Chapter Text
Damian wakes up, as he often does, to the sound of an angry voice. There is a large, hulking form standing above him. The man is clearly not long out of the Lazarus Pit. The skin under his robes is almost shining, the scars littering his arms and legs fading by the second. Rage, Damian figures, will still be strong in him.
A deduction that is confirmed when the man speaks again. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m not staying in here. You can’t lock me in this suite with a little kid. That’s insane, even for you. No fucking way, Talia.”
Damian stiffened. This insolent rat would pay for speaking to Mother in that way.
Talia placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “Jason, darling, Damian is my son. An Al-Ghul. He has been raised in Nanda Parbat and is well accustomed to the Lazarus Pit and its side effects. Spending time together may do both of you good. And if you raise a hand towards him, a dozen shadows will rain down upon you. That is, if my boy does not finish you off first.”
Mother’s words seem to placate him. For the first time, the stranger- Jason— stops struggling and actually looks at the child in the room with him. Damian sizes him up right back. He can’t be more than nineteen at the absolute oldest. What could he possibly have done to earn his place here, much less curry favor with Mother?
When Jason gets a good look at him, his jaw drops. “Holy shit. The green eyes and the hair. You didn’t.”
Talia smirks. “My son has the finest traits of myself and my Beloved. It is why he will have no trouble rising in the ranks of the Bats and taking his rightful place as heir when the time is right.”
“Jesus Christ. I know Bruce is brain dead when it comes to women, but this is a new low.” He wipes a hand across his face.
Mother doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Spend time together, my darlings. Jason, Damian will ease your adjustment to Nanda Parbat. Damian, Jason will prepare you for your eventual journey to Gotham.”
Jason’s eyebrows shoot up. “Fuck are you talking about, ‘journey to Gotham?’”
“In a few years, when he has learned all he can from the League, Damian is going to train under his father. He will be unstoppable.” Before Jason can respond, Talia swans out of the room.
Arms crossed, Damian walks right up to the interloper. “Todd. You will teach me how to be Robin.”
Knowing how the boy died, Damian expects the Pit Madness to rise up at his statement. But the only emotion in Jason’s eyes is sorrow.
“Robin should have died with me. I’m not going to help you become something that shouldn’t exist.”
Damian rolls his eyes. “Make no mistake, I do not care about your idiotic sidekick mantle. Robin is merely the first step towards the cowl.”
Jason snorts. “What, you think you’re going to show Bruce that you’re the perfect son and he’s just going to hand over Batman to you once his hip starts acting up and Dickie puts him in the old folk’s home?”
Yes, Damian wants to say, but he holds his tongue. His mother had informed him, very briefly, of the chaos in his father’s home after Jason’s death. Of the funeral, and the grave, and the pretender in the role that was Jason’s by experience and Damian’s by birthright. Knowing Mother, these had likely been the first facts she relayed when Jason came to after the Pit.
“I think that I am an experienced warrior. And you can teach me how to apply my skills to curry favor with my father when I meet him. Am I wrong?”
Green finally illuminates Jason’s eyes. “Gotta hand it to you, kid, at least you understand what you’re getting into. No bullshit about magic or being special or whatever Bruce is feeding the new kid.”
“Mark my words, Todd: when I take on the mantle, I will be the last Robin to walk this Earth. Now are you willing to teach me or not?”
“I’ll teach you, Damian. I’ll teach you to be the most lethal fighter he could ever imagine.” Jason’s voice is laced with rage.
***
Father wasn’t impressed with anything Damian did. He wasn’t impressed by his neutralizing of Drake. In fact, he chastised Damian for the exercise. Absurd, since if Damian wanted the pathetic impostor dead, Drake would be dead. Father also wasn’t impressed by his prowess in hand to hand combat or gymnastics. Damian’s gentle reminders that he is, in fact, the Bat’s son and rightful heir have only been met with anger and disgust. Every night, Father makes a show of leaving him behind in the Manor and saying that he doesn’t trust him in the field or anywhere.
No matter. Damian has been through harder gauntlets with more ruthless fighters. It is only a matter of time before he passes whatever trial this is supposed to be and continues, victorious, into the field.
As he walks the halls of the empty, cavernous manor each night, he understands why Father chose the name of the bat. The whole house feels like a big, dark, cave. It also occurs to Damian that it has been a long time since he has been this alone. Not since he was eight and slipped during a stealth training drill. After that failure, Ra’s had placed him in solitary confinement for six days and six nights.
Staring up at the impossibly tall ceiling of the ballroom, Damian thinks that this could not be more different than the tiny, brick-walled cell he’d been thrown in back then. And yet, this seems like a similar exercise. He dashes back to his room and meditates until he loses track of time. He will show Father. He can hold out through anything.
***
Many things about Jason Todd are deeply frustrating. He’s fresh from the Pit, so the rage takes over almost daily. By the same token, his short-term memory is completely shot, meaning that Damian has to remind him every day of what fighting forms they’ve already been through. And then there are the nightmares. Every night, Damian can hear him scream through the wall that separates their chambers. He doesn’t begrudge the man that.
But he does begrudge the fact that Todd will not allow them to train for more than a few hours at a time.
“What if this happens in the field?” Damian demands.
“I guarantee that there is no psycho in Gotham who is better than you at hand to hand combat. You will have kicked their ass ten minutes into the fight if this was real life. And if they do somehow make it to this point, they’ll just pull out a gun. Or a syringe. Or a flashbang. Or some bizarre exotic plant that causes hysteria—”
“I don’t understand how Father ever made you Robin in the first place if you are willing to give up so easily. This attitude is not an asset in a fight.” Petulant, Damian rips off his hand wraps and tosses them onto the mat.
“Sorry to disappoint, but he made me Robin so I wouldn’t end up in juvie after I robbed him. No other reason.” Jason chuckles as he pulls off his own wraps.
“That cannot be true,” Damian retorts. “Father is a logical man. He would not make such a momentous decision on such a sentimental basis.”
Jason is quiet, pensive, for a long time before he speaks again. “Maybe you have a point. I used to think that Robin was, like, magic. Hope, you know? Hope to keep fighting the good fight. We used to have this joke on patrol, that we were just good soldiers fighting in a war. He’d say that to me when I was scared. Chin up, soldier, the fight’s still going. I used to think he meant it as though we were…I don’t know, partners. Brothers in arms. That he would always have my back. But then he replaced me as soon as I died. So maybe being a literal soldier is what he wants from you.”
Damian can’t hide how pleased he is at these words. He can be a soldier. He’s been a soldier since the day he was born. Somehow, his happiness only makes Todd deflate. At least it’s not the Pit again. Damian will take the small victories where he can find them.
Together, they do conditioning until Damian’s muscles scream with fatigue and finally give out. The sun is just coming up when Jason scoops the exhausted boy up and carries him back to his bed. It’s so out of character that Damian thinks he must be dreaming. But he wakes up the next morning, sheets tucked around him all the same.
***
The elusive Nightwing finally makes his appearance three weeks after Damian’s arrival in Gotham. Unlike Father, he appears happy to see Damian, cheerfully introducing himself and asking inane questions about how Damian’s arrival has been. The man is so deeply ridiculous that Damian decides to tail him, Father, and Drake when they all go out for patrol. He’s had more than enough quiet nights in the Manor, and he is ready to see what the city’s rogues have in store.
The trio have tracked the villain, a newcomer quickly rising in the ranks of Gotham’s criminal underworld, down to some abandoned warehouse near the docks. Damian has read all of the files about this Red Hood, the criminal who kills criminals. Soft spot for children, no mercy for narcotics kingpins or pimps. Something in the back of Damian’s mind is screaming that he needs to see the man in person. So he finds a rafter to hide in and settles in, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
He does have to admit that Nightwing is impressive. Singlehanded, he takes down at least a dozen goons, then starts to investigate as soon as the area is secure. Father goes to check the outside perimeter before returning inside. Drake is also there. Clearly, he is not yet up to par with his skills to offer any true assistance.
Damian is just about to switch rafters to avoid Father’s scans when the door booms open. “Look at this. The big bad bats, visiting little old me.”
Damian freezes when he hears the Red Hood’s voice. It’s garbled by a vocoder, of course but even then, it almost sounds like…
“Red Hood,” Father growls. “Your reign of terror ends tonight.”
“I highly doubt that.” He laughs and pulls out a gun. “You go do whatever you want on your side of town, but Park Row and the docks are my territory. Mine. So take your little freaks and get the fuck out of here. Willingly or by force.”
“Gotham is our territory,” Robin replies, earning an eye roll from Damian and the renewed attentions of Red Hood.
“Is it now?” Before Drake can get another word in, Hood has holstered his gun and taken him down to the ground using a hold and throw that Damian would know anywhere.
A League hold and throw called the Disarmament, which leaves the target vulnerable and unconscious. A throw he taught to Jason Todd.
Damian can’t help the relief that courses through his body upon recognition of who the Red Hood is. Jason is here. His brother is here and he’s finally not alone.
Perhaps it is this relief that throws Damian off guard when Jason speaks again.
“Like I said. Get out. If I see you here again, I shoot. This is your one warning.” He takes his gun out and points it to the far corner of the ceiling. “Go deal with your bigger problems. Like the pathetic lack of training you’ve given this one. Or the assassin hidden in those rafters.”
Panicking now, Damian tries to escape through the busted skylight he came in from. But the Batman is too fast, and he’s being hauled down in his Father’s arms within seconds.
Funny, Damian thinks. This is the first time Father’s ever touched him.
Drake stares, slack-jawed. He sizes Damian up for a moment before returning to a neutral, stoic face. Mission failure. Utter and complete. Father has not let go of him. Through the plate armor, Damian can feel Father’s tight breathing and pounding heart.
Grayson has chased after Hood, but returns empty-handed and walks right up to where Damian stands restrained. “So, Damian. Do you have a death wish?”
“Ja—Hood would not have hurt me,” Damian snaps.
Mind catching up to his slip up, he braces for questioning. But Grayson doesn’t seem to notice and Father, as usual, isn’t really listening.
“Yes, he does seem to have a soft spot for innocent children,” Bruce says, tightening his grip. “But you are not an innocent child. And if you keep this up, you will never be my Robin.”
The ride back home is completely silent. When they get back, Damian expects a beating. Instead, it’s back to solitary.
***
The League insists that there must be no medical care for flesh wounds. Those who are too weak to live will die. Scars must set as a reminder of one’s mistakes. And yet, whenever Damian gets a lashing, Jason insists on disinfecting his wounds. Normally Damian fights him, but today he is simply too tired after a particularly brutal training session, too defeated to put up any amount of a fight. When Jason finishes up wrapping bandages around Damian’s back, he crouches in front of the boy and wraps his arms around him, careful to avoid the wounds.
For a moment, Damian just freezes up. He has never done this before. He has no idea what to do. After a minute, he simply relaxes into the touch.
“Thank you,” Damian whispers. “I am sorry for this show of weakness.”
Jason’s arms wrap tighter around him. “Kid. You are eight years old. You feel like a hug, you come to me whenever you want.”
Damian’s jaw clenches even harder. After an indeterminate amount of time, Jason lets him go.
He looks down at Damian as if he’s assessing one of his training forms. “Besides, this is a skill you will need to develop if you want the cowl.”
“What do you mean?” Damian furrows his brows.
“Your father is an affectionate man.” Seeing Damian’s slack jawed disbelief, he laughs. “It’s true. When I was Robin, he would hug me every night after patrol. On especially bad nights, he’d stay in my bed until I fell asleep. And that’s not even getting into the hair ruffling and hand holding and everything else. He’s a man of few words. Touch is how he shows he cares.”
Father was supposed to be the great detective, no? Should he not base his evaluation of an heir on pure logic? But it was foolish to assume that Father would not give him an extra challenge. A more difficult one.
Damian’s scowl softens into something sadder. “I wish you had told me sooner. This will be a deficiency in my training.”
“No it won’t. Like I said, I’m going to make sure you’re ready for whatever Gotham throws at you. We’ll practice.” Jason ruffles his hair. “As long as you feel like it. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do with anyone. That’s really important.”
For a few moments, Damian is silent. “I do want… I mean, I do enjoy. Hugging. And such. And I need to practice. For the cowl.”
Jason gives a serious nod as he pulls Damian into his side. “Of course. For the cowl.”
***
Damian is getting sloppy. It must be the lack of fasting, or meditation, or any of the other discipline practices he hasn’t been keeping up with since leaving the League. Whatever the cause, it’s bitten him today. He’d risen before dawn to scour Father’s files on the Red Hood, only to stumble into a training session between him, Grayson, and Drake.
Perhaps as a show of goodwill, Drake had invited him to spar. Predictably, it had not gone well.
At least Father was speaking to him directly. That is the thought going through Damian’s mind as Father excoriates him for sparring gone wrong.
“Tell me, Damian. Do you actually think you can beat my son to a bloody pulp during a simple training exercise and still expect to ever join us in the field? I can’t trust you. No one can,” Bruce thunders.
Talking back during a punishment earned you a public lashing, if not a full expulsion from the League. But Damian’s silence seemed to anger Father even more.
“No sparring for the next month. No training, period. You do your tutoring and you stay in your room. I don’t even want to know you’re here for the next few days. End of story.”
Still in uniform, Father sweeps out of the room.
Luckily, Damian had practice keeping tears in. He does his breathing exercises and turns to face Drake. Alfred is attending to the boy, wrapping his shoulder and arm in a sling, and Grayson is fussing over him nearby. Surely, Damian’s actions would trigger a counterattack from one or both of them. Jason hadn’t accounted for Drake and how beloved he was by the family, and Damian had just put him in danger. Getting out in front of the issue is paramount.
He channels Jason’s fearlessness as he strides towards the medical bay. “Drake. In the League we do not hold back in training.”
“I know that now,” he replies, wincing as Alfred tightens the bandage.
Damian has to physically stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Enemies will not pull punches in battle, thus we do not pull punches when we spar. It is a way to better prepare for the realities of combat.”
At this point, Drake is looking at him with an almost entertained sense of disbelief. “Okay, Damian, we get it, you hate me and want me to suffer because I’m your enemy. That’s very, very clear. Well, you win! You’re better at fighting. I surrender. You can stop trying to kill me now.”
“You are misinterpreting my behavior, you imbecile,” Damian snarls. “Treating your training partner as a worthy opponent instead of a child who needs to be coddled is a sign of great respect.”
While Drake’s face goes blank with confusion, Grayson leans in, intrigued. “You don’t pull punches because you want your partner to learn how to weather the most vicious attacks. Because you care about them. Because you want them to live.”
It heartening to have someone listen to him, even if it is a mere prelude to a punishment or expulsion. “Correct.”
Damian braces for a blow, but for some godforsaken reason, Grayson simply breaks into a bright smile. “Understood, Little D. We still don’t do that here, but I think we all get why you did it today.”
Drake huffs out a laugh. “Next time you want to show me great respect, you can just use your words. Or buy me a coffee.”
“Do not give him any more caffeine,” Grayson orders.
Then, in a truly bizarre turn of events, Grayson closes the distance between himself and Damian and pulls him in for a hug. Shocked, Damian does not object. He merely stands there, perfectly still for a moment before giving in to the warm, solid comfort of the touch.
“We respect you, too,” he murmurs. “Even if Bruce is a drama queen. He just doesn’t want to see anyone get hurt unnecessarily.”
“If it makes you feel any better, this one conversation is more emotionally mature than he’s has ever been towards me,” Tim adds. “And you’re a ten year old who was raised in a murder cult.”
Damian’s instincts are to defend the honor of the League and his father, but he clamps his mouth shut and hides his face in Grayson’s soft blue sweater instead.
“He’s always kind of been closed off, but it didn’t used to be this bad. I promise. We’ll get him to be happy again. I have faith.” Grayson finally releases the hug, and looks over to Alfred with a far-off expression in his eyes.
Alfred says nothing. His face darkens and stalks out of the cave with his supplies in hand.
Deflating a microscopic amount, Grayson places a gentle hand on both boys’ shoulders. “B will cool off eventually. Until then, how about we take our aggression out with some Smash Brothers rather than physical violence?”
Damian does not know what a Smash Brother is, but he is eager to learn.
***
It wasn’t often that Ra’s dealt a beating with his own hands, but Damian supposed that refusing to kill an underperforming Shadow was enough of a crime to warrant such a response. The man was so pathetic, though. It seemed like a waste of his energy to bother taking him out. It certainly wasn’t because of the man’s pleas for his family and children. Damian was far beyond being swayed by such drivel.
Anyway, the reasoning didn’t matter. Damian had disobeyed a direct order from the Demon’s Head, and was punished accordingly. He is proud of himself for not reacting and making it back to his room without breaking down. That is where the pride ends, though. As soon as his door shut behind him, he had collapsed onto the bed, writhing in pain. He is unaware of how much time has passed before he hears the door slide open again.
Damian hisses in pain as he tries to bring himself upright once more, but he feels a solid hand pressing him still. “Christ, kid. Was pissing off grandpa worth it?”
“Minor incompetence does not deserve a death sentence,” Damian grits through his teeth as Jason examines his wounds. “Although I’m sure Grandfather has dealt with the Shadow.”
“You got that right. Seems like a real waste to me, but what do I know.” He pulls some disinfecting salve from his pocket and starts massaging it into Damian’s skin.
Damian needs something to take his mind off the stinging pain, so he turns to the one topic he could think about forever. “Are Father’s punishments driven by rage, too?”
Jason’s hands still for a microsecond. “No. Well, yes, but. He will never hurt you like this. No one at the Manor will.”
That makes no sense whatsoever. “How am I to learn, then?”
“He’ll train you. Beyond reason, you might feel like. God, Bruce must have spent the equivalent of a full time job down there boxing with me and teaching me agility. I was kind of sick of him, to be honest, by the time I went on my first patrol. And his punishments will mostly be taking you out of the field. It’ll only be temporary, and usually well deserved. Sure was for me. Didn’t make it hurt less, though. I wanted to be out there every night. It was my favorite thing in the world.”
Interesting. So Father preferred mind games and words to physical punishments. It is not what he would have expected from a fierce warrior, but in some cases, Damian supposed those could be more effective at getting a point across.
As if he could see the gears turning in his mind, Jason gently flicks Damian in the head. “Hey. There’s no need to worry about it. Bruce is nothing like Ra’s. The control he has over his emotions is honestly kind of scary. Like father like son, I guess.”
Only for a second can Damian puff his chest out with pride before Jason starts wrapping bandages, sending him wincing once more. He can tell that Jason wants to comfort him, but that’s not what Damian needs. Not right now.
“What about the others?”
“Grayson is the one with the temper. He was just angry all the time, I remember. One time, he went off on me for fifteen full minutes because I invited him to stay for dinner. Acted like I was replacing him, or trying to erase his family or some shit. As if I fired him myself and had complete say over the situation at the ripe old age of ten,” Jason scoffs. “It’s not his fault that Bruce pulled the rug out from under him and gave Robin to me. Shitty situation for both of us. I’m not bitter about that. But why take it out on me?”
Ten years old in Gotham, Damian must remind himself, is different from ten years old in Nanda Parbat. He says nothing. Finished with wound care, Jason starts putting away his supplies.
“Robin was all I had. Literally. The only good thing I had in my life. And he made me feel so guilty for wanting it. Then again, when I think of that pathetic little shit Bruce picked to replace me…” Jason laughs a bitter laugh and green flickers at the edges of his eyes.
“I will kill him for bringing dishonor to you. To the League, I mean,” Damian declares.
“You will not kill him.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are going to leave him for me to handle.” Jason’s voice is laced with venom.
Damian must distract him from the Replacement before the Pit can take hold completely. “What about Nightwing?”
“Dick is Bruce’s favorite child,” Jason spits. “You can’t attack him if you want daddy to like you. Don’t worry, though. Worst case scenario, Dick will just be cold to you. Treat you like you’re not even there, or you’re some kind of burden just for being in the cape. Best case? He tolerates you. He even warmed up to me, eventually, and we became brothers. And he was my brother. Even if he was a shitty one. That’s how I felt, at least.”
Damian nods. “Brothers in arms. Like us.”
A confusing mix of emotions passes over Jason’s face at these words. “Not like us, Dami. Nothing like us.”
A weaker bond, then. “I do not fully understand, but alright.”
Jason sighs and starts pacing around the room like he does whenever he’s thinking.
“More than I wanted to be Robin, I wanted to be Dick. So I trained. I picked up his fighting style. Tried to act like him, talk like him, even. But it didn’t work. They never said it to my face, but I knew Bruce and Alfred were always comparing me to him, and I didn’t measure up. He set a pretty impossible standard.”
“It is foolish to compare yourself to Nightwing. Mother tells me that he is a skilled fighter that uses a unique blend of fighting styles. A singular combatant. I wish to learn from him.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, kid. Even if he is in Gotham and not with the Titans, he might not be willing to teach you. Never taught me more than the basics. Once he sees what you can do, he’ll train you for a bit. Maybe patrol with you once in a while. He’s like Bruce in that he has this way of making you want his approval more than anything. But then something’ll piss him off and he’ll be gone. Hell, as soon as I was adopted officially, he fucked off to Bludhaven to go be the big fish there. You can’t let that get to you, Dami. Don’t let it make you angry or impulsive. Promise me you won’t.”
Why it would upset Damian that his biggest competition for Father’s favor would leave the Manor, Damian doesn’t understand. But Jason moves his hand to Damian’s forearm, the sign of a League promise, and Damian returns the gesture.
That is the end of the conversation, Damian assumes, as Jason returns to silently packing medical supplies and Damian returns to breathing through the pain.
A few minutes later, once he’s done with his task, Jason’s quiet voice breaks the silence. “All I could think about when I was dying was that I hoped Dick wouldn’t feel too guilty. Or Bruce. And then they didn’t even come to my funeral. Neither of them. Fucking pricks.”
Mother has shown them both the footage. Jason’s casket being lowered into the grave in the empty Manor yards, held by two groundskeepers while the elderly butler watched in despair. The first viewing of it had sent Jason into a Pit madness episode that lasted four days. Now, he watched it occasionally, usually when he had the foolish idea that no one could see him.
Jason sets his jaw and sits down next to Damian. “If anybody hurt you in any way, I would fucking dismember them. Wouldn’t even think twice about it. You know that, right?”
Damian nods. “Likewise.”
Jason’s face softens and he takes a few breaths to steady himself.
When he calms down, he smirks. “Have I ever told you the story of Ace the Bat Hound?”
Damian can’t help how his face lights up. “No!”
“Oh, you’re gonna love this one. So one day I come home from school and Bruce has adopted this stray German shepherd. I thought, okay, he’s trying to do normal childhood things with me. Fine. Dog was very sweet, loved to play. I’d never had a pet before. Then, the next time I go down to the Cave, I see Bruce sewing a dog-sized bulletproof vest and mask…”
***
It’s been six weeks in Gotham and, so far, Damian has yet to see the cold shoulder he was told to expect from Richard Grayson. Quite the opposite. Grayson has temporarily settled in the Manor to help “ease his transition” and “welcome him to the family.” An obvious ploy if Damian’s ever seen one.
And yet, he has not attacked thus far. Every time Damian gets angry, every time he asserts his place in the house, he expects Grayson to finally lose it. But he never does. He just calmly extracts the knife from Damian’s hands, or pries him off of Drake’s back, or sits in silence while Damian screams out a rant. Each time, Damian braces himself for a fight that never comes. Instead, Grayson just checks on Drake, waits for the tension in the room to dissipate, and invites Damian to play a game.
Not a card game, or chess, or anything worthwhile. No, Grayson always demands that they play board games. Tonight’s selection is the rudimentary word game Boggle. As if Damian is some toddler who needs help learning how to read or write. No matter. He would get through any slight if it meant furthering his mission. Damian looks down at the letters in front of him, setting his mind to the task. When the sand timer runs out, he counts twenty different words.
“Dang. I only got fourteen.” Grayson folds up his sheet and throws it onto the center of the table with a sigh. “You’re good at Boggle.”
Damian grits his teeth. “As I’ve said, I speak six languages fluently and five more proficiently. I do not understand why I must keep going through these ridiculous exercises to prove my language skills to you.”
Over the past two days, Grayson has demanded a truly excessive amount of gameplay. Battleship, at least, made sense from a strategic point of view. But Scrabble? Boggle? The even more idiotically named Jenga? The dull absurdity of the Game of Life? What could these possibly be testing?
“I’m not testing your language skills, Little D. None of this is a test at all. I just want you to relax. Get to know you, maybe. Show you you’re safe here.” Grayson starts putting the letter dice back in the box.
Damian bristles. “I do not believe you. If you truly wanted to get to know me, you could ask questions directly rather than wasting time on tedious children’s games.”
“Okay.” Dick tents his hands and leans in. “Where did you learn to play Boggle?”
Damian blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t have to explain the rules to you. In fact, I didn’t have to explain any of the games we played, you already knew. So, tell me. Are typical American board games part of the League of Assassins training regime?”
Frustration flares in Damian’s chest. He is such a fool. Of course Grayson is somehow a step ahead of him at even this. After taking a moment to regain his composure, he pieces out a good enough lie.
“Of course they are not. But many League members come from the United States and they have a habit of speaking incessantly about their traditions and games. Even the most moronic ones, like this.”
In truth, very few Americans actually survive the gauntlet of entering the League. Those that do would have their tongues cut out for speaking about such useless matters in front of the Princeling. But Jason has always been the exception.
Still, Grayson relaxes visibly, seeming to take the words at face value. “I mean, they are pretty great. Honestly, they keep your mind sharp, too. We used to play them all the time growing up.”
Damian steels himself. “Yourself and Jason Todd?”
Dick swallows hard. “Yeah. Me and Jay. Bruce, sometimes, too, if you can believe it.”
He cannot. Thus far, Bruce Wayne was a silent shadow more than anything. Silent shadows do not play silly children’s games. They do not have sons.
“Jay was a beast at Scrabble. Handed my ass to me every time we played. Probably because he read books like his life depended on it. He treated the library here like it was Disneyland or something. I like to think he would have been a writer, if he lived. An English teacher, maybe. He was so good with kids.”
Damian stares at his list of words. Jesuit. Eels. Nosy. Sons.
“You do not speak about him often. I did not know you were close.” He trains his voice to sound casual.
“We weren’t always. My fault. But then we finally clicked. It took me a long time before…” Grayson clears his throat. “Before I could talk about him. Whenever I thought about him, I would just think of all the ways I failed him. God, I was the worst. Treated him like an interloper. He died thinking I hated him, and knowing I failed him.”
“That is not true,” Damian retorts before thinking about his words.
Grayson just gives him a sad smile. “I wish it wasn’t. Every time I come to the Manor, it’s like…I just expect to see him. Even all these years later I still forget that he’s not in another room. And then I remember, and I remember the kind of things I used to say to him, and it’s like losing him all over again.”
For all the death he grew up surrounded by, Damian has never lost someone close. He cannot quite fathom the ocean of pain that the man across from him seems to experience. Right now, Richard is staring into the middle distance. It is similar to how Jason would get when he told his stories.
Damian clears his throat to try and rid himself of the heavy feeling growing in his chest. “You do not need to stay here for me if it causes you emotional distress. I am perfectly capable of training on my own.”
But is he? When he can’t even get Father to come out of his study?
“Hey,” Grayson reaches across the table and places a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a Wayne. You are a part of this family and I want to spend time with you. That’s why I’m here. Plus, someone needs to look out for Tim, make sure you don’t murder him.”
Damian grunts his begrudging assent.
“It’s been a long time since Jason died. The hurt’s still there now. It doesn’t go away. Probably won’t as long as I’m alive. But I can remember the good stuff too, now, without it making me want to die. Like Scrabble. And teacakes.”
“Teacakes?”
“He could house, like, an entire dozen of Alfred’s teacakes at a time. Which is insane because he was so skinny and small. He was like an animal when those teacakes came out, I swear to God. One of my scars is from him pushing me away to get to them. Have you ever had any?”
I’ve had them described to me enough times in enough detail that I practically have, Damian doesn’t say. “No.”
Richard stands and pushes his chair in neatly. “Let’s go see if we can convince Alfred to make some. I can tell you some more stories about Jay, if you want. I don’t care what Bruce does, I’m not going to let that awful memorial with his suit be the only way we remember him.”
When Damian agrees easily, it’s not Jason he wants to know better.
***
Sparring practice with Jason happens nearly every night now that Damian is nine. He manages to launch himself onto the hulking man’s back and bring him to his knees with pressure points, but Jason taps out before he can get knocked out.
He deposits Damian gently on the floor then sits, cross-legged, in front of him. “Gotham’s not like here. The villains you’ll be fighting have no honor. Most of them are insane, and they have tools you wouldn’t believe at their disposal. They fight dirty. You can’t let yourself get this close if you aren’t wearing rebreather.”
“I thought you said Father does not allow mages or superhumans in his territory.”
“He doesn’t. But you don’t need magic to mess with a person’s mind. Rogues in Gotham use technology and science to basically recreate magic.”
Damian rolls his eyes, wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. “Fine. I will take enemies down from afar. Is training over?”
“No. You and I are going to go through all the rogues and their weaknesses.”
And he does. He talks about Mad Hatter’s impossible mind control devices, Dr. Freeze’s weather manipulation, the Riddler and the Cluemaster and Harley Quinn all the rest. It’s so absurd that at some point Damian starts to believe he’s making some of them up. Professor Pyg? Really? But Jason’s eyes glaze over and his voice quavers when he talks about the after effects of Joker gas, when he clinically lists out all of the weaknesses Jason didn’t exploit before he died. Damian’s chest seizes at the thought of Jason suffering. It’s enough that he thinks they might be finished. Damian will memorize the information and excise all emotion from it like he does with everything else.
“You know so much about these villains,” Damian notes. “You must have fought them many times.”
“I did,” Jason admits. “But I also grew up in Crime Alley. Most of the guys around me worked for them in one way or another. Nobody had any other options, you know? So I already knew a lot coming in. Shit that rich kids like Bruce and Grayson would never even think about. It was an advantage in a lot of ways.”
And a disadvantage in others, they both think but do not say. “Thank you for passing that advantage onto me.”
Jason ruffles his hair. “What else am I here for, kid? Now, there’s one more. And this is the guy you never, ever want to get near: the Scarecrow.”
Systematically, Jason explains every aspect of Jonathan Crane’s M.O., from his origins as a research physician to the details of the most recent strain of fear toxin that he could remember before he died. His eyes go dark when he describes what it’s like to go through the hallucinations.
“But you fear nothing,” Damian argues.
“Must be a good actor if you actually think that, kid.” Jason laughs a bitter laugh. “When I get dosed, I see my dad.”
“I thought you said Father—”
“My biological dad. My first dad. He was… he was kind of like Ra’s. And I see my mom. My mom OD’ing. I just relive it over and over.”
For a moment, he watches Jason scowl and swallow hard. Then, injuries be damned, Damian launches himself across the bed and wraps his arms around Jason’s neck.
At first, Jason is surprised, then he returns the hug with even more ferocity. “Those bats don’t deserve you, kid.”
And Damian is starting to think that maybe the same is true about his brother.
***
To his credit, Richard starts asking more questions after the board game experience. He is the only one in the house who seems to even consider that perhaps he doesn’t already know everything there is to know about the League of Assassins. Damian sugarcoats nothing: he watches Richard grimace as he explains the system of trials and punishments and feels a comforting hand on his shoulder when he talks about his relentless training. But he also finds himself telling Richard about the parts he liked. The sweets smuggled in from the neighboring village. Relationships forged in fire. Brotherhood.
Of course, he’s only talking about one relationship in particular, but Grayson does not need to know this information just yet.
One day, Richard takes him down to a deserted room in the Manor which contains a full gymnastics set and padded floor. “Bruce had this made for me a little after I moved in.”
Damian nods, eyeing the balance beam. “To improve strength and versatility.”
“No,” Richard says, jumping up onto a trapeze bar. “Because it’s fun. Because it’s something I love, and he wanted to show me that I could still do things that bring me joy, even though my life was different and felt unbearable. And so can you. You can still be a kid, Damian. You can have fun like a kid has fun.”
Damian doesn’t fully understand why, but his vision whites out with rage. When he comes to, Richard is hanging off the bar, staring at him, concerned.
“I took my first life when I was five years old,” Damian seethes. “Ra’s dragged a prisoner to me and made me cut his throat myself. Since then, on League missions, I’ve killed at least a dozen more. I am an assassin. I am not and have never been a child.”
Richard comes down to the ground and pulls his thoughts together. “I can’t say I know what you’re going through. I haven’t killed. But I have come close. Almost killed the Joker, after Jason, with my bare hands. Bruce had to stop me then. And I almost killed Bruce when I saw Jason’s grave.”
Good soldier. Damian has seen it now with his own eyes. He couldn’t very well tell Grayson about the true origins of the phrase, so he stays silent and shifts his weight of his feet.
“Jason felt the same way about himself as you do, especially when he first got here. That he was too tough to be a kid. That there was something inside of him that was rotten, or not good enough. Every time he’d show any amount of weakness, he would lash out at whoever was around. Most often, me. I used to believe he hated me. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and I know he didn’t hate anyone. Being angry was the only way he knew how to be sad, if that makes sense. Nobody ever taught him any different. Definitely not me.”
In a visceral way, Damian understands now why Jason was so bitter. Why he held so much sadness at the way Bruce and Alfred constantly compared him to Dick Grayson when he was Robin. Because, in this moment, he knows that when Dick looks at him, he’s seeing Jason Todd.
Richard reaches a hand out to his shoulder. “There was nothing inherently bad about Jason. And there is nothing inherently evil about you. You can’t choose where you came from, but you can choose to be different now that you know better.”
For the first time, Damian feels that he might actually be starting believe those words.
“Come along, Grayson,” Damian demands, stomping onto the mat. “I have decided that I will master the cartwheel.”
Smiling now, Richard follows.
***
Sometimes, Damian climbs onto the roof of the League headquarters. It’s peaceful up here. Genuinely peaceful, not the terrified, tense silence that occurs throughout the buildings below. Up here, he can see the rooftops of the League compound and the neighboring village, the moonlight reflecting off the mountain snow, and the sea of stars. Mother taught him the constellations when he was small. That feels like a very long time ago, now.
Some nights, he brings his sketchbook. Tonight, though, a few days before he’s set to leave for New Jersey, he is too restless to draw. After a while of just sitting in silence, he hears heavy footsteps come up next to him. According to his stories, Jason was once adept at stealth, but even with several years of experience, he still isn’t quite used to his new and improved body.
“How you feeling, D?” Jason asks as he lies down.
“Ready,” Damian lies.
Next to him, he can hear Jason take a deep breath. “I’m going to ask you something, Damian, and you aren’t going to like it.”
Irritation pricks in Damian’s chest. “I hardly like anything you have to say, Todd. Spit it out.”
“Okay, okay,” Jason chuckles. “Have you ever thought about what happens if you get to Gotham and…if you don’t want to be Robin?”
The thought is so preposterous that it nearly stops Damian’s breath. He claws at the dirt in between the roof tiles at his hands.
“I was born to be Robin. That is the reason Mother had me.”
“Not what I asked, kid.”
The irritation boils over into anger. How dare he ask such a question? After Jason had gotten to wear the mantle for years. After he’d seen the blood, sweat and tears Damian had already paid for it. To even suggest that Damian wouldn’t want it was worse than a slap in the face.
“I promise you, Todd, being Robin is what I want. And I will achieve what I set out to do. I am an Al-Ghul. And a Wayne. I never fail a mission.”
Jason laughs again, stoking the flames of Damian’s anger. “You sure are. Goddamn. More than you realize. But I’m saying you need to think about this. Like a contingency, Bruce loves those. What happens to you if you get to Gotham and you see how they live and you don’t want it?”
Like Father, Damian, too, thinks of contingencies for his contingencies. But this isn’t a scenario he dares to imagine in his worst nightmares. Because if he can’t have the mask, and eventually the cowl, then what is he? What is he good for?
“Nothing happens,” Damian whispers. “Then I’ll be nothing.”
Jason scowls. When he speaks, Damian is surprised to hear his voice wobbly and thick. “No. Wrong. What happens is you come find me.”
At this statement, Damian whips around to look at him. Jason is sitting up and staring at him now, gaze ferocious.
“Jason. I cannot return here if I fail my mission. They will kill me. You know this. They’ve…We’ve killed others for far less.”
“I won’t be here. I’ll be in Gotham.” Jason reaches over and takes his hand. “I’m not letting you do this alone. You will be on your own for the first few weeks, but I’m going to follow you. I promise. And if you don’t want to be at that Manor anymore, you come find me. We’ll figure it out.”
The words should lift Damian’s spirits, he knows. But all he can bring himself to feel is bone-deep exhaustion. His brother is a valiant fighter, he knows, but even the greatest warrior is no match for The Demon’s Head himself, or the Demon’s Daughter, for that matter. Jason in Gotham is a pipe dream. He cannot allow himself to hope.
“Fine. I’ll find you. And what do I tell Father when I do?”
Jason squeezes his hand. “You don’t tell them anything, Damian. They can’t know that I’m alive.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready to face them yet. And if you do, they’ll probably show up here and burn the entire place down.”
Strangely, that thought does not bring Damian any dread. Together, they sit in silence, watching the stars. Jason is quiet when he talks next.
“I’m just telling you this as a last resort. Bruce will be thrilled to have you. To have a real son. Hell, I’m just some street rat he took in out of pity and I thought he loved me. I felt so loved by him. And if he could love me, even just for a little while, then he’ll definitely love you. You’re his blood.” Jason sizes him up. “Even if you weren’t, it’s kind of hard not to. You have this, like, adorable grumpy kitten energy. It’ll activate his paternal instincts.”
More than he’s ever wanted anything in his life, Damian wants to believe it. “I have faith that Father will see reason. I just have to ensure that Nightwing and the pretender Robin do not delay my objective.”
“I don’t know about this Tim Drake kid, but I think Dickface will love you too,” Jason hums. “You’re a pretty great little brother. Even if you are a demonic brat half the time.”
Damian smirks and tosses some dirt at Jason. They roughhouse for a bit before settling down.
When Jason speaks, his voice is raw. “I want you to know that you are the only reason I’m still alive. If you weren’t here, I would have just given up. I didn’t… I still don’t know how to be a person. But I know how to be a brother. And I will always be a brother to you. Always. Don’t forget that.”
Damian throws himself at Jason and buries his head in his brother’s neck. “I won’t.”
***
Damian blinks awake, feeling as though each of his limbs weigh about six thousand pounds. He hears voices murmuring in the distance, but cannot make out their words.
Fragmented memories return as his eyes adjust. Sneaking out. Following the Bats again, but they weren’t going after Red Hood this time. Scarecrow. Fear toxin. Death, destruction, pain. A pinch in his arm, then darkness.
Father looms over the bed as soon as Damian comes fully into consciousness. “What have I told you about following us into the field? Especially with no protective gear?”
“You won’t give me any protective gear,” Damian returns, “Because, as you are eager to remind me, you do not want me as Robin. So I do not see how the fault is mine.”
“You’re ten years old. You’re small. Ten more milligrams of the toxin and it could have been lethal.” Strangely, Father’s voice is tight and desperate, only the faintest hint of anger in his words.
He’s never cared so much when Damian has gotten injured in training. Odd. In any case, the safety lecture he gives feels like an eternity, but it does end eventually. Father leaves again, like he always does.
Afterwards, it is Richard’s turn to visit the bedside. Richard’s demeanor is gentle as ever. Worry and confusion come through once he takes off his mask.
Damian sighs. “You can save the browbeating, Grayson, Father gave me enough. I will not approach Crane without a rebreather in the future, although I do not regret my actions. He would have infected Drake and the entire neighborhood if I had not incapacitated him.”
“Probably would have,” Grayson admits, but his expression doesn’t change.
“What is it, then?” Damian is too tired for this.
Richard takes a deep breath before speaking. “When you were under the toxin, you kept calling out for people. Seems like you could see them dying.”
With his words, Damian’s memories come flooding back. Shadows infiltrating the Manor and slaughtering everyone inside. Jason returning to help him fight, only to get captured himself. Ra’s forcing Damian to strike the killing blow, the same way he’d done it so many times in the past.
“You kept screaming for Jason. Then me, then Jason again. You were speaking Arabic. Bruce, um. Bruce translated. You were calling us both your brothers.”
What an idiot he’s been to allow himself to be compromised. If he were at his full strength, he would make up some lies about internalizing the stories Dick told. Use some examples from the neuroscience lessons that Talia insisted on. But he’s simply too tired.
So he merely rubs a hand over his face and says, “I think Jason and I would get along.”
Tears well up in Dick’s eyes. “I think so, too. I wish we could all be together, all four of us, Now get some rest, baby bat.”
As he drifts back into sleep, Damian promises himself that he will make Grayson’s wish a reality. If he can’t be Robin, then that will be his mission now.
***
Timothy Drake is easily bribed. Another character deficiency in the impostor. Damian simply gives him a few training sessions in League-style martial arts that Father refuses to teach and, in return, Drake dumps a thick Manila envelope full of every sighting or mention of the Red Hood in Gotham from the past six months on his bed. When everyone else leaves for patrol, he pretends to retire early and pores over them by candlelight. It almost feels like Nanda Parbat. Like home.
Tracking down the safe house isn’t difficult. Jason, careful as he is, has been leaving messages with coordinates in a code the two of them made up while they worked together on League missions. Not that Damian even really needed it, seeing as the safe house was Jason’s childhood home on Park Row. Circumventing the added security that Bruce has put into place at the Manor after his third night sneaking out was slightly more difficult, but Damian made light work of it.
Now, as he stands in front of what looks to be an abandoned row house, inexplicable nerves come over him. It’s been just under a year since he’s seen Jason. He’s had periods of separation from Mother for far longer. So it makes no sense why his heart pounds as he climbs up onto the roof and slips his way in through a half-locked window.
Inside, Jason stands rummaging through a kitchen cabinet. Damian takes a moment to look at him before announcing his presence.
“You have forgotten your security protocols so quickly, Todd? Disappointing.”
“Left it open for you, you little brat. Took you long enough.” And before Damian can think of a smart retort, his brother is crushing him in his arms, entire body trembling. “Missed you like a limb, kid.”
Damian says nothing, just burrows his head further into Jason’s chest. He’s crying, like a foolish baby, but Jason is good enough not to mention it.
After an amount of time he will never admit to, Damian releases himself from Jason’s grip and swipes at his eyes with his own sleeve. “I am here to update you on the state of the Bats, seeing as you are working with outdated information.”
“What are you talking about?” Jason checks the doors again and then slides off his helmet.
The safehouse is small, and sparsely decorated. There is a small kitchen, a wooden table, and a tattered, overstuffed couch. Dozens of weapons line the walls: mostly guns, with some League swords and daggers mixed in. Perhaps Jason is hoping that if some street rat manages to break in, they will be scared off by the arsenal. Jason sighs and starts boiling hot water on the stove for tea.
Damian claims a seat on the arm of the couch, then slips off his own domino. “I have come to inform you that your assessment is no longer accurate. Father carries no tenderness, just devotion to the cause. Richard…he is the one who trains me. Cares for me, alongside Pennyworth. He has changed. Significantly.”
“Yeah, getting a replacement Robin before my body was even cold might do that.”
“My mother lied. Drake tried to convince Richard to become Robin again after your passing when Father nearly went mad, then only took on the mantle when Richard refused. A way of luring Father out of his grief. It succeeded, although Father remains cold and guarded. Why he has not passed the mantle onto me yet, I do not understand. Drake is nowhere near your caliber, or mine. He cannot be your replacement as Father also shows him no affection.”
“So Bruce Wayne, collector of sad orphans, is just a drill sergeant now?” Jason pours two mugs of jasmine tea that he clearly managed to smuggle out of Nanda Parbat.
When Damian gets a taste of it, he has to stop himself from crying again. “I wish he were a drill sergeant. No, he is simply absent.”
Jason stares at him, slack-jawed. “But you’re his kid. His blood.”
“I received more affection from Ra’s then I have from Father since coming to Gotham.” Damian frowns, realizing how true the words are as he speaks them.
Green flares in Jason’s eyes. “I don’t fucking believe this.”
Damian reaches a comforting hand to Jason’s shoulder and waits until the Pit subsides. “I do not relay this information to enrage you. I am simply informing you of the reasons why you must return home.”
For a moment, Jason’s face goes blank. Then he starts to laugh. “That place is not my home.”
“It is different from what you remember. In some ways better, in others worse. Either way, your return will benefit you. With access to Wayne resources, you would be unstoppable in your mission. If you wished and fought for it, you could probably take up Father’s mantle."
Another surge of the Pit. “Listen to me, Damian. I have no desire whatsoever to be Batman. Even if I somehow could be Batman, I would never take up his mantle. I would rather get beaten to death again than put on that cowl. Do you hear me?”
“Then return for me.” The words are out of Damian’s mouth before he can stop them. “I am…I am clearly failing in my mission, and I need backup. Have my back.”
At this, the green finally drains out of Jason’s eyes. “Kid. You aren’t failing at anything. Those assholes are failing you.”
“They are not,” Damian insists. “They are merely operating on limited information. If you were to return and reveal your true identity, I could inform them that we trained together. That you and I are a unit. Were you to return, Grayson would be ecstatic, Drake would see himself out, Father would be happy again, and you and I could rise in the ranks. Rule Gotham, together. They could not separate us again.”
Jason puts down his mug of tea and sits himself down next to Damian. “You know if I had a choice, we would still be together. But think this through. Even if I wanted to go back there, Bruce and Dick find out I’m a serial killer and they, what? Welcome me back in with open arms?”
A headache is starting at Damian’s temples. “Yes. I have taken many lives and they accept me. Besides, Grayson talks about you incessantly, as if you were some sort of guardian angel. He would forgive you anything and he can sway Father.”
For a beat, Jason stares at him as if he has two heads. “Okay, putting aside the Dickface of it all, which is insane, we’re not the same. You were a brainwashed child when you did all that, Damian. I’m a grown man.”
“You are compromised by the Lazarus Pit, which they will understand,” Damian spits back. “Besides, they will discover your identity eventually. One glimpse of the mask off, one sample of your DNA and the ruse is up. Why not get ahead of it now?”
“You really don’t get it, kid. Where you come from, Jason Todd is a mercenary. Here, Jason Todd is a kid who came from trash, got a golden ticket from a billionaire, and then wasted it by getting himself killed. Maybe I like not being him for a while.”
“Jason Todd is a fierce warrior, an excellent leader, and a good person. And he is my brother. Whatever corner of the world he is in. Do not forget.” Damian moves his hand to Jason’s forearm.
Tears in his eyes, Jason returns the promise. He opens his mouth to say something else.
Then Nightwing crashes through the window.