding himself against closeness, found he could not bear to pull away. He would run his hand down Jason’s back, hold him tighter, breathe in the scent of soap and sunlight that clung to him, and feel something in his own fractured heart knit itself back together.

Even when Damian was busu, meeting with lieutenants, training recruits, overseeing the League’s operations, Jason was never far away.

He would stalk him through the grounds of Nanda Parbat, hiding behind pillars, slipping into the shadows of the training yards, crouching in doorways, thinking himself invisible. Damian always knew he was there. He would pretend not to notice, walking slowly, waiting, before suddenly turning and sweeping the boy up into his arms, holding him upside down by the ankles while Jason shrieked with laughter, kicking his legs in delight. Damian would tickle him until he gasped for breath, then hold him close, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, his own face soft with a smile he showed to no one else.

Once, craving something different, something normal, Damian dressed them both in plain civilian clothes, loose tunics and sturdy trousers, nothing to mark them as belonging to the League. He took Jason down the winding mountain paths to the nearest village, a small, bustling place of markets and shops and ordinary people.

They walked hand in hand, Jason wide-eyed at the sights and sounds, clutching Damian’s fingers tightly. They bought warm bread and sweet pastries, watched weavers at their looms and farmers sell theur crops.

An old woman selling flowers smiled at them as they passed. “A fine pair, you two,” she said kindly. “Father and son, are you not?”

Damian froze.

He had never thought of it that way. Not aloud anyway, not in so many words. But as he looked down at Jason, who was looking back up at him with complete, unshakable trust, his hand small and warm in his own, his heart swelled with a warmth he had not felt since he was a child himself. It spread through his chest, filling every hollow place, every old wound, every cold corner of his soul.

“Yes,” Damian said softly, surprising himself. “Yes. He's my son”

He was not ready to admit it to himself, not ready to name the feeling or the truth of it, but he knew. In every way that mattered, Jason was his. His to protect. His to love. His son.

…

How about pain????

I like Bacondoughnut. Remember the part where Jason gets punished by being put in an enclosed space akin to that of a coffin.

YES.

…

Also, Ra's wants to learn about why Jason is alive. So, he experiments on him whuile Damian is away.

Bad Ra's. Bonk.

…

But Damian did not know everything.

He did not know that when he was called away for days at a time on missions, or to distant branches of the League, or to meet with allies far across the world. Jason’s world fell apart again.

Ra’s al Ghul had not forgotten the boy.

To Ra’s, Jason was not a child, nor a person. He was a curiosity, a mystery to be solved. He had died, and yet he lived again. Without the Lazarus Pit, without magic, without any explanation Ra’s could understand. That kind of power, that kind of srvival, was something Ra’s craved to possess, to dissect, to master.

And so, whenever Damian was gone, the guards came.

They would find Jason wherever he was—usually wandering the halls, or sitting outside Damian’s closed door, waiting for him to return.

They would drag him away, ignoring his soft cries and his small hands reaching out for someone who was not there. Down into the depths of the fortress they took him, to the cold stone laboratories where Ra’s al Ghul and his scientists waited.

They tied him to tables. They pricked his skin with needles, drew his blood, measured his heartbeat, scanned his mind. They asked him questions he could not answer, demanded memories he had lost, searched his flesh and his soul for the secret of his return. When he could not tell them, when he only stared at them with those empty, terrified eyes. They grew impatient.

Jason sought safety where he knew it.

In Damian’s rooms. Even when Damian was gone, that space still held his scent, his warmth, the echo of his voice. Jason would slip inside, curl up on the big bed, wrap himself in Damian’s cloaks, and wait, believing that there he was untouchable.

But to Ra’s men, this was not seeking safety. This was snooping. This was intrusion. This was the behavior of a spy, or a creature that thought itself equal to its betters.

Ra’s gave his orders clearly: “Teach him his place. Teach him that he belongs to us, and us alone.”

So they punished him.

They dragged him from Damian’s bed, dragged him into the darkest, tightest cells deep beneath the mountain. Small, windowless stone boxes where the walls pressed in on all sides, where the air was cold and thin, where the dark was absolute. They chained his wrists and ankles to the iron rings set in the stone, leaving him there alone.

Jason was terrified of the dark. It was a fear buried deep in the damaged parts of his mind, a memory of being buried alive, of cold earth and silence and no air. When the heavy iron door clanged shut and the light vanished, he would scream. He would pull at his chains until his wrists bled, crying out over and over again, a name that was the only thing he knew would save him.

“Dami! Dami! Dami!”

But no one came.

They left him there for hours, or days. They whipped him when they took him out, marking his back with fresh stripes alongside the old ones, reminding him that he was nothing, that he belonged to them, that Damian was not there to save him.

Jason did not understand. His mind could still not comprehend what was happening to him, his memories fragmented, his thoughts slow and confused. He knew only this: When Damian was here, Jason was safe. When Damian leaves, Jason hurt.

He could not grasp why Damian went away, or when he would return, or that Damian did not know what happened. He only knew the pain came when Damian was gone, and it stopped only when Damian came back.

…

«Damian's mission… let's think about it… what should it be? It should be something that would make him stay away from Nanda Parbat for months. A long mission.»

«Damian's men are loyal to him and him alone. But they're oppressed in terms of power and influence. Kumbaga, in hierarchy they're below the Demon Head's men. Ra's men are still stronger. They cannot defy them and Head of The Demon. They can only watch as their Prince's son suffer and cry.

Sometimes they would sneak into Jason's current dungeon, and slip some food into the tiny crack. This would envoke punishment from the Demon's Head, but they couldn't leave the boy to suffer inside his cell. Not when the prince expected them to look after the child»

«note to self: please add more cute scene with the guards later. Original Characters that are loyal to Damian and had grown fond of Jason.»

«sad, emotions are taking over me. Fuck this crap»

«scene to insert: Damian teaching Jason Arabic.»

…

The catalyst arrived sharp and sudden, cutting through the quiet relief Damian always felt when returning to Nanda Parbat after long weeks away.

He had steped through the heavy double doors of his private chambers, his cloak still dusted with mountain snow, his mind already reaching for the familiar sight he knew would greet him.

Always, without fail, jason would be there, waiting. Sometimes he was perched on the edge of the large bed, knees drawn up, eyes lighting up the moment Damian appeared. Sometimes he was hiding behind a pillar or a curtain, playing his little game of stalking, bursting out with a bright, breathless laugh when Damian pretended to be surprised. Sometimes he would simply run, small feet padding fast across the floor, throwing himself forward to wrap his arms tight around Damian’s legs or waist, burying his face against him as if he had been gone for years instead of days.

But today… there was nothing.

The room was silent. Empty. The air felt cold and still, stripped of the warmth and light Jason always seemed to carry with him. The books they had read together lay closed on the table; the small wooden toys Damian had carved for him sat untouched in the corner. There was no soft shuffle of feet, no call of his name, no small body crashing into him in welcome.

A cold, sharp dread coiled tight in Damian’s chest. He dropped his travel bag where he stood, the heavy thud echoing in the silence. He turned dharply toward the two guards who stood at attention just outside his door, men he had hand-picked, men he had trusted to watch over everything he held dear.

“What have you done?” His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with a rising fury that made the air around them feel heavy.

Before another word could be spoken, one of the guards sank to his knees, forehead pressed to the stone floor, hands trembling where they rested clasped before him. The other followed suit instantly, both men bowing low, terrified.

“We have failed, my Prince,” the kneeling man choked out, his voice shaking. “We have failed you. Forgive us. We could not stop it.”

Damian took a step forward, looming over them, every muscle in his body coiled like that of a striking viper. “Speak. Now.”

“It was your grandfather,” the soldier confessed, words rushing out in a desperate stream. “When you had departed for the mission, his personal guards came. They said the boy was required, that the Demon’s Head wished to examine him, we know not by which design but they would return the boy wounded and bloodied. We did what could to help, vut soon they took him away. We told them the boy was under your protection, that you had given orders no one was to touch him… but Ra’s al Ghul’s word is law above all others. They drew their blades against us, my Prince. We are sworn to the League first, and we could not raise steel against the Demon’s Head’s own command. We would have been cut down, and they would have taken him regardless.”

The man paused, swallowing hard, tears of fear and shame dripping onto the stone.

“They took him down into the deep laboratories, beneath the old spires. We… we heard things. Screams. The words were not clear, and we were not permitted to come closer. When he tried to run back here, when he crawled to your door and waited, they dragged him away again. They said he was being insolent, that he was not permitted wherehe did not belong. They chained him in the dark cells, the deepest ones where no light touches. They whipped him until he could not stand. We tried to leave him food, to leave water… but we were watched. We dared not do more, or we would have joined him in the dark. We are sorry. We are so sorry.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and terrible, painting a picture of suffering so vast it made Damian’s vision turn red.

Every missing day, every unexplained bruise, every time Jason had flinched at a sudden movement, every night he had woken screaming Damian’s name, confused and crying, it had been this.

All the while Damian had been away, believing the boy safe within his rooms, Jason had been tortured, broken, punished simply for existing. Ra’s had taken the one thing Damian had claimed as his own, the one thing he had vowed to protect, and treated him like an object, a specimen, a thing to be ripped apart and studied.

Rage unlike anything Damian had ever known exploded within him.

It was hotter than fire, sharper than any blade, absolute and consuming. It burned away every remaining thread of loyalty, every lesson of duty, every bond of blood he had ever felt toward his grandfather.

Jason was his. His child. His heart. His son. And they had hurt him.

Damian turned on his heel, no longer seeing the guards, no longer hearing their pleas for forgiveness. He drew his sword from its sheath, the metal singing softly in the quiet air. He moved like a storm unleashed, striding fast and heavy through the corridors of Nanda Parbat, heading straight for the grand hall where Ra’s al Ghul held court. Servants and lesser guards scrambled out of his way, terrified by the look on his face, the sheer, terrifying power radiating from him.

He burst through the massive doors of the audience chamber, ignoring protocol, ignoring the gathered nobles and warriors, ignoring everything except the figure sitting upon the golden throne at the far end.

Ra’s al Ghul looked up, one eyebrow raised in mild surprise, though his expression held no true concern. “Damian. You return earlier than expected. Did your mission—”

“What have you done?!”

Damian’s voice echoed off the high stone walls, raw and roaring, filled with a hatred so pure it silenced every whisper in the room instantly. He did not stop walking, he advanced straight toward the throne, sword still in hand, his eyes locked onto his grandfather’s face with a murderous intensity.

“What have you done to him?!” Damian shouted again, every word vibrating with the weight of his fury and his fear. “Where is Jason? Answer me, Grandfather! What have you done to my child?!”

…

Damian found him exactly where Ra’s had coldly directed. Deep beneath the fortress, in the bowels of Nanda Parbat where the air grew cold, damp, and heavy with the smell of old stone and suffering. But he heard Jason long before he reached the heavy iron door.

The sound tore at him, sharp and jagged: crying, raw and endless, mixed with the dull, frantic thud of small fists striking unyielding metal. Jason’s voice was hoarse, worn thin from screaming, cracking with every plea.

“Let me out… please, please, let me out… Dami where are you? It’s dark… it’s dark, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

His breathing came thick and labored, wet with tears and terror, shallow gasps that sounded painful, as if his chest was too tight to draw air properly.

Damian’s blood turned to ice, then to fire. He sprinted the last few yards, boots striking hard against the stone floor, and slammed to a halt before the cell. The guard stationed there stood firm, crossing his spear across the entrance to block him.

“My yPrince. The Demon’s Head ordered no one is to—”

“Open it.”

The guard hesitated. “My Prince, the order was explicit—”

In one fluid, terrifying motion, Damian drew his sword. The blade hissed as it cleared the sheath, the tip pressing hard against the soft skin beneath the man’s jaw, sharp enough to draw a tiny bead of blood. Damian’s eyes were cold, dead orbs of glowing verde.

“I said… open it.” He leaned in, tone dropping to a dangerous growl. “Defy me one more time, and you will find out exactly why they call me the Hand of the Demon. Move.”

The guard scrambled back, fumling with his keys, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped them. The heavy lock clanked open, and with a loud, groaning screech, the iron door swung inward.

And there he was.

Jason was huddled on the floor, arms wrapped tight around his own body, knees pulled to his chest. The moment the door opened and the faint light from the hallway spilled in, he scrambled forward, crawling on hands and knees, slipping and stumbling over the rough stone like an animal desperate for escape. He made it only a few feet before his strength gave out, collapsing right at Damian’s boots, shaking so hard his whole body rattled.

Damian dropped to his knees instantly, shetaing his blade without a thought. He didn’t waste a second. He reached down and scooped the boy up, pulling him close, lifting his slight, trembling weight fully into his arms. And as he held him, the adrenaline and fury that had driven him here began to drain away, leaving only a hollow, aching guilt so profound it nearly buckled him.

How could I leave him?

He buried his face against Jason’s messy, matted curls, his arms tightening possessively around him. How could I be so naive? I grew up here. I know what this place is. I know that here, weakness is not pitied, it is prey. I knew, and yet I left him here alone.

Jason latched onto him instantly, as if his life depended on it. His arms wound tight around Damian’s neck, fingers clutching the fabric of his tunic so hard his knuckles turned white. He pressed his face into Damian’s chest, sobbing brokenly, body heaving with every breath, babbling incoherently against the cloth. Apologies, pleas, fragments of words, names he couldn’t quite form, all of it spilling out in a desperate, terrified stream.

“—dark… so dark… they hurt… I waited… I waited… Dami… Dami…”

“I am here,” Damian whispered, his voice cracking. He rocked him back and forth, slow and steady, just as he had learned calmed him. He pressed kiss after kiss to the boy’s temple, to his forehead, to the scar on his cheek, anywhere he could reach, trying to erase the memory of the hands that had touched him before. He pulled his heavy outer robe loose and wrapped it around Jason completely, cocooning him in warmth and in Damian’s own scent, shielding him from the cold air and the sight of these walls. “I have you. You are safe. I have you, little one. No one will touch you again.”

He stood, holding Jason securely against his chest, never loosening his grip, and turned his back on the cell, on the guards, on the darkness and everything it represented. He carried him swiftly through the winding corridors, upward, away from the depths, taking him straight back to the safety of his own chambers.

Once inside, he kicked the door shut and bolted it, sealing them in.

Jason was still shaking, still clinging, still crying softly into his shoulder, but his breathing was beginning to even out, his body relaxing only because Damian was there. Damian sat on the edge of the large bed, keeping Jason in his lap, stroking his hair, rubbing his back, whispering quiet reassurances until the sobs finally faded into exhausted hiccups.

But even as he soothed the child, his mind was working, turning over every possibility, every risk, every betrayal he had suffered at the hands of his grandfather and his mother.

A plan took root in his mind, sharp, clear, and absolute.

I will never leave him again.

Damian looked down at the boy. Bruised, scarred, broken, but alive, and looking at him with utter, blind devotion, and the resolve hardened into something unbreakable.

I would sooner cut off my own arm, burn this whole fortress to the ground, or die a thousand deaths, than ever let him remain in this place again.

He had thought he could change things from within. He had thought he could bring order, and justice, and protection here. He had been wrong. This place was rotten to its core. He had hope to be a catalyst of change. By becoming the Head of the Demon, Damian would inspire change. And he thought he was doing that, slow as it may, he thought he was succeeding. He was wrong. This place, like any other place in the world was rotten. Hpw foolish was he to trust this place whom had hurt him as a child when he was stronger? How could be— what had he done?

And Jason had paid the price for Damian’s foolish hope.

His arms tightened around the boy.

They're leaving.

Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now. Tonight. They would vanish into the mountains, into the world beyond, and never look back. Damian had a place to go. He had skills, resources, allies loyal to him, not to Ra’s. He would build a life somewhere else. Somewhere safe. Somewhere Jason would never know fear or pain again.

And if Ra’s al Ghul or Talia or anyone else tried to follow… Damian would show them exactly why they had once called him the greatest heir the League had ever known.

He kissed the top of Jason’s head again, staring hard at the shadowed corners of the room, his eyes burning with new purpose.

“We are leaving.”

…

«so, Damian returns to Gotham. Or, Bludhaven? Somewhere around there.

He becomes the Red Hood or Nightwing? I want him to become Red Hood, like as some form of revenge for Jason.

He brought Jason with him. Adopted him too. Jason is now his son.

Jason is healing slowly but is still traumatized. Poor bean.

Damian being best dad. Bruce take notes.»

«Soon, Timothy realized that Damian was back. In pure Timbuktu fashion, he proceeded to stalk Damian and also found out that Jason was alive. What. Everyone is shock.

Then confrontation: something, something Bruce demanding answers. Something, something Bruce being a hypocrite.

Damian declared Jason to be his son now. And Bruce can't do nothing about it.»

…

Dear self,

Please write this so you can stop crying about Baby Jason and Dad Damian.

Lovingly,

Your tired Brain.

…

Insert Somewhere…

The sun hung warm and golden over Gotham, casting long, soft shadows across the green expanse of the park. It was a bright, ordinary day, the kind Damian had only ever read about in books, the kind he had never dared believe he would live to see, especially not with a small hand clasped tightly in his own.

They had been back in the city for months now, living in a quiet apartment far from the Manor, far from the League, far from everything that had ever hurt them. Damian had built this life from nothing, brick by brick, rule by rule, all with one single purpose: to keep Jason safe.

Today, he had decided, would be a day of normalcy. No training. No plans. No shadows. Just them.

Jason walked close to his side, his steps a little slower, a little more cautious than other children his age. His head turned constantly, eyes scanning everything around them, people, dogs, trees, the sky, always assessing, always alert, even though his hand never loosened its grip on Damian’s fingers. He was doing better; he laughed more now, spoke in longer sentences, sought out touch freely. But trust… trust was still something he gave out like it was precious gold, measured and careful. He flinched at sudden movements. He disliked loud voices. And most of all—he hated anything that looked like bindings, ropes, or metal links.

They had reached the playground, and Jason had been fascinated by the swings, watching the other children fly back and forth with wide, curious eyes. Damian had guided him toward one, thinking he would enjoy the gentle motion. But the moment Jason stepped closer, the wind caught the metal chains hanging from the frame, making them clink softly against each other— clink, clink, clink.

Jason froze.

His body went rigid as stone. The color drained from his face, and his eyes blew wide, staring unblinkingly at the swaying metal links. His breathing hitched, fast and shallow, exactly like it had been in that dark cell deep beneath Nanda Parbat. He took a stumbling step back, pulling his hand free from Damian’s grasp, arms wrapping tight around his own chest, shaking violently.

“No… no… no chains… no chains… please… no…” he whimpered, voice small and terrified, shrinking in on himself as if trying to disappear.

Damian was beside him in an instant, dropping to his knees right there on the mulch, heedless of his clothes. He didn’t reach out immediately, he knew better now. He stayed low, making himself smaller, his voice soft and steady, a warm anchor in the storm.

“Jason. Jason, look at me. Look at me, beloved.”

It took a moment, but slowly, those frightenend blue eyes dragged away from the metal and locked onto Damian’s face.

“It is alright,” Damian murmured, keeping his tone calm and sure. “Those are just swings. They hold the seat up, that is all. They do not tie you. They do not lock you. No one is putting you in chains here. Not ever. I promised you. Remember?”

He held his hands out, palms up, open and harmless. “May I touch you? Please?”

Jason nodded jerkily, and the moment Damian’s hands rested gently on his shoulders, the boy collapsed forward, burying his face against Damian’s neck, sobbing quietly. Damian held him, rocking him just a little, whispering reassurances into his hair until the trembling stopped, until the tension melted out of his small frame, until Jason was simply holding on for comfort rather than survival.

“We do not have to go near them,” Damian promised, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We can go sit by the picnic tables instead. I made lunch.”

Jason sniffled, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and nodded, clinging to Damian’s hand again as they walked away from the playground equiplemnt, never looking back at the swings.

They settled at a wooden table beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Damian pulled out the cloth-wrapped food he had prepared earlier. He was used to preparing meals fit for warriors. Domestic cooking was… new.

He unwrapped the sandwiches with a faint wince. He had tried to make egg sandwiches. It was imple, Alfred would have called it. But Damian had been distracted, thinking about how to arrange their bookshelf, and the eggs had cooked far too long. The edges were dark brown, almost black, the texture dry and rubbery, the bread slightly crisped where butter had burned in the pan. It was, by every standard he knew, terrible.

“I… apologize,” Damian said, grimacing as he set one on a napkin before Jason. “I was… distracted. It is burnt. It is dry. We can buy something from the vendor at the gate if you—”

He stopped.

Jason had already picked it up with both hands. He took a massive bite, cheeks puffing out like a squirrel, chewing enthusiastically. His eyes cribkled at the corners, and he hummed happily, a sound of pure delight.

“Good!” Jason announced, mouth full, taking another huge bite. “’S really good, Dami! Best sandwich ever!”

Damian stared at him. He tasted it himself. Itt was dry, flavorless, charred. But Jason ate it like it was a feast fit for kings, like it was the most delicious thing he had ever been given.

And looking at him, at the way Jason beamed at him, crumbs on his chin, eyes shining with absolute adoration, something swelled in Damian’s chest, so big and warm it almost hurt. It was pure, unfiltered adoration. It was pride. It was love, deep and fierce and overwhelming.

He thought back over his life. He thought of the League. All the blood, the duty, and cold stone halls. He thought of his grandfather’s cruelty, his mother’s ambition. He thought of coming to Gotham, fighting with Bruce, feeling constantly like a weapon no one quite knew how to hold. He remembered leaving, bitter and angry, convinced that justice was only found through strength and severity. He remembered how cold his heart had been, how heavy the world had felt on his shoulders, how convinced he was that life was only struggle and pain.

And then… there was Jason.

Broken, scared, scarred Jason. The boy he had once hated just for existing, just for being chosen. The boy who had actually been discarded, hurt, left to suffer. The boy who, despite everything, had learned to trust him.

Jason was the one who had changed everything. Jason had softened his edges, had taught him patience, had shown him that strength wasn’t about how hard you could hit, but about how gently you could hold someone. Jason had brought back the light Damian had thought died years ago. He had given Damian a purpose far greater than any mission, any legacy, any title.

He had given him a family.

“Eat yours too,” Jason urged, kicking his legs happily under the table, crumbs falling onto his shirt. “’S good, promise.”

Damian smiled. He took a bite, and somehow, because Jason said it was good, it tasted perfect.

After lunch, with the sun high and warm, Jason’s energy returned fully. He ran across the grass, laughing, chasing a dog that ran just by his reach. His curls bounced, his arms pumped, his laughter rang out clear and free, the sound Damian lived for.

“Wait for me, little one!” Damian called, walking slowly behind, hands in his pockets, heart full.

Jason was running fast, too fast, looking over his shoulder to grin at Damian instead of watching where he was going. His foot caught on a raised tree root.

He went down hard.

He landed on his hands and knees in the grass, skidding a little.

Panic seized Damian instantly, white-hot and terrifying. All he saw was his child hurt, all he remembered was every injury, every scar, every time Jason had cried in pain. He dropped everythin, and sprinted across the lawn, boots pounding against the earth, faster than he had run toward any enemy, faster than he had ever run in his life.

“Jason!”

He skidded to his knees beside the boy, hands hovering frantically, checking for blood, for breaks, for anything wrong, his heart hammering in his throat. “Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Let me see—”

Jason looked up, surprised, eyes wide, holding out a scraped palm. “I'm okay…I just fell…”

Only then did Damian notice the soft laughter around them.

Nearby, a group of parents sitting on a bench were smiling, looking at him with knowing, amused expressions. One mother, holding a toddler in her lap, chuckled warmly.

“First time dad?” she called out kindly, her tone teasing.

Damian froze. Heat rushed up his neck and burned his cheeks with embarrassment. He realized how he must have looked: sprinting like a madman, face pale with terror, over a simple fall onto soft grass.

Another father nodded, grinning. “Don’t worry, son. We’ve all been there. You’ll learn soon enough, they bounce right off the ground. But that panic? Never goes away.”

Damian blinked, slowly straightening up. He gathered Jason into his arms, lifting him easily against his chest, hiding his burning face in the boy’s soft curls. Jason wrapped his arms around Damian’s neck, resting his chin on his shoulder, completely unbothered.

Damian looked back at the other parents, gave a stiff, awkward nod, and turned away.

…

Some semblance of plot:

•First part : consist of Damian vs Bruce. Time skip, then Damian being Hand of the Demon. Then, meets Jason.

•Second Part: Jason punishment. Damian angy. Damian runs with Jason. Becomes Red Hood. Tim finds them. Bruce sad and angy. Bruce vs Damian pt 2. Sweet Dad Damian moments.

•Third Part: The League kidnaps Jason in exchange they want Damian to come back. Damian asks for help from Bruce. Some reconciliation moment? Bruce realize he is now a grandfather and Damian is Jason's dad. Suck it B-man. Rescue successful and Damian kills Ra's al Ghul. Talia betrays Ra's al Ghul in last minute and she asks Damian's forgiveness.

…

Write me… please… we love Dad Damian. We love it. Please.

~~~

Holy crap. Bonding for all of them! They watch Haly Circus and guess what happened?

…

Bruce stood in the bustling entrance of Haly’s Circus, surrounded by the very people who made his life complete.

It had been Damian’s idea. “Jason has never seen anything like it,” he had told Bruce over the phone, tone stiff but hopeful. “He has read about it in books, but… seeing it is different.”

And so they had come. Bruce, Damian, Jason, Tim, and Duke. A strange, mismatched family, but a family nonetheless.

Jason was vibrating with excitement, holding tight to Damian’s hand, his head swiveling wildly to take in the bright lights, the loud music, the colorful banners strung everywhere. Tim and Duke walked just behind them, laughing as they pointed out different attractions, answering Jason’s endless stream of questions with endless patience. Damian walked close to Jason, guiding him, shielding him slightly from the crowds, his gaze constantly checking on the boy, always aware, always caring.

Bruce watched them, his heart full. This was what he had always wanted. Normalcy, connection, joy. Even if it looked nothing like he had imagined it would.

They found their seats near the front, and the show began. Music swelled, acrobats tumbled across the stage, clowns made Jason giggle until he had tears in his eyes. It was loud, chaotic, beautiful.

Then came the main event.

“The Flying Graysons!” the ringmaster announced.

The crowd roared. Lights shifted, focusing high above the ring where the trapeze bars hung suspended.

Bruce sat back, smiling softly. He remembered this. He remembered coming here with his parents, years ago, a lifetime ago.

High above, John and Mary Grayson stepped out onto the platform, young Dick right between them. They waved, bright and smiling, the perfect family, graceful and fearless. The music rose to a crescendo.

They began their routine.

It was breathtaking, flips, twists, catching hands mid-air, swinging higher and higher, defying gravity itself. Jason gasped, eyes huge, clutching Damian’s arm so hard his knuckles turned white. Damian leaned forward, fascinated himself; even he, with all his training, recognized the mastery of their movement.

Bruce watched, smiling… until something shifted.

He didn’t hear the snap over the music. He didn’t see the fraying rope until it was too late. But he felt it, fhe sudden, sharp spike of danger, the way the air seemed to still.

Mary Grayson swung out, reaching for her husband’s hand.

Snap.

The sound was loud, like a gunshot, cutting through the music.

Time seemed to freeze.

Bruce’s smile died instantly. His eyes widened, his blood turning to ice in his veins. He saw Mary’s expression change from joy to shock to pure, uncomprehending terror. He saw John reach desperately, uselessly, to catch her. He saw the way their hands slipped past each other, inches away from saving everything.

And then they fell.

It was silent, horrifyingly silent, even as the crowd screamed. They tumbled through the air, bright costumes turning into blurs of red, white, and gold, falling faster and faster toward the hard ground below.

Bruce was on his feet before they even hit, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, his breath stuck in his throat.

The impact was sickening.

Chaos erupted instantly. People screamed, stood up, pushed and shoved. Tim and Duke were already moving, ready to act, to help, to secure the area. Jason buried his face into Damian’s side, terrified by the noise and the horror he had just witnessed. Damian wrapped his arms around the boy immediately, shielding him completely, turning Jason’s face away from the scene, whispering soft, steady things into his ear to calm him.

But Damian’s eyes were fixed on the ring.

Through the gap between panicked spectators, he saw the small figure standing alone on the high platform. The boy. Dick Grayson. He was frozen, staring down at where his parents lay motionless on the sawdust, his body rigid, his hands gripping the empty air as if he could still hold them.

Then Damian looked at Bruce.

He saw the anguish written plainly across his father’s face.

Bruce stood deathly still, his face pale, his eyes wet and shining, fixed on the orphaned boy high above. It was an expression Damian knew well, because he had seen it in the mirror. It was grief. It was recognition. It was that sharp, tearing pain of watching a child lose everything they loved, everything they were, in the span of a single heartbeat.

…

And so, Dickie's gets adopted.

Jason is trying so hard to be the best big brother/cousin, but he still struggling with things.

Dick is still the same murderous little bean. He wants to go find and hunt the ones who killed his parents. Bruce was trying his best to shueld the boy away from violence but Dick could not be convinced. He wanted justice and he wanted it now.

Tim thought it might be good to channel the anger into something more… nicer.

Damian disapprove. Richard, he refuses to call the boy in such hideous nickname, was way to young to be fighting crime. Instead, Damian enrolled both Richard and Jason in gymnastics. Something to help ease that energy while also having productive training.«

…

Yo. What about Cass?

Oh, oh.