Chapter Text
The dining room at Wayne Manor had become something different over the past two months.
It wasn't just the space where the family gathered anymore, it had transformed into a battlefield Damian was slowly learning to navigate without armor. Tonight, like most nights recently, he sat between Cass and Tim, his plate holding a reasonable portion of Alfred's lasagna, garlic bread on the side.
"Pass the parmesan?" Damian asked, and the table went quiet for just a heartbeat.
Tim recovered first, sliding the bowl across with studied casualness. "Sure."
Damian sprinkled cheese over his pasta, not measuring, not calculating, just... adding flavor. He caught Bruce watching from the head of the table, that particular expression his father wore when he was trying very hard not to look hopeful. Damian looked away and took a bite.
"This is really good, Alfred," Steph said, breaking the moment. "Like, dangerously good. I'm definitely having seconds."
"As if you weren't going to anyway," Jason muttered around a mouthful of bread.
"Rude, but fair."
The conversation flowed around him. Duke talking about his latest photography project, Dick trying to convince everyone that pineapple belonged on pizza (it didn't, and Damian told him so), Cass quietly eating while watching everyone with those knowing eyes.
Damian finished his first portion. His stomach didn't hurt. The voice in his head that usually screamed numbers and consequences was... quieter. Not gone, Dr. Reeves had been clear that it might never be fully gone; but manageable.
"Damian." Alfred appeared at his elbow with the serving dish. "More?"
The table didn't go silent this time, but Damian felt the attention anyway. The weight of it used to make his skin crawl, made him want to snap that he wasn't a child, wasn't fragile, didn't need to be monitored like he might shatter.
Tonight, he recognized it for what it was: love, awkward and careful.
"Yes, thank you," Damian said, and held out his plate.
Alfred's expression didn't change, but something softened around his eyes as he served another modest portion. "Excellent."
Tim bumped Damian's shoulder gently as Alfred moved away. Didn't say anything, just that small touch that meant I see you, I'm proud of you, you're doing great.
Damian bumped him back.
He ate the second helping slower, participating in the debate about whether the new True Crime documentary was actually good or just exploitative (Jason said both could be true). He laughed when Duke did a pitch-perfect impression of their chemistry teacher. He didn't finish everything on his plate, but he didn't force himself to either.
When dinner ended and everyone started clearing dishes, Bruce caught Damian's eye across the table.
"Good day?" his father asked quietly.
Damian considered the question honestly. Therapy that morning had been hard but productive. Training had felt strong rather than punishing. He'd eaten three meals.
"Yes," Damian said. "A good day."
Bruce smiled, small and genuine. "I'm glad."
Damian was too. That was the strange part, he actually meant it.
Recovery wasn't linear, Dr. Reeves always said. But right now, in this moment, the line was pointing up.
He didn't know yet how quickly it could fall.