Archive of Our Own

He got the call at around seven. His mother had a special ringtone that went off to make sure he didn’t miss any of her calls. She had been busy these last few months, so when the notes cut through the quiet of his room he found himself frowning just a little less.

Damian picked up the phone and clicked the answer button. His mother’s voice came blasting through the speaker, loud enough that he had to pull it away from his ear for a second. He had told her many times she didn’t need to yell into the phone for him to hear her.

“How are you, Habibi?”

“I’m fine, mother.” He switched to Arabic right away, the words slipping out smooth and familiar. It kept the conversation private from anyone who might be listening in this nosey house.

“My cousin Hussein, you remember Hussein right?” Of course he did. He never forgot a face. Technically the man sat farther down the family tree than just a cousin, but that wasn’t important. Damian hummed in acknowledgment.

“His son, Sami, is getting married on Saturday. They asked for us to come.”

He stilled. He remembered Sami well enough. His grandfather had always hated the boy’s energy. Loud, always moving, never able to sit still even as an adult. Damian had better control at five than Sami did at twenty. But Sami probably had not been trained the way his grandfather trained him, to stay silent and focused no matter what.

“A wedding. You want me to accompany you to a wedding?” Damian had not been to one in a long time. He was twelve now. Two years here with his father, and maybe eight years since the last time he had worn something other than training clothes for a family celebration.

“Yes, they have not seen you in forever. They want to see you. The wedding is in America, about an hour from Gotham. I am flying in tomorrow morning.”

Damian sighed. “Do I even have a choice?” He knew the answer. He was not sure why he asked.

“I already have your suit packed. They’re not having a henna so it is just the wedding.”

He sighed again, but the frown on his face eased a bit more. A small flicker of anxiety stirred in his chest. He pushed it down quickly.

“Okay. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Have you told father?”

There was a pause on the other end. Talia’s voice came back measured. Bruce had always been hesitant to let her take Damian anywhere, and while some of it made sense, she still found it insulting.

“I will speak to him when I come in tomorrow. Tell him tonight, but you are coming. How many months did I carry you, and did I ask your baba for permission?” She sounded extremely annoyed at the thought that he would object.

Damian did not point out that she had not told Bruce he existed until he was ten. That was old history.

“Okay, mother. I will discuss this with him then.” He caught himself right before the words “love you” slipped out. He was getting better at phone manners, but saying those things out loud still felt strange. He loved his mother. That much was true. He just could not shape the words yet.

“Tisbah ala khair.”

How many nights in his childhood had he heard her whisper that before laying him down to sleep? After the stories of the great ones, the old heroes and warriors from their bloodlines. The warmth in his chest fluttered again, something he had not felt in months. His mother’s voice had always carried comfort. He repeated the phrase back to her, soft and quick, then ended the call.

He set the phone down and went to look for his father. The Batcave would be the place, of course. Down the stairs and through the cool air that always smelled faintly of metal and Alfred’s favorite cleaner. Bruce was hunched over the main computer. Dick, Jason, and Tim were gathered around him, going over something on the screens.

Great.

Dick was not bad. Damian even liked him, though he never said it out loud. Jason he had learned to tolerate after a lot of sharp words and fights. Tim was the one he clashed with most often. Pulling his father aside for a private talk was going to be harder than he wanted.

Still, he had nothing to fear. He told himself that. The anxious feeling came back anyway, like bees in his shirt

“Father.”

Bruce turned, the cowl half off. “Damian.”

“I am accompanying mother to a cousin’s wedding Saturday.”

The cave got quiet and the tapping on keyboards stopped.

“Where?” Bruce asked.

“An hour by drive.”

“No.” Bruce looked straight at him. The others were watching now too, he did not appreciate that.

“My cousin asked for me by name. I have to go.” He really did want to go. The words came out even less steadier than he felt.

“Damian.” Bruce gritted his teeth.

“Father. This is unfair. I never see any of my mother’s side of the family.” His voice rose a little. He was twelve and angry, trying hard not to let it show as panic over not getting his way the two years at his father’s house must have made him soft but he filed that away for later..

Jason leaned back with a smirk. “Maybe because they’re all assassins.”

Damian glared at him.

“I have not even seen my mother in months.” It came out quieter than he meant, almost like a plea.

“Talia hasn’t spoken with me,” Bruce said, voice rough.

“She will be here tomorrow morning.” Damian offered it like an argument, something solid to build his case to go on

“That woman is coming here?” Tim sighed. He sounded like he was trying to be gentle about it. “Probably has a job lined up, someone there to take out. You think she really cares about you, Damian?”

Damian moved before he could think. The katana was in his hand and at Tim’s neck in a flash. Only Bruce’s reflexes stopped it from going further. The blade hovered, steady in his grip as Damian kept pushing it.

“If you say anything about my mother ever again, you will not live to see the dawn, Drake.”

Tim’s eyes went wide. Before he could snap back, Dick grabbed Damian around the middle and pulled him away. Jason moved fast too, locking an arm around Tim to hold him in place.

Damian’s heart beat hard against his ribs. He did not loosen his grip on the katana right away. The others were talking over each other now.

Bruce’s voice cut through the tension between them like a whip. “Enough.”

He stepped between them in one smooth motion, one hand clamping down on Damian’s wrist while the other took the katana away. The blade left Damian’s grip before he could tighten it. Bruce set it on the console with a heavy clack, far out of reach.

“Damian. To your room. Now.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. Heat rose in his face. “Father, I—”

“I said now.” Bruce’s tone left no space for argument. It was the voice that ended discussions in the field.

Damian tried once more, quieter. “This is not fair. She is my mother.”

Bruce did not raise his voice again, but the look he gave was final. “We will talk about it in the morning. Go.”

Damian held his father’s stare for another second. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction. “Yes, Father.”

He turned on his heel and left the cave, boots echoing up the stairs. The walk back through the manor felt longer than usual. He kept his hands curled into fists at his sides so tight no one would see them shake with residual anger.

Once his bedroom door shut behind him, the anger did not fade. It settled in, hot and heavy. He paced the length of the room twice before dropping onto the edge of his bed. His mind would not quiet.

Yes, his mother had done bad things. She had trained him in the League the same way her father trained her. Grandfather had ordered him beaten more than once for failing a drill or showing any softness. Those memories still ached but his mother had loved him too, in the only ways she knew how. She was raised just like him except she never got the chance to escape like he did and she was the reason for his freedom from the league.

She used to sneak him sweets when no one was watching. Maamoul dusted with powdered sugar, still warm from the kitchen fires. She would slip an extra cup of tea into his hands when he was only supposed to have one, plain and unsweetened. Sometimes she spiked it with a little sugar when Ra’s was not looking.

The only times she had ever truly frightened him were after the Lazarus Pit. That green water changed people. It burned away sanity for a while and left something sharper and crueler behind. She had not been in it since the day she brought him to Bruce.

No matter what anyone said, no matter what she had done under orders or under the Pit’s influence, he loved her and she was his mother. That feeling sat solid in his chest, for a second warmer than the anger.

He stayed there, stewing, staring at the wall until the house grew dark around him.

Down in the cave, the others had gone back to their screens, but the mood had shifted. Bruce stood with his arms crossed, staring at the spot where Damian had been. Dick lingered nearby, rubbing the back of his neck the way he did when he was thinking hard about something.

“You were pretty hard on him,” Dick said after a minute. His voice stayed even, not accusing.

Bruce exhaled through his nose. “He drew a sword on Tim. In the cave.”

“Yeah. I know. Kid’s protective of her. She is his mother.” Bruce stayed silent.

Dick continued. “But we still don’t want him going. Especially not alone with her and the ‘Al Ghuls. You and I both know that.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened and he did not answer right away. He knew part of his resistance came from somewhere more complicated than simple caution. Love for Talia had always clouded things when it came to her. She had slipped away from him more times than he cared to count, sometimes by accident, most of the time not.

“She says the wedding is only an hour from Gotham,” Bruce said finally. “Small gathering.”

Dick gave a short laugh, not quite amused. “With the ‘Al Ghuls, nothing is ever small. Even if she’s been quiet lately, one phone call from Ra’s and everything changes. Damian’s twelve. He wants to see his mom. I sympathize with that. I really do. But sending him off with her right now feels like reversing all the progress he’s made.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. The cowl was fully off now, and he looked tired in the blue glow of the monitors. “Talia and I will discuss it in person,”

Dick nodded slowly. “Yeah. Morning. Just… try not to come down too hard on the kid before then.”

Bruce did not reply. He turned back to the computer, but his mind was not fully on the case files anymore. The cave quiet, heavy with the same tension from moments before.

Upstairs, Damian remained in his room, anger cooling, he would wait for morning. He would argue again. For now, he held onto the memory of his mother’s voice on the phone.

Talia arrived earlier than expected, just as the first gray light of morning touched the windows of Wayne Manor. Damian hated the grayness. When he was in the east it shined gold in the morning.

Three large white suitcases rolled behind her across the gravel drive, each one packed with care. Inside were foods Damian favored from home, his favorite pita bread wrapped tight to stay soft, jars of spices, dates stuffed with nuts, and other things she knew he loved. Talia had made certain everything was vegetarian, no exceptions. No one else in the house stirred yet. Only Bruce was awake, moving through the quiet halls like a shadow.

He opened the front door before she could knock. For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then Talia offered a small, knowing smile.

“Beloved,” she said, voice low so it would not carry and wake anyone. “Thank you for letting me in at this hour.”

Bruce stepped aside to let her pass, taking one of the heavier suitcases from her hand. “We need to talk, Talia.”

She moved past him with purpose, heading straight for the kitchen as if she still lived here. Her long brown hair was swept up in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her olive skin held a natural rosy warmth even after the long flight. Those emerald eyes caught the low light and seemed to brighten the room. She was as beautiful as ever, unchanged in the ways that always caught him off guard and surprisingly wearing pink.

He remembered her wearing pink mostly when he had first met her, when she had gotten serious about the league after leaving him her attire turned green. It didn’t matter, she looked beautiful in both.

Bruce followed. “Talia, sit down. We can talk properly.”

She waved a hand, already pushing gently past him toward the cabinets. “Tea first. I know you still keep the good cups.”

Her fingers searched the shelves with familiar ease until she found the more traditional teacups from her last stay, delicate spheric porcelain with faint gold rims. She set them on the counter, filled the teapot, and moved with the same graceful efficiency he remembered from years ago. Bruce tried again to steer the conversation.

“Talia—”

“Sit.” She gave him a look that was a command laced with some sort of affection, and ushered him toward the table. He sat, more out of pleasing her than agreement. The kettle began to heat. Talia measured leaves into the pot, the scent of Ceylon soon filled the kitchen, warm.

She brought the tray over and poured for both of them before settling into the chair across from him. Steam rose between them. For a few seconds neither spoke. Bruce watched her over the rim of his cup.

“Beloved, my cousin is getting married,” she said at last, calm and direct.

“So I’ve heard.”

She took a slow sip, then set the cup down. “It is a small affair. Sami asked for Damian by name. He has not seen his blood relatives in too long.”

Bruce turned his cup in his hands, the porcelain felt too fragile for this conversation. “He drew a blade on Tim when you came up I’m not rewarding that with a family reunion.”

Talia’s expression softened, but only a little. “He is my son. Of course he is protective. I have not seen him in months, Bruce. You know what that feels like.”

The kitchen stayed quiet except for the faint tick of the old clock on the wall. Bruce studied her face, searching for any sign of hidden intent. She met his gaze without flinching.

“The wedding is close,” she continued. “Only an hour from here. I will have him back before anyone notices he is gone. He misses the way we do things. I brought all of his favorites.” She gestured toward the suitcases waiting in the hall. Bruce exhaled. “We will discuss it when he wakes.”

Outside, the sky continued to lighten, promising a long day ahead.

Damian woke to the smell of za’atar drifting through the manor. It reached him even in his room on the upper floor, warm and earthy with thyme and sesame. His senses had been trained to catch such things from a young age. He sat up fast, heart picking up speed. Then he was on his feet, brushing his teeth quicker than usual and pulling on a clean shirt. He ran a hand through his hair to look presentable before heading down the stairs.

The house felt different already. His father sat on the couch in the sitting room, posture straight but relaxed enough to show he had been there a while. From the kitchen came the soft sound of humming, an old melody Damian knew by heart. One his mother used to sing while preparing food or tending to small wounds after training. He followed the sound to her.

When he stepped into the kitchen, Talia turned around. Her face lit up in that particular way it only did for him.

“Ya habibi, Sabah Alkhayr,” Wishing him a good morning and pulling him close. She kissed his cheek three times, left, right, left, the greeting he had known since he could walk. Her hands lingered on his shoulders. “You are growing taller every time I see you.”

She moved quickly after that, setting a plate in front of the chair she had clearly prepared for him. Warm pita bread topped with za’atar, a generous smear of labneh, a drizzle of olive oil, and perfectly cooked eggs on the side. The tea came next, placed gently down with a faint clink of the porcelain cup. It smelled of cardamom.

“Sit, sit,” she urged, already pouring for herself as well.

Damian sat. The first bite made something tight in his chest loosen. The flavors were the way only his mother could make them. It felt like home in a way the manor rarely did. He almost smiled. The expression tugged at the corner of his mouth before he caught it, but it stayed in his eyes.

Bruce watched from the doorway now, having moved quietly to observe. He did not interrupt at first.

Talia took the seat beside her son, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “The wedding is tomorrow. Sami’s bride is from good family. Your cousins have been asking about you. I told them you have been training hard here.”

Damian took another bite, chewing slowly. “Will Grandfather be there?”

“No,” she said simply. “He does not approve of lavish weddings.”

The tea warmed his hands through the cup. He glanced toward his father. Bruce stood with his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable at first. But Damian caught the way his father’s eyes softened when they landed on him.

Talia noticed too. She kept her voice light. “It is only one day, Beloved. One night at most. He will be safe. He will be with family.” That’s what he was worried about.

Bruce was quiet for a long stretch. He watched Damian finish the last piece of pita and reach for the tea. The boy’s shoulders were relaxed. There was no tension in his jaw, no guarded look in his eyes. Bruce thought of all the times Damian looked like that. You could count it on one hand.

“Alright,” Bruce said finally. His voice came out gruff but decided. “You may go. One day. I expect you back by tomorrow night.”

Damian looked up sharply, surprise clear on his face before he schooled it. “Thank you, Father.”

Talia reached over and squeezed her son’s hand once, quick and warm. “Eat more, habibi. There is plenty.”

Damian spoke more freely than he usually did in the manor, words tumbling out about the last time he had been to a wedding, about remembering certain relatives. Talia listened with her full attention, humming approval between bites.

Bruce turned away to give them space, but the image stayed with him. His son looked happy. That was rare enough to matter. He would keep a close eye from afar, of course. But for now, he let the decision stand.

Talia watched Damian eat for another minute before she decided it was not enough. “You look too skinny. They are not feeding you properly here.” She loaded more pita onto his plate and pushed it closer, almost forcing another bite toward his mouth until he took it himself. Her hands moved with the familiar insistence of mothers everywhere, the kind that accepted no argument.

Once he had eaten enough to satisfy her, she wiped her hands and went to one of the suitcases in the hall. She pulled out a garment bag and motioned for him to follow. “Come we must go upstairs. The suit.”

Damian trailed after her, a small protest already forming. In his room she unzipped the bag to reveal a fairly basic tuxedo, black and simple. He didn’t want his brothers staring at him in a thobe. Talia laid it out on the bed with care.

“I can dress myself,” he said, standing straighter. “I am too old for my mother to dress me.”

Talia turned to him with the no-nonsense look he remembered from childhood. Her voice dropped into that same firm tone. “Stop. Let me see it on you properly so I can measure.”

He knew better than to push when she used that voice. He changed quickly, then stood still while she adjusted the shoulders and sleeves. The suit fit perfectly, as if she had measured him in her mind from the last time they met. She smoothed the lapels and stepped back, nodding with satisfaction.

“Good. Very good.”

Her eyes scanned the rest of his room next. The bed was made with sharp corners. Books lined the shelves in perfect order. Not a speck of dust anywhere. She ran a finger along the edge of the desk and smiled.

“You keep it so clean. I am proud.”

Damian allowed a small nod. The praise warmed him more than he would admit.

She took his hand then and led him downstairs to the living room. The family had gathered. Alfred stood first, offering a polite bow of his head.

“Madam Talia. Welcome back to the manor.”

She smiled at him, “Thank you, Alfred.”

Dick and Tim sat on the far couch. Neither smiled yet Talia did not seem to care. She had dealt with colder receptions before. Jason gave her a short nod of acknowledgment from his spot near the window, arms crossed but not hostile. Damian’s eyes swept over all of them, warning. His gaze dared anyone to say something. The message was clear.

Talia placed a hand on her son’s back. “Come, we are going out to catch up.”

Bruce stepped forward. “Talia—”

She hushed him gently but firmly, already guiding Damian toward the door. “We are only catching up, Beloved. I will have him back soon.”

Bruce watched them. His son looked lighter on his feet than he had in weeks. “Stay in Gotham. No leaving the city.”

She agreed with a tilt of her head and they were gone.

The park was quiet this time of morning. Talia walked beside him, listening as Damian suddenly could not stop talking. Words poured out, mixing Arabic and English without thought.

“Gotham Academy is not terrible. The teachers are strict but fair. My friend Jon, he is strong but kind, he laughs at my jokes even when they are mean. And Mia, she is quick with strategy games. You would like her.”

Talia listened with full attention, nodding at the right moments, asking small questions that kept him going. They walked past the tall buildings of Gotham Academy and Damian pointed it out rather proudly. Later he showed her the Persian restaurant he liked, describing the rice dishes and stews in detail. As they continued, they passed by Gotham’s mosque. Though their family leaned more toward cultural Sufi traditions, Talia still paused. She offered a respectful salam to the woman standing near the door. The woman returned it with a warm smile.

Back on the path, Talia began preparing him for the wedding. She listed names and connections, her voice steady and practiced. It felt like six hundred people by the time she finished, Cousins, second cousins, aunts with loose tongues, uncles who told the same stories every gathering. Damian listened closely, committing faces and rivalries to memory the way she had taught him.

“You will do well,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “They miss you.”

Damian walked a little closer to her side. The city moved around them, but for these hours it felt smaller, safer. His mother was here, listening, and tomorrow there would be a wedding filled with noise and family he barely remembered.

She brought him back to the manor as the afternoon light began to shift. Talia headed straight for the kitchen again, rolling up her sleeves. She pulled out what had to be the largest pot in the entire house, setting it on the stove with a decisive clatter. Bruce stepped in behind her, trying to intervene.

“Talia, you do not have to—”

That firm tone returned instantly. “Enough, Beloved. Sit and do not stop me.”

He realized it was a losing battle and leaned against the counter instead. She worked with focus, using ingredients she had brought from South Lebanon. The rich, garlicky scent of molokhia soon filled the kitchen as she stirred the green stew, preparing it exactly the way Damian loved. Rice with vermicelli steamed beside it. When everything was ready she filled a plate for her son and set it before him at the table.

Damian took the first bite and actually smiled, wide and unguarded. The taste brought him straight back to his childhood. Talia watched him with open satisfaction, then turned her attention to Bruce.

“Look at him. So small. You are not feeding him enough in this house.” Even though Damian was not small for his age. She poured him a cup of tea, then another, and then a third, making sure each one was strong and sweet the way he preferred.

Bruce had not seen her this animated in a long time. Her hands moved with energy as she spoke about old recipes, the way her aunts taught her. He knew the Lazarus Pit had been like a drug for her, twisting her mind and breaking every edge.

This was the real Talia, the one he had fallen in love with. Her father had kept her on a short leash for years. The Pit had dragged her into something close to insanity more than once. She was clean now. He could see it in the steady way she moved, the clarity in her emerald eyes.

Later that evening she insisted on putting Damian to bed herself. He protested from the doorway. “I am not a child anymore.”

Talia gave him the look again. “You will always be my child. Hush.” She guided him under the covers anyway and recited a quiet prayer over his head, her hand resting lightly on his hair. Only after he had closed his eyes did she slip out and head downstairs.

Bruce was in his bedroom when she knocked. He called for her to enter. Letting Talia al Ghul walk into your bedroom had always been dangerous. The last time it happened, they fell into bed and Damian had been the result. She was still alluring, sultry in the way she carried herself, and tonight was no different. Her loose bun had loosened further, strands of dark hair flowing.

He stood at the mirror, shaving with a straight razor. She crossed the room without hesitation and took the razor from his hand softly. “Let me.”

The blade dragged gently over his skin, especially near the jugular. It was probably the last thing anyone should let an assassin do, especially one as trained as her but Bruce stayed still. Her touch was careful, intimate. When she finished she wiped the blade and set it aside.

“I should head to the hotel,” she said quietly.

Bruce caught her wrist before she could step away. “Take a room here instead.”

The air between them thickened. One thing led to another in the quiet of the room. They ended up in the same room together, her olive skin was warm against his. Talia’s hair spilled across the pillow as she moved above him, and Bruce pulled her closer, hands steady on her waist. For those hours the complications of their lives stayed outside the door. There was only the two of them, the way it had once been, tangled, like their fates were intertwined.

Afterward they lay in the dim light, her head resting on his chest. Neither spoke for a long while. The manor was silent around them, Damian asleep down the hall, the rest of the family unaware.

Bruce ran his fingers through her hair, and Talia let herself relax into the moment.

Talia slipped out of Bruce’s room early the next morning, hair pinned back neatly and clothes from the night before smoothed down. She moved quietly down the hall, but not quietly enough. Dick was already up, heading back from a run, and caught sight of her leaving his room. Bruce and his eyes met for a brief second. Dick raised an eyebrow and gave Bruce, who had stepped into the doorway, that look. Bruce did not offer an explanation and Dick did not ask. They simply passed each other without a word.

Down in the kitchen Talia was already moving. She made Damian a proper breakfast, again. Eggs with more za’atar, fresh pita, labneh, and sliced tomatoes drizzled in olive oil. The boy ate with quiet focus while she fussed over him.

Tim wandered in first, followed by Jason. Tim took one look at the spread and muttered, “Kid’s spoiled rotten.”

Jason smirked, grabbing a piece of pita for himself. “Yeah. Must be nice, brat did grow up as a prince. ”

Damian shot them both a glare but kept eating. Talia ignored the comments completely, focused only on her son.

After breakfast she dragged one of the suitcases upstairs again. She helped him into the tux, adjusting the tie and collar with quick fingers. Then she sat him down and lined his eyes carefully with kohl, It sharpened his gaze.

“There,” she said, stepping back.

Damian waited in the living room while she went to get ready. He knew it would be at least three hours. Time moved differently for her, he swore. He sat on the couch, legs swinging once or twice before he caught himself and stilled them.

When Talia finally came down, She wore a beautiful tatreez thobe, the embroidered fabric imported and made from the finest material. Intricate patterns in deep reds and golds covered the sleeves and chest. A white shawl draped right over the back of her head, her hair cascading down in curls and around her neck hung the large gold necklace Bruce had bought her years ago. It caught the light with every movement, heavy and ornate.

She looked at Damian and almost cooed, hands coming up toward her face. “Ya habibi, you look so handsome. So grown.”

Bruce checked the clock on the wall. “You both are going to be twenty minutes late.”

Talia laughed, bright and unconcerned. “That is early for the Al Ghuls. They will not even have started the music yet.”

She chose one of Bruce’s many cars from the garage. Bruce was glad for it. Every vehicle had trackers. He watched them pull away, arms crossed, saying nothing as the car disappeared down the drive.

Talia drove with confidence, one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally gesturing as she pointed out small things along the route. The venue was a lavish hall about an hour from Gotham, decorated with flowers and hanging lanterns. The moment they stepped inside, everyone surrounded him.

Distant aunts descended immediately. “Ya Damian! Look how big he is!” They dragged him over, kissing his cheeks over and over, cooing in rapid Arabic. He could barely keep up with the questions and compliments. Bright red lipstick marks soon covered both his cheeks. He wiped at them, but more aunts arrived before he could finish.

When the greetings finally slowed, he escaped to the men’s side of the hall while Talia went to the women’s section to greet her own aunts. The place was huge and lavish, with long tables of food, golden chairs, and music already starting to play from a large ensemble in the corner. Damian spotted so many distant cousins. They acted like they had seen him just yesterday, no awkwardness, no one here looked at him like the odd one out the way people sometimes did in Gotham.

One of his older cousins, a tall boy with the same sharp jawline as half the family, grinned and literally picked him up in a hug before setting him down among the group. “Come, sit with us. Tell us about living in America.” They all had flown in he guessed.

Another cousin shoved a plate of sweets into his hands. They talked fast and laughed loud. For the first time in a long while Damian felt like he could simply exist among them. This wasn’t typically his scene but he felt himself adjust quickly.

Talia glanced over from the women’s side every so often, smiling when she caught his eye. The wedding celebrations were only beginning, and the hall buzzed with energy that felt deeply familiar. Damian let himself be swept along, cheeks still faintly red from lipstick, a small grin tugging at his mouth as another cousin clapped him on the back and dragged him toward the dance floor.

Damian stood near the edge of the dance floor as the dabke line formed. The music picked up, lively and rhythmic, and several cousins turned to him with eager grins.

“Come on, join us!” one called, already reaching for his arm. “Just a little. For Sami!”

He felt the pressure of their expectations, the way they wanted to pull him fully into the joy of the moment. For a second he almost gave in. Then he shook his head, stepping back with that familiar stoic expression. “Not this time.”

His cousins sighed, dramatic but good-natured. “Always so serious, Damian. Even at a wedding.” They understood, though. He had always been the watchful one. Still, they didn’t take offense. One clapped him on the shoulder as they moved into the line without him.

Damian watched them for a while, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he slipped away to the women’s side. He was still young enough to cross over without raising eyebrows. Talia sat among her aunts, talking animatedly. When he approached she made space for him immediately.

“Habibi,” she said as he stole a fig from her plate and popped it into his mouth before she could protest. She laughed softly and let him.

This was one of the best times of his life. Being able to see his family without expectations of perfection hanging over his every move. This was what it felt like to be an Al Ghul when his grandfather was not in the picture. Overlapping conversations and shared plates of food. People treated him like family.

Later they both went to greet Sami and his bride. The groom looked exactly as Damian remembered, loud and beaming, pulling them into tight hugs. The bride was kind-eyed and graceful in her white gown. Damian received even more cooing from the guests around them.

“Look at this one! So handsome in his suit.” An older aunt pinched his cheek gently. “Talia, he has your eyes. And the jaw of his father.” His cheeks hurt at how hard she pinched but he didn’t stop her.

More relatives gathered, sharing stories of when he was smaller and pressing even more sweets into his hands. Damian accepted it all with a quiet dignity that only made them fuss more. His cheeks flushed under the attention.

From a hidden vantage point high above the hall, a small camera watched everything. Bruce had last minute arranged for one of the waiters to place it earlier that day. The feed came through clearly on the screen in the Batcave. Bruce’s jaw tightened as he recognized face after face among the crowd.

Several were wanted criminals tied to the League. People Talia had promised would not be here. No one dangerous, she had said. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Anger simmered low and hot. She had downplayed it.

He changed quickly into a formal tuxedo, the civilian Bruce Wayne version, no cape or mask. The fabric felt stiff because of his anger but it fit perfectly. He left the manor without telling anyone but Alfred where he was going and drove one of the faster cars toward the venue. The trip took fifty minutes, traffic parting for him as he pushed the speed limit. His mind stayed fixed on the camera feed still playing in his thoughts. Damian was happy. That much was clear. But the presence of those faces changed everything.

Bruce arrived at the venue just as the sun began to dip lower in the sky. The hall glowed with lights from inside and music spilling out into the parking lot. He parked and sat for a moment, hands still on the wheel, deciding how to enter without causing a scene. The weight of the evening pressed on him. His son was in there, surrounded by family that came with kill counts. And Talia, as always, sat at the center of it all.

He stepped out of the car and adjusted his cuffs, the noise of the celebration growing louder as he approached the entrance.
Bruce stepped into the hall, the noise hitting him immediately. He scanned the room until he spotted Talia on the left side, seated among the women. Without hesitation he walked straight over. He was not fluent in these traditions. A few of her aunts turned their heads, eyebrows raised, but it was Bruce Wayne. The misunderstanding was obvious. No one corrected him.

Damian did not notice his father’s arrival. His cousins had finally coaxed him into softly clapping along with the dabke rhythm from the sidelines. He kept time with his hands, that reluctant but genuine smile breaking through as the music swelled.

One of Talia’s oldest and most respected aunts rose slowly from her seat. She was small but carried herself with quiet authority. Her eyes twinkled as she looked up at Bruce.

“Mashallah,” she said warmly, reaching to clasp his hand. “Her husband is so tall. Come, sit with us for a moment, come eat.”

Bruce did not clarify that they were not married. He had enough sense to know that would be rude here. Instead he offered the charming billionaire playboy smile he had perfected over years of galas, the one that disarmed most people. “Thank you. It is good to see the family celebrating together.” He kept his voice polite and easy, exchanging brief pleasantries with a couple of the aunts who leaned in curiously.

After a respectful minute he turned to Talia. “Could we speak in the hall for a moment?”

She stood gracefully, excusing herself from the group. They stepped just outside the main room into a quieter hallway lined with more decorative lanterns. The music still thrummed through the walls, muffled but lively.

Bruce did not raise his voice, but his tone hardened the moment they were alone. “There are people here who should not be. Some of the most wanted criminals tied to the League. You told me it would be safe.”

Talia’s expression shifted. Her emerald eyes flashed with irritation. “It is safe, Bruce. These are his family. This is what a wedding looks like for us. The people you are so angry about are eating and dancing right now, not causing trouble. They are here for Sami, not for anything else and if they were I would take him out.”

She was getting mad. Her posture straightened and her voice sharpened in that way he remembered from their old arguments. “You come here and want to dictate who belongs at my cousin’s wedding? Damian is happy. Look at him.” Bruce knew that, he had never seen Damian smile so long.

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I saw the faces on the feed. I am taking Damian home. Now. You have only been here for an hour.”

Talia crossed her arms, the gold necklace shifting with the movement. The hallway felt smaller. Bruce stood firm, eyes locked on hers, while Talia refused to back down. The celebration carried on inside..

Damian was still clapping along with his cousins, completely unaware that his father had arrived and the evening was about to shift.
Talia stepped back into the hall, her expression carefully composed. She scanned the crowd until she spotted Damian still clapping along with his cousins. “Damian,” she called, voice carrying just enough to reach him.

He came over quickly, the smile fading from his face the moment he saw his father standing beside her. Bruce’s presence here meant only one thing.

“We are leaving,” Talia told him gently, switching to Arabic because she knew Bruce didn’t understand most of it. “Your baba saw some faces he does not like. He wants you home now.”

Damian’s stomach dropped. “But we have not even cut the cake. Nothing has really started. These events last for hours.…” His voice trailed off. He looked toward the dance floor, the long tables piled with food, the cousins who had finally pulled him in. “I want to stay.”

Bruce did not budge. His stance was solid, the same one he used when a mission was over. “We are going. Now.”

Damian tried once more, quieter. “Father, we are staying.”

“No.” Bruce’s tone left no room for negotiation.

The goodbyes took time. Talia called over several relatives, explaining briefly that something had come up and they had to leave early. Damian moved from group to group, receiving tight hugs and disappointed murmurs. His aunts kissed his cheeks again, leaving more lipstick marks he no longer felt like wiping off

“Stay longer next time, ya rouhi. We barely saw you.” His cousins clapped his back and ruffled his hair, clearly upset. “We were just getting started with you.” Sami himself looked crestfallen, pulling Damian into one last bear hug. “Next wedding you stay the whole night, okay?”

Talia said her own goodbyes with more grace, promising to visit again soon, but the disappointment was clear on everyone’s faces. The festive mood dimmed a little around their corner of the hall as the small family group watched them head for the exit.

Bruce drove. He left his other car at the venue to be picked up later. Talia sat in the passenger seat and Damian in the back, still in his tux with kohl-lined eyes and faded lipstick smudges on his cheeks. The car had barely pulled out of the parking lot before the yelling started.

“You had no right to come here and embarrass us like that,” Talia said, voice rising. “This was important to him. To me.”

Bruce kept his eyes on the road but his grip on the wheel tightened. “Important? There were League operatives in that room. People with records longer than the guest list. You downplayed it on purpose.”

“I did not downplay anything. They are family. Blood. Not every gathering is a plot against your precious city. You see assassins in every shadow because that is how you live.”

“And you still refuse to see the danger even when it sits at the same table as our son.”

Their voices overlapped, sharp and heated. Talia gestured with her hands a lot as she spoke,
Bruce answered in clipped, controlled bursts that grew louder as the argument built. Old frustrations poured out between them, years of mistrust and love twisted together.

Damian sat in the back, overwhelmed. He pressed himself against the seat, staring out the window as the lights of Gotham blurred past. His chest felt tight. The joy from the wedding still lingered, warm and bright, but it clashed hard against the anger filling the car. He had been happy there. replaced by the familiar tension of his two worlds colliding. He stayed silent, hands clenched in his lap, wishing he could disappear into the leather seats. This drive felt endless.

Talia and Bruce continued arguing, neither willing to yield. Damian closed his eyes and tried to hold onto the memory of clapping with his cousins, the taste of figs, and the way his mother had smiled at him across the hall. It was not enough to drown out the raised voices, but he clung to it anyway.

Damian stormed into the manor ahead of them, the front door slamming harder than necessary. The suit felt too tight now, the kohl around his eyes smudged from the car ride. He ignored Dick’s attempt to ask what happened, brushed past Tim without a word, and gave Jason a cold shoulder when the older boy tried to joke about the lipstick still on his cheeks.

Bruce followed him into the hallway. “Damian.”

The boy spun around. “La! Enough!” The anger burst out of him, loud and furious. “You ruined it. You always ruin it!” He kept yelling in his native tongue, words tumbling over each other too fast for Bruce to fully catch, but the fury was unmistakable. It reminded Bruce sharply of those first months when Damian had arrived at the manor, all sharp edges and defiance, a boy who trusted no one and expected everything to be taken from him.

Talia moved quickly, placing herself between them. “Habibi, breathe.” Her voice was calm but firm as she guided him upstairs toward his room. Damian’s shoulders shook with rage. Once inside, he finally broke.

“Ummi, take me with you. Take me back. Please.” The begging sounded raw coming from him. His eyes were wet but he refused to let tears fall. “I was happy there. They did not look at me weird or call me names. Take me home.”

Talia’s heart twisted. She pulled him into a hug, holding him tight against her. “I cannot, my love. Your baba was trying to protect you, even if he went about it the wrong way. Those people… some of them carry old business. He worries. We both do.”

She left him for a few minutes and returned with a bowl of Bazella, the comforting pea stew rich with tomatoes and spices she had prepared before they left because she knew Jason liked it from his time at the league. The smell filled the room. She sat on the edge of his bed while he ate slowly, still fuming.

Talia stayed there long after the bowl was empty, rubbing slow circles on his back as the anger gradually drained out of him. His eyelids grew heavy. The rage that had burned so bright slipped away into exhausted sleep. She brushed his hair back, kissed his forehead, and whispered the same prayer from the night before.

Only when she was sure he was deeply asleep did Talia slip out and make her way to Bruce’s bedroom for the second night in a row. She knocked softly. When he opened the door she stepped inside without the fire from earlier. Her expression was tired but steady.

“I am sorry for yelling in the car,” she said quietly. “It was not helpful.”

Bruce sat on the edge of the bed, still in his tuxedo shirt with the tie loosened. He looked at her for a long moment. “What do you think he feels right now?”

Talia sat beside him, close but not touching. “Ripped away again. He was taken from one world and placed in another. Which in part was my fault, completely different culture, different rules, different everything. He tries so hard to fit here, but tonight he remembered what it feels like to simply belong. Even as Robin he is still a child, Bruce. Not a soldier like my father wanted. You cannot treat him like one of your missions every time my family appears.”

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face. The realization settled heavy on him. He may not have chosen the best approach. The anger that had driven him to the venue felt justified in the moment, but seeing Damian’s face in the car had chipped away at that certainty. “I know,” he said at last. “I will speak with him in the morning.”

The morning came too soon. Damian refused to speak to anyone. He moved through breakfast like a ghost, ignoring questions from his brothers and answering Alfred with only nods. When it was time to drive Talia to the airport he came downstairs in fresh clothes, eyes distant. He wished more than anything that she could stay longer. A day felt like nothing after months apart.

The car ride to the airport was tense. Bruce drove again, trying once or twice to bridge the silence. “Damian, I understand you are angry. We can talk about it.”

Damian only glared at him through the rearview mirror, arms crossed tight over his chest. The look held every bit of betrayal and disappointment a twelve-year-old could carry. Talia sat quietly in the front, occasionally glancing back at her son with soft eyes. She reached over once to squeeze Bruce’s arm, a small gesture of peace, but the silence stretched on.

At the terminal Damian finally allowed her to pull him into a long hug. “I will call soon,” she promised, kissing both his cheeks. “Be strong, habibi. Be good for your baba.”

He nodded against her shoulder but said nothing. Watching her walk-through security felt like another door closing. Bruce stood beside him, hands in his pockets, unsure how to fix the crack that had widened between them. The drive home was even quieter than the ride there. Damian stared out the window the entire way, the manor waiting for them like a beautiful cage.
The ride back without Talia was worse. The car felt larger and emptier. Damian sat in the back seat and refused to look at his father at all. His gaze stayed fixed on the passing buildings, the streets of Gotham blurring into gray streaks. Bruce tried speaking a few times, gentle at first, then more direct.

“Damian, I know you are upset. Talk to me.”

No response. Not even a glare this time. Just silence so thick it pressed against Bruce’s chest. The boy’s shoulders stayed hunched, arms wrapped around himself as if holding in everything that wanted to spill out. Bruce’s hands tightened on the wheel. He had seen Damian angry before, but this withdrawal cut deeper.

When they reached the manor Damian got out without waiting. He grabbed the remaining suitcases his mother had left, the ones filled with food and small gifts, and dragged them upstairs. The wheels bumped loudly against each step. He all but locked himself in his room, the click of the door loud.

Inside, Damian unpacked everything slowly. The spices, the extra pita wrapped carefully, the small trinkets from aunts he had barely remembered. He placed them on his shelves with care. Then he noticed the white shawl Talia had worn to the wedding, left draped over the chair from when she had helped him dress.

He picked it up gently, running his fingers over the soft fabric. As delicately as he could, he hung it on a hook near his window where it would not wrinkle. It would be ready for her next time. The thought brought a fresh wave of anger and sadness that made his throat tight.

That night he went out as Robin anyway. The suit felt heavier than usual. He moved across rooftops in silence, ignoring Bruce’s attempts at coordination over comms. When Bruce asked for a status report, Damian gave short, clipped answers or nothing at all. The lack of communication was dangerous. After the third ignored call for backup on a minor lead, Bruce made the decision.

“You are benched, Robin. Come back to the cave.”

Damian returned without argument, but the silence in the Batcave was loud, under any other circumstance he would be throwing a huge fit over getting benched. He changed out of the suit and disappeared upstairs again.

Bruce sat at the main computer long after the others had gone to bed. The realization had been building since the airport. He really needed to talk to Damian. Not as Batman giving orders, but as his father. He had known the boy struggled with adjusting to life in Gotham. The culture shock but Bruce had assumed Damian would fit in eventually, the way the others had, and it had been two years. He had not fully considered how deeply the visit had reopened old feelings. Seeing his mother’s side of the family, being accepted without question, then having it ripped away so suddenly over something Bruce could have ignored for one night. It was no wonder the boy had shut down completely. He just wanted Damian safe.

The next morning Bruce found Damian in his room, sitting on the bed staring at the white shawl hanging by the window. The boy did not look up when he entered.

“Damian.”

No answer.

Bruce sat on the chair across from the bed, giving him space. “I was wrong to pull you out so quickly. I saw threats and reacted but I need you to tell me why this hurts so much. So we can fix it.”

Damian stayed quiet for a long time. When he finally spoke his voice was low and rough. “It felt like home.No one watched me like I might stab them because they all are used to the life, the league. They laughed with me. They wanted me there.” He glanced at the shawl. “Mother doesn’t call me a brat or treat me like I’m evil.”

Bruce listened without interrupting. The weight of his own assumptions settled on him. He had thought structure and training would be enough. He had not realized how much Damian still carried two worlds inside him, and how rarely they were allowed to meet peacefully.

“You are not evil.” Bruce said carefully. “I can promise to listen better next time. You are not alone in either world. Even if it does not feel that way right now.”

Damian did not respond, but he did not tell his father to leave either. The white shawl swayed slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. Bruce stayed a little longer, the silence between them less hostile than before. Healing would take time, but at least the door was cracked open. For now, that had to be enough.

Damian stayed quiet for the next few days. He went through the motions of training and meals but the spark that had briefly returned during the wedding had dimmed again. The white shawl still hung by his window like a quiet reminder. He touched it sometimes when no one was looking, the soft fabric grounding him in memories of his mother.

Bruce gave him space but checked in gently each morning. “I spoke with your mother. She said the wedding continued well and everyone asked about you.” Damian would nod but say little else. The anger had cooled into something heavier, a lingering sadness that made the manor feel even larger than usual.

His brothers noticed. They began trying in their own ways to cheer him up.

Dick found him in the library one afternoon. “Hey, kid. I dug up some old videos from that time we went to the circus together. Remember the trapeze? You were terrifyingly good at it.” He set up the screen and sat on the floor instead of a chair, making himself smaller and less intimidating. Damian watched a few clips without comment, but Dick caught the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth when a performer did a particularly risky flip. “We could set something up in the gym if you want. No pressure.”

Jason tried a different approach. He showed up in Damian’s room with a tray of street food from one of the vendors near the Persian restaurant Damian had shown Talia. “Figured you might want something that doesn’t taste like Alfred’s perfect English cooking. Spicy. Greasy. The good stuff.” He dropped onto the bed without asking and started eating loudly.

“Your mom’s side throws a hell of a party from what I heard. Bet the dancing was better than anything we do here.” Damian took a bite of the rice dish and muttered a quiet “thank you.” It was the most he had spoken in days. Jason counted it as a win and stayed until the food was gone, sharing a few stories of his own chaotic family gatherings from years ago.

Tim was more subtle. He left a new strategy game on Damian’s desk with a note that read “figured you might beat me at this one.” Later that evening he challenged Damian to a match in the game room. “Come on. I know you’re mad, but you still like winning, right?” They played for nearly two hours. Damian won most rounds and even trash-talked a little in Arabic under his breath. Tim let him have the victories without complaint.

Alfred, ever the steady presence, made sure Damian’s favorite teas were always available and left small notes with the meals. “Master Damian, a little extra cardamom today. Thought it might remind you of home.”

Bruce watched the efforts with quiet gratitude. One evening after patrol he found Damian on the roof, not in uniform, just sitting and looking out over the city. Bruce sat a careful distance away.

“I know it is not the same,” Bruce said. “But you have family here too.” He paused. “I should have let you stay longer. “I am sorry.”

Damian stayed silent for several minutes. Then, in a small voice, “It felt good to be wanted.”

Bruce nodded even though it broke his heart. “You are wanted here. Even when we make mistakes. Even when it is hard.”

The edges softened. He started answering his brothers with more than one-word replies. He joined Dick for a training session that turned into an impromptu acrobatics competition which he lost. He let Jason drag him to the kitchen to eat. He even beat Tim at the game again and allowed a small, smug smile afterward.

One night Talia called. Damian took the phone to his room and spoke with her for almost an hour, the low murmur of Arabic drifting under the door. When he came out his eyes looked a little less heavy.

Bruce found him the next morning rearranging the gifts from his mother on the shelf. The white shawl had been carefully folded and placed at the center.

“Next time,” Damian said without turning around, “I want to stay longer. And maybe… you could come too. Just for a little while.”

Bruce placed a hand on his shoulder. “Of course.”