Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, there was a monster in the halls of Nanda Parbat.

Damian doesn’t know what summoned the creature, nor its intentions with the League, nor why it has chosen the League as its den; he does not know whether it climbed the mountain itself or some fool summoned it inside. He only knows that, over the past couple of days, the fortress has begun acting strangely, as though the walls itself have noticed a new predator stalking its halls.

And Damian is only certain of one thing: it intends to eat him.

His mother has told him that monsters are not real, that they are simply works of fiction, meant to trick children into behaving decently when adults asked them to; parents requiring something otherworldly to keep children from wandering where they ought not. Damian would have believed her, if he had not seen the creature himself.

There were things that even his mother did not know. Nothing else could explain the groaning of wood floorboards behind him, as if a sudden weight was pressed to them, even when Damian was supposedly alone; the heavy, ragged breathing that dissipated as soon as he turned his head; the uncanny feeling that someone was watching, if only Damian were to catch them at the right time.

Mother told Damian that the difference between a hunter and an innocent person was all in the eyes. And Damian has seen its eyes.

It all started three nights ago.

He was walking back to his chambers after a particularly late session with his instructor, whose sour and wrinkled face unpleasantly reminded Damian of an old orange that had shriveled into itself left in the kitchen days prior. His instructor, after bereding Damian with pointless nitpicks about his form— the same form in which his mother praised—  had snapped at him to leave immediately for bed, before his curfew started. Curfew was an infantile and offensive rule that Damian had explicitly told Mother to revoke; he was six years old, and his evening routine should reflect that. Surely a prince of the League should be able to determine himself when and when not to retire.

Even still, she did not relent.

Damian, knowing the punishment for staying past curfew, decided to take a shorter route to his chambers— this was his first mistake. He had been noticing the strange signs for days now but attempted to persuade himself that it was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, the leftovers of his childish mannerisms that grandfather insisted should have been trained out of him by now. As he walked, practicing his katas with his favorite dagger, he heard it. Most juveniles would not be able to pick up the slight sound, which was quiet as the gentle sway of summer grass, but Damian’s hearing was impeccable; his mother had said so herself.

He paused, only slightly, before resuming walking. If someone was indeed tracking him— an intruder, an assassin, someone hellbent on taking revenge on Damian for his standing as a prince, then Damian was going to show them what the heir to the League of Assassins could do. He changed the grip on his dagger ever so slightly; he spread his fingers ever wider, slowing his pace just enough to gain enough of momentum when he eventually turned around.

This was his second mistake; you must never make eyes with the monster. But he did not know this; he should have known his from his readings of the Odyssey. Still, he waited. Patience was the true trait of an assassin, even if his heart threatened to thrash out of his chest from the seconds that seemed to roll by with the pace of syrup. Even still, he waited.

Until the right moment.

Damian passed a torch, knowing that the light would provide ample opportunity against his stalker. He planted his feet and spun around to face the intruder.

And what big eyes he saw. Not a figure holding a sword to his back like he had expected. Not a guard holding a torch, ensuring his safety. No— it was two large emerald eyes, illuminating the dark.

They blinked.

And Damian did the only thing he could possibly think of.

He ran.

Damian knew of hundreds of ways to maim a man; to incapacitate someone who wanted to do him harm; to torture and kill with just his legs alone. If it was an intruder, an assassin, or a person seeking revenge, Damian was sure his training would slot into place. Damian was not taught, however, how to kill a monster. He spent the rest of the night awake, standing in front of his bedroom chambers, dagger at the ready. As soon as the sun began to peak through the jagged mountaintops, Damian knew the monster could not harm him. Monsters stalked in the night; Damian saw no outline in the halls, no other sign of the monster.

And so, Damian began his research.

Literature informed him of the many ways to kill a beast; stabbing a creature through the heart with a wooden pike; utilizing a mirror to weaponize the creature’s powers against him; even love, as one piece of literature put it, which Damian immediately disregarded as meant for more civilian minds.

The conflicting pieces of information were a slight issue, but Damian found a pattern in most stories; Monsters’ will bent to light.

And so, he laid, feigning sleep as the monster slept below his bed. Damian knew the monster had entered the bedroom when he heard a shuffle underneath the slots on the bed, the slight groan of wood boards as the monster readjusted itself. He would not be a little boy, destined to be the creature’s next meal. He would slay the beast, present the trophy to his grandfather, and show that he was not the little boy his grandfather was convinced he was.

He is Ibn al Xu’ffasch. He is Talia’s Son, the heir to the League of Assassins, and the Prince of Nanda Parbat. Damian will slay the beast. Princes did not become bedtime stories; they slay the monsters that inspired them.

Damian forces his hand still, his hand still unable to wrap around the hilt comfortably. Mother had told him the best warriors knew which weapons appealed to their style of fighting, that a large sword did not necessarily mean power; he only wish he had listened to her. She was gone now— on a mission whose purpose Damian was not privy too. It didn’t matter though, Damian was brave. And he was not afraid to die.

He blinks out tears from his eyes, cursing at himself for his childish emotions. This was exactly what his grandfather had meant when he said Damian was too childish, too naïve, too ready to give into his emotions.

Damian sniffles and closes his eyes. He tucks the dagger beneath the hilt under his sleeve and rises from his bed. Turning towards the bathroom attached to his quarters, his legs dangle over the bed. Damian can almost feel the creature’s breath tickling his ankles, ever so slightly; even if his heart wavers, his plan will remain. Carefully, he jumps off, feet landing on the ground with a quiet thud as he slowly walks towards the Bathroom. He can hear the creature behind him now, and he inhales.

“Die!” Damian turns around, unsheathing his dagger as quickly as a heartbeat, and aiming true to the creature’s heart.

Leather meets steel, and Damian’s dagger is immediately deflected to the side with such rebound he nearly stumbles from the force alone. His eyes trace the creature’s form, and he is greeted – not with a monster born of shadow, not a demon whose face contorted in rage – but the face of a man. Not just any man – a teenager, by the looks of it. Who might as well be a million years old by Damian’s standards. The creature’s face is open wide with shock. He has stolen the face of its past victim, Damian surmises.

The victim’s face is slightly tanned, some burn scars raking his face. The monster looms over him, dressed, insultingly, in League Garbs. It must have killed a trainee and was now picking Damian as his next victim.

Big mistake.

“You will haunt the League no longer!” Damian shouts, forcing power and vengeance into his voice like his mother taught him. To command an army, you must be able to command fear. Damian ducks below the creature’s swinging arms and attempts to strike the creature’s lower legs. In one impossibly casual move, the creature knocks the dagger straight from Damian’s hands, and it goes skidding across the wooden floorboards, towards the opposite wall.

Then, the monster opens its mouth. “Ghh…” It’s voice catches. “…Rghhhh..” The sound resembles stones grinding against each other beneath a river. One hand flies immediately to its throat. It coughs and tries again.

Nothing.

How strange. Damian has never heard about a monster forgetting how to roar.

Damian wastes no further time and dives towards the nearest wall sconce, wrenching the burning torch free with both hands before swinging it in a wide arc. “You shall burn!” The creature immediately recoils, its eyes squeezing shut and its shoulders hunch. One arm rises to shield its face. The torchlight flickers across an expression that Damian cannot decipher; it crudely resembles something close to…embarrassment.

Surely not. Clearly, the monster’s theft of the previous victim’s face did not translate to good control of their facial expressions.

“Hrrkkkkkk…” The monster groans before coughing again. Then, it clears its throat with surprising politeness. Damian does not permit it another opportunity and swings the torch once more.

In one move, the monster’s arms sweep towards Damian— and he goes sailing.  His back crunches against the wall, and all the air explodes from his lungs in a painful gasp.  Pain blooms across his back and his vision swims with pain. Tears leap instantly to his eyes; he cannot move or breathe. The monster steps towards him.

And Damian accepts his face. He curls into himself, arms curled over his face, accepting that he will soon be devoured before he has even gotten the chance to meet his father.

“S…Sorry,” The monster mumbles. In English. It seems that the creature cannot speak Arabic— a shame, really.

Damian’s arms lower slowly. His mind catches up to the creature’s words. The monster is crouched beside Damian, its enormous hands hovering uncertainly in midair, reaching toward Damian before stopping several inches short, as though touching him might somehow make matters worse. Its face looks strangely guilty.

“I don’t think monsters are supposed to say sorry.” Damian says before he can stop himself.

And the monster blinks, before huffing. “M…Me…” The creature coughs, rubbing at its throat. “…Neither.”

Damian straightens from his position, glancing at the dagger thrown across the room. Still, the monster makes no move towards it. The Monster is not exactly what Damian was expecting. For a moment, he racks his brain for a potential explanation, any other reason as to why the Monster’s unsatiable appetite had suddenly vanished like smoke into the air. The monster then, for some inexplicable reason, points to the glass of water on Damian’s nightstand…and then mimics drinking water.

His face pinches.

But Damian does not want to be eaten. So, he straightens, arms reaching for the glass of water. The monster (Or the not-monster?) nods approvingly, hands outstretched for the glass.

Hm. Perhaps the not-monster is a figment of Damian’s imagination. Not so much a physical presence, but a ghost, a specter, something incorporeal that is haunting Damian for an unknown reason.

Damian empties the entire glass of water onto the not-monster’s head. The water flattens the not-monster’s hair down in pathetic clumps, water dripping from the creature’s face in puddles on the ground, and a droplet dribbles from the tip of its nose. It blinks once, then twice. Then, the not-creature makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like an exasperated sigh.

Damian hums. “So… you are corporeal. You are not a figment of my imagination. And you do not want to eat me?” Damian asks, eyes flying towards his abandoned weapon.

The not-monster nods.

“What…are you?”

It pauses.

Then, it makes a face of great…pain. As if the question itself had suddenly stuck some unforeseen injury, something hidden beneath its skin, a pulsing aching wound that Damian had managed to pinpoint. The creature was a strange one indeed, but eventually, it spoke. “Jason.”

Damian suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. It did not answer his question directly. Perhaps the not-monster was a lot…duller than what he expected. “…That is your name?”  The not-monster nods encouragingly. “That is not what I asked.” Damian huffs, crossing his arms. The not-monster –

No, Jason simply sighs. There’s something twinkling in his expression, a form of amusement that causes irritation to prickle underneath his skin. Still, as much as Damian craves movement, questions, and explanations, Jason seems content to simply sit there. Occasionally, he wipes his face from the water still dribbling from his wet hair but otherwise remains still.

Damian frowns at the puddle slowly forming beneath his form; the wood was Mahogony and would warp if the water were left alone. Grandfather would be highly displeased at Damian’s actions. Carefully, he reaches for a towel hanging by his bedside table, leftover from the tray of fruit his servants had given him mere hours before and tosses it to him.

Jason catches it. His eyes land on Damian’s, a singular brow rising, before he begins to wipe at his face and at the small puddle forming beneath his body, until the floorboards are mostly dry. He pats at his own clothes and folds the towel neatly beside him. Damian watches this, noting down with increased interest that the man was overly polite. Then, Damian’s eyes land on the Jason’s hands.

Bruised, purple and yellowed marks on the knuckles of the monster’s hands, cuts crisscrossing across knuckles as if Jason had decided to punch through thick slabs of wooden boards. And from the look of them, they do not seem to be treated. Whether it is due to an insufficient mind, or carelessness, Damian does not know— what Damian does know is that these wounds are likely to get infected if left untreated.

It shouldn’t bother him that Jason is injured. But Damian knows that Jason does not want to do him harm, at least, now. He seems content to leave Damian be, if it means watching every move he makes.

Hm.

Jason has followed him thus far. He was a large, hulking teenager, uncomfortable in its own skin, as if suddenly tossed in a new body and confused as to what to do with it. And he was kind to Damian, even if he was a bit slow. Perhaps he was not Damian’s pursuer at all. Perhaps it was his protector— someone indebted to Damian for some unforeseen reason.

Jason could most likely hold its own against most League guards. He contained scars that looked as though they came from a blast— a warzone, if Damian were to guess. His eyes moved to the sides with such haste as though he were waiting for something to emerge from the darkness. The observations all led Damian to the same conclusion…

“Are you…my protector?” Damian asks hesitantly.

Jason nods.

Quite interesting.

Still, if he was to be Damian’s protector, Damian could not have him dying of infection. It seemed the man was all brute and no brains, but he would have to suffice for now. “Wait here.” He commands, before he hurries across his chambers, dropping to one knee before a lacquered cabinet tucked beneath the window. Mother insists every room contain medical supplies. ‘A blade is only half of an assassin’s education,’ she often reminds him. ‘The other half is knowing how to preserve life after you’ve learned to take it’.

Inside rests a carefully organized kid of bandages, needles, salves, and clean cloth; everything exactly taught him it should be. He retrieves a roll of linen before returning, satisfaction blooming once he sees that Jason has not moved.

Damian stops directly before him and extends one expectant hand. “Hand.”

Jason watches him for a moment, before extending his injured hand, which dwarves Damian’s much smaller one. What large hands he has! Damian begins, wrapping exactly as mother taught him to— pulling the bandages tightly enough to be snug, but not enough to restrict movement or prevent circulation. Damian smooths the final layer in place before tying a neat knot against the side of Jason’s wrist.

“There.” Damian gives the bandage one final approving tug. “It should remain clean for at least two days, provided you refrain from punching stone.”

Jason snorts. “I’ll…try.”

Damian releases his hand. But Jason does not immediately pull his hand back; instead, he turns it over slowly, examining the fresh wrapping with an expression Damian cannot quite decipher. It’s almost like…wonder. As though no one had wrapped his hands in a very long time. The realization settles strangely inside Damian’s chest – as though someone had placed a large weight beneath his ribs. Before he can think too much about it, he reaches once more for the forgotten glass resting upon the floor. He refills it from the pitcher beside his bed before extending it towards Jason.

Jason pauses, something sad working onto his expression, before he accepts it gingerly, as though afraid it might be taken away if he moves too quickly. Damian knows that feeling all too well, and his heart swells in familiarity. Jason drinks slowly and carefully, as though each swallow scratches on the way down. His throat works with visible effort. But, when he lowers the empty glass, Damian notices his breathing has become slightly quieter. Better.

Good.

Jason sets it down, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He says, his voice no longer as hoarse and scratchy as it once was. Something akin to pride flares in Damian’s chest.

Jason’s presence quells something deep within Damian’s chest. He realizes, as they sit across from each other, that this is the first time anyone besides guards or mother have been in his room. As much as he loathes to admit it, Damian feels as though he is…cold all the time in Nanda Parbat. He suspects it is not due to temperature— his grandfather had him adjust to a wide array of temperatures when he was quite young— but rather something akin to the lack of people.

It is a feeling that sits uneasily within the cavern of his chest; princes should not feel lonely. Damian must be the deadliest prince of them all. This factoid still does not negate the feeling. He has tried to ignore it, the feeling slithering within his body. He has tried to raise the temperature of his showers to simulate other people when his mother is gone for weeks at a time. He has tried speaking to the guards, though their responses remain snipped or quiet, regardless of how much Damian attempts to irritate them. Instructors remain dutifully focused on his studies, and any attempt at changing the subject leaves ruler marks at the base of his wrist, bloody and scratched up.

Pushing those childish feelings aside, Damian studies Jason again. He sits there comfortably; eyes closed like a cat basking in the sun. As though the mere atmosphere of comfort had provided him enough reason to begin falling asleep. Damian scans the Jason’s gaunt face, cheekbones carved and body hunched as if beaten. Bruises linger on the monster’s exposed skin and eyebags are etched underneath his eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Jason cracks an eye open. Then, carefully, he nods. As if the action has some unintended consequence – admitting that he has bodily needs. It sends a shiver of utter wrongness down Damian’s spine. “Wait here. I will collect a plate for you.”

Damian rises, beginning to walk towards the exit, when Jason’s hand clamps down on his wrist. It’s not painful per se (As if Damian could give in to a normal idea of what pain should be), but it does feel slightly forceful. Jason immediately lets go, as if Damian is scolding hot, but his eyes are wide with…

Worry?

“Your curfew.” He says quickly.

Damian curses at himself. Jason is correct; Damian cannot leave the grounds without explicit permission from either grandfather or mother. The punishment meant being confined to his room, with food being allotted to him at specific times, and his homework being dropped off for him to complete. The isolation normally lasted around 3 days, though it was sometimes hard to keep track. Curfew was meant to ensure his safety, as his mother has said many times before, but Damian suspected it was something else entirely.

“You know about that?” He asks quietly, sitting back down with a frown.

“Your mother…” Jason trails off, contemplating for a moment. “She informed me of the rules.”

Damian accepts the explanation with only mild suspicion.

If Jason had intended to harm him, he possessed ample opportunity to do so. Instead, he had apologized for hurting Damian (a thoroughly confusing endeavor), accepted bandages without complaint, and somehow required permission to drink a glass of water. None of these qualities are particularly monstrous.

So, Damian studies him instead. Now that he knows Jason is not attempting to devour him, smaller details become easier to notice.

Damian was aware of his age before, but after inspecting his face, it is clear Jason cannot be much older than sixteen years old, by Damian’s standards. Ancient, perhaps.

Burn scars rake his face, one pulling from the corner of his mouth nearly to his eye deeply enough that a sliver of teeth remains visible even when his lips are closed. A single streak of white hair interrupts the dark curls in the front of his hair, as though someone had dragged a brush dipped in paint across his head and thought better of finishing the job.

His hands are worse. The skin is calloused beyond what Damian would expect even from a League disciple. Old scars cross every finger, and several joints are permanently swollen or bent ever so slightly out of place.

Someone had broken his hands. More than once.

Damian frowns.

It is strange to think Mother might have chosen him as Damian’s protector. He was sure there were other capable candidates in the League, many others who could provide Damian the same amount of protection, if not more, if given the chance. Still, he doubts he would be able to get an answer easily; his mother’s plans were often a confusing mess that Damian was rarely allowed information about.

He yawns.

“C’mon. Bedtime.” Jason says quietly. There’s something in his voice that… scratches at him in a way. Damian can’t put his finger on it.

He frowns. He still has so many questions to ask, explanations to get from the teenager; he cannot simply go to bed without another word. “You will remain here in the morning?”

Jason pauses. “Sure, kid.”

Damian studies him once more. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Damian nods thoroughly satisfied. “Very well.” Damian climbs back into bed, pulling the sheets over him. As soon as he gets comfortable, he suddenly feels a wave of exhaustion; the last couple of days have had their toll on his physical health. Damian glances over at Jason, who is resting against the side of his bed, staring at the bandages on his knuckles.

As he stares at Jason, he wonders briefly whether it was all a dream. And then, sleep takes it’s hold of him.

* * *

When Damian wakes, Jason is nowhere to be seen. Instinctively, he checks underneath the bed, convinced that the teenager has gone back to his usual antics. But the place is empty. So is the bathroom, his closet, and even the cupboard. Something in his heart twists, as though someone had taken his heart and squeezed. He was sure that the event was not a dream.

On the floor, the folded-up towel remains there. The glass is placed at his bedside, refilled, along with the pitcher of water.

Damian assumes that Jason will show up eventually. If he was to be Damian’s protector, then it would be impossible for the teenager to leave his side for more than a day Afterall, it had only been one night since he last saw Jason; surely, he was bound to show up again, so that Damian could ensure that he was properly taking care of his wounds. It would be a shame for Jason to die due to some untreated wounds, or due to Damian’s insufficiency. That was all.

Then, days pass.

There is no sign of Jason. Damian makes it part of his routine to check underneath the bed. He traces back his steps in the abandoned wing of the Fortress, where he originally saw the teenager. Damian asks the guards about Jason, who do not understand his question and tell him to stop acting like a child. So, Damian stops asking questions. With every day that passes with the teenager’s absence, the cavern in Damian’s chest grows deeper.

And mother still has not returned. She was supposed to return a week ago, yet Damian has not heard her voice. He has even forgotten what she smells like, and to remind himself, he snuck into her room and smelled her clothing. It caused something deep within him to tear, as though his entire self had been split like an orange.

Even still, he is forced to train. Grandfather has insisted that his training increase, as his birthday nears in the coming months.

Damian doesn’t want to accept that he’s gone. He doesn’t know why the absence bothers him. Perhaps Damian is tired of promises. No, Damian has grown weak.

That’s why. That’s all.

Then, weeks pass. Then a month. Then two.

His mother and Jason are still nowhere to be seen. The coldness within his chest grows ever more frigid. He curls around his mother’s clothes, wrapped around his pillow, in hopes of summoning her back to Nanda Parbat. He wonders if it was something he did; if he was perhaps too much of a coward, too poor of a fighter, too much of a mistake for her to last any longer in the League. If grandfather notices her absence, he says nothing of it. Intriguingly, it seems that he has been in a much better mood of late. If anything, Damian’s performance must be making him less sour.

Damian still can’t fathom why he cares about Jason. It was a one-off experience, an evening filled with confusion and a creature who was more animal than human. But there was something in his eyes… some soft, unsharpened part of the teenager that seemed like something more than an attempt at exploiting Damian’s resources.

But Damian doesn’t want to focus on his feelings. His goal should be training, and that is all.

Even if grandfather’s meetings are exceedingly dull. For some unexplainable reason, his grandfather has decided to speak in English for the entirety of the meeting; Damian is well versed in Mandarin, Cantonese, and is fluent in Arabic. English, however, with its multitudes of different accents, remains a source of frustration for him. The language feels thick and tacky in his mouth, as though Damian has decided to eat a particularly sticky honeyed date.

Damian can get the gist of his grandfather’s meetings from his English lessons, but that doesn’t mean they’re particularly interesting. He must clench his hands into fists until his nails bite into his palms to stay awake. As his grandfather drones on to the rest of the guards and assassins, his eyes rake the room. Mother ---

Someone told him to always be aware of his surroundings; most things laid in plain sight, and dead men often let their environment kill them before their opponent did.

Damian spots him.

He’s not in the torchlight, like the others. Jason is pressed to the backwall, completely drenched in shadow as though trying to melt into it. His expression is blank, and his face has a nasty cut over his left brow. Damian suppresses the urge to shout out the teenager’s name, intending on keeping eye contact.

Eventually, the teenager’s eyes meet Damian’s.

And then they slide right over him, as though Damian was just some section of the wall, another piece of art. It needles at him and he flinches from it alone. Damian refocuses on the meeting, swallowing something thick and tacky down his throat. Just when Damian thinks the meeting is over, with grandfather tapping his fingers against the table, his voice breaks through the silence like a boot through thick grass.

“Instructor Xiao, how has my grandson’s performance been?”

Xiao stiffens in her chair, but the surprise disappears as quickly as it comes. She straightens, nodding to the others at the table. “Acceptable. He seems less distracted as of late. Whatever distractions he was struggling with seem to have disappeared completely.”

Damian’s grandfather nods thoughtfully, glancing towards Damian. “Care to demonstrate your techniques?”

Xiao nods, glancing towards Damian with a commanding stare. “Of course. Damian, run through our latest training session.” He rises, heat collecting at the nape of his neck as he goes towards the front of the room. Still, he calms himself, trying to regain a level of clarity that Xiao has commanded of him. Right foot. Left strike. Duck. Parry. Right strike. Each move is something he has ran through hundreds of times before.

But, on the last move, he makes eye contact with Jason.

And he’s smiling.

This warms Damian down to his toes in a way he does not expect. This costs him.

Damian’s foot waves by a few centimeters, and when he finishes, he wobbles slightly. Damian knows what’s going to occur – and it still does not prepare him. Xiao’s hand strikes the side of his face hard enough that he’s sent tumbling to the floor, his vision whitening out and pain stinging across his cheek. He stays there for only a heartbeat, before he rises, arms clasped behind his back. His grandfather’s face is grave; mouth pressed in a thin line as he stares at Damian.

“How very…disappointing.” His grandfather lets out a breathy sigh, eyes raking towards Xiao with an icy glare. “Clearly, your teaching techniques leave much to be desired. I expect his performance to improve by next week. Or I will find another instructor better suited for my needs.” Grandfather straightens, tapping his documents against the table with the finality of a gavel.

And with that, the meeting is concluded.

Damian spares one last glance at Jason, whose face remains perfectly neutral once again. Except for the slight muscle in his jaw tightening, as if suddenly reining himself back in.

As the meeting concludes, Damian walks straight to his bedroom chambers; it is almost time for his daily exercises, and the instructors thought it best for Damian to go run through them alone. Before he moves though, he sees Jason make eye contact with him once again. And, ever so slightly, nods his head at the abandoned corridor that can lead to Damian’s chambers.

He disappears into the dark, and Damian allows a few minutes to pass, before he follows suit.

The guards tended to avoid the abandoned corridor for reasons that become abundantly clear once you step inside the halls; the smell of death and stale blood is strong in this hall, the air slightly humid from doors shut close for too long, and thick with dust particles that floated through the arid air. Though the guards make their hourly rounds through even the abandoned halls, very few make it a point to use it daily if they could. Still, Damian has memorized every nook and cranny of these halls; he had suspected Jason might have been seeking refuge in the abandoned rooms.

He did not want his protector to die due to his insufficiency, or perhaps Damian’s improper bandaging. Though he was sure he did so correctly. Even still, Damian did not want to kill the teenager by accident.

He doesn’t know why, but he just doesn’t.

As Damian walks down the halls, it’s nearly pitch black. The wall sconces are far enough apart that the darkness nearly consumes you before you come across another torch; from the darkness, Damian hears his name. “Damian.”

Jason’s voice is still raspy, edged with something close to concern. He turns towards an abandoned holding cell, a small window near the ceiling providing just enough moonlight to outline Jason in silver. He’s sitting on a stone bench, shoulders hunched over himself as if expecting a beating, arms crossed over his knees. “Hey.”

Damian scowls. What an insufficient and civilian way to greet a Prince! Still, he stalks forward, using his hands to inspect Jason’s face and body wordlessly. The teenager makes a small noise of protest, but after a moment, gives in with a breath from his nose. The teenager looks otherwise uninjured, though the cut on his brow prickles at Damian. His hands have gained some more callouses, and his outfit is different from what Damian was expecting.

He is no longer wearing League garbs and is rather sporting a rather bright and flashy red suit; Kevlar and thick steel are what make up most of the outfit. And Damian, from what little light is coming through the window, can spot an outline of a gun holstered on his side. Damian frowns, trying to push down the anger that rises like a spark.

“You returned,” he says icily, crossing his arms. Jason’s face pinches. “You said you would wait.”

“Kid—"

“I am not a child.” Damian interrupts him, frowning once more. “You disobeyed an order.”

He sighs. “Look, I wanted to stay. I really did. But…there are certain politics here that you don’t know about.”

“And you do? I am the prince of the League of Assassins.”

Jason pauses, clearly thinking. But before he can respond, his eyes land on the mark on Damian’s cheek. All that concentration is immediately whisked away, replaced by his face darkening, as though a sudden thundercloud has appeared behind his emerald-green eyes. “How badly does it hurt?”

“Not at all. I am trained to withstand high levels of pain,” Damian announces with pride. But Jason’s response is more like if Damian decided to spit on his face.

This is strange— if Jason was at all equipped to deal with League customs, he should know that punishment for insufficiency was nothing to scoff at. Interestingly, now that Damian thinks about it, he’s not sure if Jason is a League disciple at all. He thought so from their first meeting, due to his presence in Damian’s chambers and his outfit.

But, studying him now, with his strange clothes and general aura of displeasure, it seemed he was merely a guest here. A first it seems— one never left Nanda Parbat unless it was through a body bag or League clothes.

Damian chews on the inside of his cheek, deciding to leave the topic of his disappearance alone. It was clear that Jason was quite tight-lipped about the endeavor. “Do you know where my mother is?”

Jason shakes his head.

A sharp pain stabs through Damian’s heart, but he quickly moves past it. It is fine. His mother will come soon enough, and things will return to what they once were. “Where were you?” Damian demands, stepping forward until he’s close enough to Jason to feel the warmth radiating from his body in waves. Jason pauses, eyes flickering as though lit by candlelight, glancing up at Damian with an expression he can’t understand. It’s heavy, weighted with some unknown history. “Don’t lie to me.” Damian commands, forcing his voice to be like gravel.

“Gotham.” He responds after a beat.

Damian’s heart does a leap. Mother had said that that is the place of his father’s origin, the place he will go to if he manages to best her on his birthday. As quickly as the surprise comes, he squashes it; emotions left too much to be desired, left your heart open to attacks from those who wished to do you harm. “And what were you—”

Jason immediately rises from his seat, placing a finger against his lips. Damian quiets immediately, ears craning for the slightest sound of footsteps approaching from the corridor. “You have to go.” Jason says quickly, voice harsh.

Damian wants to say that no one can command him other than his instructors or his grandfather, but Jason fixes him with a look that stomps out that stubborn flare of indignation. He gives Jason one last once-over, frowning— before he darts down the hallway to his chambers. It seems that they must meet in secret, and if Damian is to learn any more about his father, then he must find a way to meet with Jason regularly.

Damian doesn’t know of Jason’s history— but there is something within his gaze that tells him that he is not dangerous.

* * *

If Jason intended to continue keeping him in the dark, then Damian sincerely hoped the teenager would simply stop returning altogether. It had been a week since he had run into the teenager, and these continual run-ins had him in a constant state of waiting.

His chambers were dreadfully dull, made worse by the fact that his instructors insisted he complete an additional set of exercises before bed. Damian sat cross-legged on the floor with his whetstone balanced carefully across his lap, drawing his favorite dagger down its rough surface in slow, deliberate strokes. Metal scraped against stone, sparks catching briefly in the torchlight before vanishing. His wrists had begun to ache from maintaining the proper angle, but the steady rhythm gave his thoughts something to cling to.

Jason was…perplexing.

The teenager returned to the League bruised more often than not, always carrying some fresh cut or poorly concealed injury, as though Gotham itself had taken offense to his continued existence. His eyes were an unnatural shade of green unlike anything Damian had ever encountered before, bright enough to gleam in darkness like those of a hunting cat. Stranger still was the way he never stopped watching the corridors around him. Every doorway, every intersection, every shadow received the same cautious glance, as though he expected something dreadful to crawl out from the darkness the moment he allowed himself to relax.

And he came from Gotham— from what Damian understood about the city, it was utterly disgusting from head to toe and from the information that mother gave him, it rained most days.

How utterly drab.

Still, Damian couldn’t put together a reason for the teenager’s sudden disappearance, especially if it was one unconnected to his mother.

Damian dragged the blade across the whetstone again, absently chewing the inside of his lip as the edge grew sharper with each pass. It was an irritating habit he had developed recently. Mother would have scolded him for it immediately, calling it a childish tell that revealed unnecessary emotion to an opponent. Since she was away, however, there was no one left to remind him to stop.

If Jason was assigned to protect Damian from an unknown entity, then why leave him alone for months? Why did he seem to be protecting Damian from an unknown threat in the halls, when Damian could most likely defeat any that crossed his path. He frowns.

Hm.

What if the presence stalking Jason wasn’t something physical at all? Perhaps it was a creature, a specter, something that required his full attention and left him supernaturally haunted? It explained Jason's distant expressions, the way his attention drifted toward empty corridors for no discernible reason. It explained why he always appeared exhausted despite possessing the physique of a capable warrior. It explained why he kept disappearing without explanation, only to return looking as though something had taken pieces of him that no physician could stitch back together.

It makes perfect sense!

Mother has mentioned ghosts before; his father was similarly haunted. Perhaps Gotham was simply infested with such creatures. A city perpetually shrouded in rain certainly seemed an appropriate place for restless specters to gather. He nods, holding up his blade to the torchlight as the light reflects from the sharpened edges. If Jason was haunted, or attempting to protect Damian whilst haunted, he would fail.

Damian would be forced to help him, lest his protector dies, and Damian would be next on the chopping block.

Knock. Knock.

Damian's head snaps toward the hidden doorway concealed behind one of the carved stone panels.

Mother had shown it to him years ago. It served as an emergency escape route leading into the abandoned eastern corridors, though Damian rarely used it anymore. The one and only time Mother had caught him sneaking through it after curfew, she had calmly informed him that grandfather would be very interested to learn of his creative interpretation of the rules.

Damian hadn’t entered since.

Knock, knock, knock.

How terribly impatient! Damian slips silently across the room until his ear rests against the cold stone. “Kid. Open up.” A voice whispers— Jason.

Damian frowns. Perhaps the ghost has taken Jason’s voice. “How do I know you’re Jason?” Damian whispers back.

A sigh. “You keep feeding the mouse in your room. I saw you feeding it slices of your breakfast. It was before I ran into you in the hallway.”

Damian’s face flushes so quickly it nearly hurts. He had been discovered. If anyone else found out about Juha, then Damian would be forced to—

“I promise I won’t tell anyone.”  Damian tuts. Promises were remarkably easy to make. Mother had taught him those words, by themselves, held very little value; it was action that determined a person's worth. Jason had already demonstrated a remarkable tendency to appear and disappear whenever it suited him. By Damian's estimation, that made him about as reliable as a candle flame caught in a draft.

Still...

His curiosity proved more stubborn than his suspicion.

“If I let you in, you must tell me more about Gotham!” He commands, whispering and tapping his finger against the door. For one long heartbeat, Damian wonders whether the ghost had spirited Jason away before he could answer. Perhaps he had been too demanding. Perhaps—

"...Fine."

The answer is so immediate that Damian nearly stumbles in his haste.

A grin stretches across his face despite his best efforts to suppress it. He wedges both hands into the hidden seam of the stone doorway and braces one foot against the wall, straining until the ancient mechanism groans reluctantly to life. The slab shifts aside with an echoing scrape, releasing a gust of stale, frigid air from the forgotten corridor.

The figure that lurches inside scarcely resembles Jason at all. For a brief, alarming moment, Damian wonders whether he has opened the door for someone else entirely. The teenager is caked in mud from shoulder to boot, dried mud flaking from his clothes with every exhausted step. Dark stains soak through the front of his jacket and sleeve, and his hair is plastered untidily across his forehead. He looks less like an assassin and more like someone who had crawled through the mountain itself.

Damian immediately steps forward, hands already reaching to inspect him, and his feet balanced on his tip toes. His fingers are barely able to brush against the damp fabric covering Jason's shoulder.

He pauses. "...Hm." The blood has already begun to dry. It is not Jason's. Damian feels the tightness in his chest loosen, if only slightly.

"You look like a hog," he announces with pronounced scowl, glaring pointedly at the trail of mud Jason has deposited across his floor. Jason blinks down at the footprints, then back at Damian.

"...Yeah," he says after a long pause. "Fair."

It’s silent for a moment before Jason bends down to take off his shoes, which Damian appreciates— the thought of wearing shoes within his bedroom chambers sends shivers of disgust down his back. His eyes scan the bedroom before he spots a small wooden bench. Jason takes a seat, the movement causing a small cloud of dirt to puff up in the arid air before settling back down.

The servants will not be pleased.

“Why have you decided to come back? Is your memory really that horrible?” Damian asks, crossing his arms. Despite his curiosity regarding Gotham, he deserves answers regarding the teenager’s whereabouts.

Jason blinks up at him, a small smile on his face. It warms Damian in a way that is slightly unsettling to think about. “I… I just wanted to check on you.”

Damian ruffles. “Well, I am fine.” The teenager is clearly hiding something— Damian is good at reading people like that. “If that’s what you wanted, then you should have been back days ago.”

The teenager lets a breath through his nose, something shining in his eyes as he looks down at Damian. “Did you miss me or something?”

He scowls, tightening his arms. “Absolutely not. Your presence brings me great displeasure. I simply want information regarding Gotham, and you must give it to me.”

Jason smiles. The image both simultaneously annoys Damian and does something strange to his chest. Perhaps the ghost has moved onto a new target. “It’s smelly. Rainy. Dirty.”

Damian huffs, kicking his feet at the ground. If his father came from Gotham, and it was anything close to the descriptions he was obtaining, Mother might as have fallen in love with a troll. Gotham did not seem like the place of legends, of warriors, of heroes carved from fate and stone. If anything, Jason seemed to be describing a dumpster, or perhaps, the prison cells in the lower levels. “That can’t be all of what Gotham is.”

The teenager pauses. “It’s not the city. It’s the people.”

Damian wrinkles his nose. “How utterly boring!”

Jason lets out a laugh—it sounds more like a cough that gained the humor on the way out. “The city never sleeps at all. When you wake up in the middle of the night, you can look over the city. The neon lights blinking, the car headlights reflecting off the roads. There’re gargoyles and stone pillars,” Jason continues, his eyes taking on a dream-like appearance, “and the sky is muddled and saggy with rain all the time, and the manor—”

His voice catches. Then, it takes on something hard and angry and biting, his fists clenching against his knees. When he speaks again, it’s cold and bitter. “But you’re right. Gotham is a shit hole.”

Damian leans forward on his toes. “’Manor’?” he repeats. Jason stiffens minutely— it occurs quickly enough that Damian almost thinks he has imagined it. But he knows he hasn’t.

Jason waves his hand, the previous bitterness gone and replaced with forced casualness. “Semantics, semantics.” He leans back on the chair, wincing slightly, but otherwise relaxing. “You’re…doing alright?” His tone is still casual, as though he was just asking about the weather, but it’s edged with worry. Not even worry that seemed professional, no— worry that seemed utterly…personal. How confusing!

“Yes. Training is going sufficiently.” Damian nods, trying to force his voice to be steady. He does not want to drone on about his mountain expeditions, or his long periods without water. He had succeeded with little setbacks.

“Are you doing alright?”

He frowns. An odd question that seemed rather redundant. If training was going well, then it implied the latter. Jason must see his (legitimate) expression of concern because he stammers out a simple, “I mean, are you…hurt, injured, nothing too horrible?”

Damian snorts, waving his hand casually. It seems like a rather civilian gesture, but it seems appropriate. “Injuries matter naught.”

“Damian…”

“Why does it matter? My training is going well, and I expect my first Solo Mission to occur soon enough. Grandfather is pleased with my performance, despite Xiao’s insufficiencies.” Damian pauses. Jason most likely will not drop the subject lest he is distracted with something equally engaging. “Why haven’t you attended the meetings? Surely, an armed guard should be present when I am.”

Jason hesitates. And from that motion alone, Damian knows that Jason is about to lie. “I’ve been assigned to other things.”

Damian takes this. Clearly, the man was not instructed to respond with complete honesty. His behavior made little sense— at first, he followed Damian’s every move for a week, then disappeared for a long period of time, reappeared for a ridiculous meeting regarding an “undercity” and something about a wing of the Night, then came back bloody, bruised, and walking around as if terrified he may awake something.

The ghoul hunting him must be something extremely concerning— enough to divide his attention thoroughly enough for weeks at a time. This would not suffice. Damian had some experience with otherworldly creatures, and if it was fighting and killing that must be done, he would have enough experience to aid Jason. This aid, of course, was a practical and logical course of action.

His protector was obviously distracted, and this distraction meant possible harm to come to the League. If Damian were to help, then the League would be a safer fortress, and mother would be elated. Perhaps her elation would be enough to overcome her disappointment in him, and she would return. The image of his mother— the scent of jasmine, the tickle of her hair against his face as she read to him, her voice that seemed like butter and silk combined— causes something deep inside his chest to tear.

He cannot bear to think about her— Damian pushes her image to the back of his mind. He sniffles, feet kicking at the caked-up mud on the ground. “You have made my chambers disgusting.”

Jason looks around, nodding. “Yeah, your bedroom’s pretty gnarly.”

“Augh!” Damian crosses his arms and stomps across the room to his drawers, yanking out some oversized clothing and tossing it at Jason’s face. He catches it before it makes contact because of course he does and holds the clothing up. “Please change out of those hideous clothes as to not make my room even more of a pigsty. I give you permission to use my Washroom, but please, do not dirty it more.”

Jason raises one singular eyebrow and lets out a breath out of his nose, sighing. “You’re bossy.”

“You are infuriating.” Before Jason can open his mouth, Damian tightens his arms. “Go.”

Whatever typical American slang the teenager mutters is something Damian refuses to translate based on decency alone. Additionally, the curse words were said with such haste that he can barely pick up a few words other than “bitch”, “ass”, and something to do with a gun. With a huff, Jason disappears into the adjoining washroom, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

For a moment, Damian simply stands there, arms still folded tightly across his chest as though he intends to remain irritated by sheer force of will alone. Then, with an exaggerated sigh that Mother would have immediately identified as theatrical, he kneels beside the muddy footprints scattered across his floor.

He clicks his tongue. How utterly barbaric…

The servants would assume he had made the mess. Worse—they would clean it before he had the opportunity to do so himself, and Damian disliked strangers touching his belongings. He retrieves a rag from beneath the washbasin and begins scrubbing the dried dirt from the polished stone, frowning every time another streak of brown appears beneath the cloth.

Americans. No sense of cleanliness whatsoever!

The sound of running water drifts through the washroom door.

He pauses.

It is… surprisingly loud.

He had never truly listened to someone bathing before. Mother’s chambers had been far enough from his that he rarely heard anything beyond muffled footsteps, and the servants moved quietly enough that they may as well have been ghosts. Jason, however, seemed incapable of doing anything silently. Even washing himself involved bumping into something with a dull thunk, followed shortly by a colorful string of English that Damian was reasonably certain was not fit for polite conversation.

He wrinkles his nose before his eyes drift toward the discarded clothing piled beside the bench. The blood had not belonged to Jason. That knowledge should have been comforting. Instead, it left another question behind; Whose was it? Damian’s stomach twists unpleasantly, but he pushes down the uneasiness.

It does not matter. It is none of his concern where Jason acquires blood, or bruises, or the haunted look that settles over his face whenever Gotham is mentioned. Jason is an adult—or close enough to one, at least. Damian has his own responsibilities, his own training, his own future. It would be foolish to concern himself with someone else’s burdens.

Mother had taught him that feelings clouded judgment. Attachment was even worse; it was a leash that only sought to pull you closer to your demise. And love—

Damian’s fingers tighten involuntarily around the damp cloth, but he forces the thought away before it can finish.

The washroom door creaks open.

Jason steps out a moment later, hair damp enough that droplets continue sliding down the back of his neck. The League clothes

Damian suppresses a smile.

Jason bends to gather the filthy clothing from the floor, folding them into an untidy bundle before setting them carefully beside the door. “I’ll wash those before I leave.”

“You most certainly will.”

Jason nods solemnly. “Got it, boss.”

Damian chooses to ignore the obvious mockery. Instead, he points decisively toward the corner of the room furthest from the bed, gesturing vaguely in the direction of a soft cushion. “You will sleep there.”

Jason blinks.

“You are exhausted. You nearly collapsed while standing.” Damian narrows his eyes. “Do not insult my intelligence. And whatever ghoul pursues you will surely expect you elsewhere.”

Jason opens his mouth, then closes it. After a remarkably long silence, he rubs at the back of his neck.“…You’re ordering me to take a nap.” Damian nods, crossing his arms.  “…You know,” Jason mutters eventually, already lowering himself toward the floor, “you’re kinda mean.” Damian’s face darkens, and Jason’s face erupts into a smile.

Jason settles onto the floor with the ease of someone long accustomed to sleeping wherever space permitted, folding one arm beneath his head without complaint. He doesn’t ask for a pillow or a blanket. He seems content to sleep with just stone beneath him.

“You truly intend to sleep there?” Damian glances towards the cushion, frowning. Out of all the places to sleep, most of which were far more comfortable than the floor beside his bed, he chose…

Hmph.

Jason cracks one eye open lazily. “…Yeah.”

“The floor is uncomfortable.” Damian points out, raising an eyebrow. One must get as adequate sleep as one can, especially if one is traveling. Damian would not be against sleeping in uncomfortable circumstances— he had spent nearly a week surviving the desert alone— but when the environment can provide comfort, it is foolish to reject it.

“I’ve slept on worse.”

Damian cannot imagine what worse might entail for Jason. He decides not to ask. Instead, he crosses to one of the storage chests tucked beneath his window, retrieving an extra blanket Mother had insisted remain there “for unexpected guests”; an absurd concept, as no one visited Nanda Parbat unexpectedly. He tosses it to Jason and the teenager catches it on instinct. He unfolds it slowly, fingers tracing the thick woven fabric before looking back up.

"You will recover more efficiently if you remain warm. An ill protector is an incompetent protector."

Jason's mouth quirks upward. "...Right.” He drapes the blanket over himself before settling back against the stone floor, one arm tucked beneath his head. It is remarkable how easily he appears capable of sleeping anywhere. Mother had once remarked that good soldiers could rest whenever given the opportunity, but this seemed less like discipline and more like long-practiced necessity.

The thought sits unpleasantly in Damian's stomach. He watches the teenager close his eyes.

Then—

"Wait." Jason's eyes open again.

"...Yeah?"

Damian hesitates. His fingers tighten around the edge of his mattress until his knuckles pale. "...Do not lie to me."

Jason blinks once, confusion briefly crossing his face. "...About what?"

He already regrets speaking. The words feel childish now that they have left his mouth. Damian chews absently on the inside of his cheek before forcing himself to continue. "You... will not depart these chambers without informing me first."

Jason studies him for a long moment. "...Kid."

"I am not a child."

"I know."

"No." Damian straightens his back. "You clearly do not, or you would understand that abandoning your assigned post reflects poorly upon the League." Jason says nothing. The silence stretches. It needles beneath Damian's skin. "You disappeared," he says eventually, quieter than intended. "For... an unreasonable amount of time."

There! A practical explanation, and nothing more. Jason's expression softens in a way Damian immediately dislikes. “I had to." They always say that. Something must have changed his mind because Jason’s expression twists, before his lips thin into a line. "I'll tell you before I leave."

"You must swear. Swear you will not leave these chambers without my explicit permission. You will swear upon your life. The League." Jason’s eyes are trained at the ground, as if looking any more will provide the answers he clearly desperately wants."...Swear upon me." The words escape before Damian can stop them.

Immediately, heat floods his face. How embarrassing. Jason's expression changes. Something warm flickers behind his eyes—something that almost resembles his mother’s. "...Okay," he says quietly, "I swear." The answer comes without hesitation.

Damian searches his face for signs of deception. He finds none."...Very well." He inclines his head with as much dignity as he can manage. "I accept."

Jason smiles again. This time, Damian chooses not to comment upon it. Within only a few minutes, the teenager's breathing evens into the slow rhythm of genuine sleep. Damian watches him for longer than he intends.

It is... astonishing.

Someone had stayed because Damian had asked them to. Even if only for one night. He tells himself it is because Jason is honorable enough to keep an oath. He pointedly refuses to consider why that explanation, though perfectly logical, leaves an unfamiliar warmth settling somewhere behind his ribs. And in one motion, Damian leaps onto the bed, the blankets ruffling like ocean waves.

He sits upon the edge of his own bed, legs swinging idly above the floor, studying the teenager in the wavering torchlight. The deep lines usually carved between Jason’s brows have softened entirely, leaving him looking strangely… younger. Less like the perpetually wary creature who glanced over his shoulder every other heartbeat.

Asleep, Jason almost resembles someone who had never been hunted at all.

Damian frowns. Why did he continue returning? The question has lingered for weeks now, refusing to loosen its grip. Jason gains nothing from these visits.

He risks discovery when he enters the fortress, and it was clear now that he was running from something that he did not want to inform the League about. At first Damian assumed he might have been employed by the League alone, but it seemed that now, he was on his own.  Jason arrived bruised, bloodied, exhausted enough to fall asleep on stone floors, and yet—he returned.

It seemed that Jason simply took his assignment very seriously. That, despite no longer being affiliated with the League, he still returned to fulfill his duty. Jason must be a loyal, or particularly stupid breed of Guard.

Yes.

That must be it. Jason is merely fulfilling his duty.

The explanation settles awkwardly inside his chest. Damian thinks of the way Jason asks whether he is injured; the way his face darkens whenever he notices a bruise; the way he had smiled—small and genuine—when Damian called him by name. Those are not things a guard should do. The realization leaves Damian feeling oddly… untethered and he dislikes it immediately. It is dangerous to assume affection where there is only obligation. People did not stay because they wished to; they stayed because they were ordered, because they benefited, and because they expected something in return.

Mother…

His throat tightens.

Mother had left because he had failed somehow. There was no other explanation. If only he had trained harder, cried less, been less childish.

If he had simply… been better…

She would have returned by now. The thought settles over him with the familiar heaviness of steel against his skin. Damian curls his fingers into the blanket pooled around his knees.

It is foolish to dwell upon such things. Jason will leave again. Everyone does and will eventually. And when he does, Damian will simply continue training. That is all. That is all it has ever been.

His gaze drifts once more toward the sleeping teenager curled uncomfortably upon the stone. The room feels… less empty. Damian does not know why that thought lingers with him long after he extinguishes the final candle. Nor does he allow himself to wonder why, for the first time in months, falling asleep does not feel quite so lonely.