Chapter Text
From the moment Damian moves into Wayne Manor, it is clear that he is different. It has much less to do with the fact that his eyes are hues of green instead of blue, or the lull of a foreign tongue that draws an invisible line between him and the other occupants of the home; it is something more subtle.
The fact that he is a stranger doesn’t help, neither could the circumstances of his very existence be labelled ideal. He understood. The fact that he comes across as rude divides him from his siblings, his hostility poisoning any harbouring of trust. He knows that. He acts like it doesn’t bother him.
And it doesn’t, really. After all, the line is nothing more than imaginary.
.
In the down spiral of events, and nearly a year since he has arrived in Gotham, a hostage situation goes sideways. He decides to intercept in a way he knows his father wouldn’t approve of. In lieu of that, he gives himself a second of indecision before he ultimately bites his tongue.
He remembers that Dick had done something similar years before, and it gives him enough confidence to figure that this was going to bring the best possible outcome.
His body moves, putting himself directly in the line of fire, yes, but it means the hostages are safe. Behind him, they whimper and whisper prayers, while he is left to stare down the barrel of a gun. There is no time to ponder the poetics of it or weigh the consequences, as for every fraction of a second he wastes, he’s damning them all. He twists his body to the side and kicks the weapon, ducking as a shot rings out but he moves before he can consider having been hit.
The gravel crunches below his boots. It’s not the ones he arrived in in this strange country- those don’t fit him anymore. And it’s not like he grants himself the comfort of keeping them out of sentimental inclination.
Someone shouts over the ringing in his ear drums. He finds himself on the ground with the perpetrator pinned underneath him, a knee on the man’s throat applying pressure he knows will suffocate the man. There is no information left he could expose, no bigger threats he could reveal, so he should be neutralised (that at least would be a comfort he’d grant himself).
In the time he has been living under Bruce Wayne, a lot of things have changed. He is not allowed to kill.
Somebody grabs him by the nape of his cape and drags him away. With a silent yelp, he accepts the treatment at the blur of black, the order to stay back as Batman makes quick work of demobilising the man and securing the victims. It takes less than five minutes for his father to clear the scene, and he is left to dig his nails into his fingers.
As Batman marches out of the building, he doesn’t address Robin to follow him. He is used to follow the silent order regardless.
The cold wind hits them in the same breath as the lights of the police cars and the flashing of cameras. Reporters are lining the hastily put up barricade, joined by onlookers dressed in their nightclothes blearily figuring out what had happened in the quiet of their neighbourhood.
Almost as if he isn’t there, he is left to keep his head down as the victims repeat their thanks to Batman as they pass by the ambulances, their tears now from happiness. From the corner of his eyes, he sees their grateful smiles and a hollow pit starts opening up inside of him. His hands clench next to his torso while he keeps his posture straight but his head held down. It is the only defiance he allows himself, even when he knows his father couldn’t care less.
He hates Gotham. He hates this country. He hates the fact that despite doing everything right, he still seems to get it wrong.
There is no reason for him to stay back and delay his punishment, but he yearns for the comfort of other people and the chance of distraction. The closer they get to the car, the slower his breathing gets in preparation. It is only when they arrive that the adult turns around.
“That was incredibly careless. You risked not only your own life but also the victims’.”
He holds his breath while staring at his father’s chin, the only part of his obscuring costume that resembles a fellow human being. The lump in his throat forces him to nod, swallowing down the protest he can’t voice aloud.
“I expect better from you,” Batman nails the coffin and turns around, leaving him behind to tend to his shallow grave. The words don’t break, but they scrap away at his bristling pride.
He turns on his heel and leaves.
Insanity is supposed to be doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It doesn’t matter that he has studied every other Robin before him, that he knows all their techniques and maneuvres, knows their ins and outs. He knows their tactics. He knows their failures and wins, and he is determined to outdo them in every way that he can.
But it’s been a year, and it’s starting to become repetitive. He is supposed to be the best one.
He is aware that he will never be.
.
In order to know your enemies better, you need to keep them close. Which is why he tries to become closer to his brothers, while telling himself that it is only to understand them better.
He sees the way they interact with each other, and it is far different than they act toward him. There is fighting, but it isn’t meant to harm. Words are rarely intended to sting. They are a team, bound together by their circumstances, and the more selfish parts of Damian want to be a part of it.
The problem is he can’t engage Tim in a conversation, and he cannot get a hold of Dick if he tries. Jason is the only one who spends more time at the manor than anyone, so he concludes that he is his best shot.
“Todd,” he proclaims as he enters the man’s space. “You need to drive me to the library.”
They are down in the cave, a part of the Batmobile’s engine methodically dissected on a table.
Jason likes literature, and Damian lacks in anything that hasn’t been deemed important by his caretakers. As much as he prides himself on his education, the gaps are hollow enough to let in a deadly breeze. He supposes that the two of them can bond as he learns.
Expectantly, he waits for the other to get over his annoyance of seeing him. “Well?”
“Find someone else. And if you see Bruce, tell him that I don’t know what the fuck he did with this thing.”
He decides to put it down in layman’s terms. “I want to get books. You are familiar with them, so I hoped you could…recommend some.” Hesitantly, he adds: “I think he’s out.”
Jason stares at him, finally giving him attention by putting down the tools he’d been tinkering with. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to. Now get out.”
He bites his tongue, nodding.
.
Is Robin getting fired? The worst civilian interactions ever
Cursing, bad manners, lack of interaction: How the newest Robin has affected our views on the legacy mantle
Top 5 times Robin hilariously failed to disappear into the background
The reports are endless, his failures put out to the public for his execution. Shared by thousands online, scandalised over through the news as it spreads through North American morning TV.
Opening a newspaper has become a gamble of figuring out what he has done this time. He makes up nearly the same amount of headlines as Bruce Wayne does over a ‘drunken’ stint, a record that is less impressive than daunting and subjects him to relentless ridicule by his siblings.
The previous Robins would never. The other young vigilantes would never.
Superman’s son, Jon, would never, Tim chuckles at his phone while he stuffs his face with toast.
He tries.
He stays back and talks to the kids younger than him. In turn, they scour back from him and search for their parents. The candy he brings cannot bribe the next ones enough, and only goes stale in his pockets.
At a shelter, he hands her dog back to an old lady with a tentative smile on his face, and she scowls and tuts as to why he had to touch her pet. He tries to tell himself she’s bitter because she’s old, but he knows it’s him.
A reporter asks him for his opinion on the latest Riddler escapade and arrest, and he answers earnestly and in-depth, not a single sliver of disdain in his voice. He feels physically nauseous from self- satisfaction as he gets home from patrol. The next day he finds out he is rude and tight-lipped.
He crumbles up the paper until he physically can’t anymore and buries it with the growing pile in the trash.
.
Social gatherings used to be something he was proficient in. It took one formal dinner for him to realise that this didn’t apply anymore.
He hadn’t taken offense to being seated toward the end of the table, separated from his father. The introductions had breezed over him, but that was something he was used to, only minutely thrown off by a man who barely concealed his frown.
It wasn’t the way he acted that separated him, this time.
“Don’t bother, they’re all high and mighty like that,” Richard had attempted to cheer him up. They sat next to each other, both equally excluded from conversation unless Richard forced himself into it with a charming smile. “That’s why Jason doesn’t come.”
Damian had nodded mutely, his eyes inevitably wandering to where Timothy was laughing along to a joke an older woman had made. He didn’t miss the strain in his smile. And yet he disliked the older teen for having something inaccessible to him.
In the league, he had been allowed to take his anger out on his opponents. In Gotham, he was supposed to deal with it.
“I am not from the streets like you,” he had hissed at Richard, and regretted it the second it had left his mouth.
Richard’s smile had dropped. “You’re still in the backseat with us, so stop it with the attitude.” He had pushed his seat back, excusing himself to join Bruce. And for the rest of the evening, Damian had sat by himself.
.
Academically, he is top of his class, top of his year, and is always ahead of everything he is being taught. The other kids don’t like him and he is fine with that. The teachers think he is strange. In the beginning, he is prodded and pushed to find friends, but they give up quickly as it becomes clear that the dislike is mutual.
Truth is, Damian doesn’t know how to connect with them. They had put him two years ahead, even though his assessment stated that he could easily move up three if it weren’t for the worry about his social skills. So not only is he the youngest, and the smartest, he is also the one most removed from their… everything.
Maybe he was damned from the start, yet he doubts that that is the truth. In the beginning, he was asked about himself, people wanted him to sit with them during lunch, and they wondered about the things he liked and the clubs he intended to partake in. It had been his choice to send them away, not trusting the friendly waters. And he stood by that choice.
Until he had heard his father and Alfred talking a few weeks after he had enrolled.
“His teachers say they’ve never had a child this unwilling to make friends,” Bruce had muttered, a rare display of real alcohol swaying in his glass. “Do you think we should have waited?”
“He most likely needs time. It must be difficult to adjust given… everything,” Alfred had assured him, the hesitation in his words not going unnoticed.
So he had tried.
With confidence in his stride and his backpack slung over one shoulder like the others did, he had marched right up to the table of teens he had History and English with. Their chatter had died out and all eyes had turned to him, while the rest of the cafeteria seemed to watch with baited breath.
“May I sit with you?”
The room had been engulfed in silence, the people at the table exchanging glances similarly to the way some Gotham elites sometimes looked at him. One girl with brown hair, Hannah Hastings, had smiled sardonically to match his observation. “Sorry, seat’s taken.” Then she picked up her bag from the floor, placing it on the chair.
Damian had smiled back, his tongue starting to bleed where he was biting it at the tip. The words were out before he could stop them. “I hope you realise soon that nobody likes you.”
He stopped trying after that.
.
“For you.”
The platter thuds slightly as he sets it down on the table, its contents dangerously close to tipping over for just a slight second.
“What is that?” Tim asks suspiciously, eyeing the food as if it is about to attack him at a moment’s notice.
Damian bites back the smile of triumph. “Neapolitan ice cream, potato chips, and donuts with chocolate sprinkles, almond crumble and filled with vanilla,” he recounts as he points to each of them.
This time, he focuses his efforts on Tim. And he is sure that this attempt will work, as he had read about it in one of his animal handling books. To gain trust, you had to bring treats, and if it was applied to humans, it had to be something the person liked. Maybe mutual interests wouldn’t be their strong suit but there was little Tim would have to say against his favourite foods.
“Thanks…” Tim still looks weary but he doesn’t look displeased either. And he hasn’t told Damian to leave, which he counts as a win.
“No problem. Enjoy.” He turns around to hide the smile that is playing at the corner of his mouth, his chest swelling with pride at a breakthrough in their seemingly inconsolable relationship. With what feels like a spring in his step but is in truth no more than speedy walking, he leaves for his room.
.
For the next patrol, he decides that it is time to act more like the others, rather than try and showcase how well he is able to resolve things his way.
When there is an outbreak of fear poison, he listens over the comms to try and figure out what Tim is going to do, intercepting his conversation with Barbara as she instructs him to not go through with his plan. But Tim is a masterful strategist, and Damian trusts he knows what he is doing.
And even though everything works out exactly as the Red Robin had planned it, it is Damian who gets benched because he didn’t follow orders.
“But he-“ he angrily interjects the punishment, gesturing wildly to the teenager.
“This isn’t about Tim,” Bruce interrupts him with his cowl in his crossed arms. “Again, you directly disobeyed my orders and put everyone in danger.”
They are back in the cave, their blood toxin tests still displayed on the computers.
From behind the large adult, he can see Tim hide his smile behind his fist, his eyes glinting as their eyes meet beyond the space of the Batcave. He turns his attention back to his father, blind fury rushing through his veins.
“He did the same thing! He was supposed to meet us at the-“ he has to swallow the strange lump in his throat, not willing to show weakness- “by the back entrance, but he came in through the roof, jeopardising the plan!”
“Damian,” his father growls. “Lower your voice.”
Was this all that mattered to him? He cracks his knuckles. “No.”
It is rare of him to disobey like this, and it feels like presenting himself to a hungry lion. For good measure, he swallows once more to encourage himself to not back down, even if it withstands everything he thinks is right. He is disobeying a direct order. Bruce’s eyebrow twitches, and Damian waits for the situation to escalate.
He wants it to. He only needs the excuse to scream at the top of his lungs until he drops dead.
Instead, his father’s shoulders slump and he exhales. He turns around and faces Tim, who manages to school his expression into nonchalance with milliseconds to spare. “Go check in with Oracle if the situation is handled, call me back if you need me.”
Tim hurries off, a last glance at Damian, who is rooted in his spot.
“And you,” he turns around again but doesn’t have the decency to look him in the eyes. “No patrol until I can trust that you take this seriously.” He sighs, lowering his voice in a defeated cadence. “Now go to bed.”
His head hurts. It isn’t fair.
.
“I brought you something,” he says and hands Dick the plush animal. “It’s a dog toy for Hailey. It squeaks.”
His hands still held out with the blue-ish dinosaur, he squishes it to show off the sound. In the silence of the room, it sounds ten times louder than it is. Dick still hasn’t taken it from him. “You mentioned she broke one recently,” he adds.
This finally spurs Dick into motion, who takes it and tentatively runs his thumb over the material.
With his newfound time, Damian had enough time to focus on his relationships. He hadn’t known what to get the other but he knew that Dick loves his dog. And even though ‘Bitewing’ is a ridiculous name, he has taken a liking to it too.
He had spent an hour at the pet store after school, looking through all the stuffed animals and toys he had already researched online until he finally decided on the one he deemed best. Diligently, he had checked the seams, until determining its quality to be perfect.
“Thank you, Dami. That’s very… thoughtful of you.”
He nods sharply, interlacing his fingers behind his back. “I hope she likes it.”
“Yeah, I- I think she will.”
“Good,” he says and retreats quickly, the heat of embarrassment flooding his cheeks.
.
For a few weeks, he thinks he has finally cracked the code. He is allowed on patrol again and doesn’t disobey a single order, even if he has to bite his cheek to not object. Even though he doesn’t make friends at school, he makes an effort to act civil, even when some of the boys from his gym class decide to team up on him which officially means he fell down the stairs.
Winning over the newspapers seems impossible, except he doesn’t feel any desire to do so anyway. Maybe Kent would have helped him if he asked. But Damian doesn’t need the Super to make comparisons to his own son, and besides, the public’s opinion of him shouldn’t matter.
He still hates Gotham, and he still hates his mother for dropping him off in this country. But for the first time ever, he believes that there might be a chance for him to fit in.
He overhears the conversation completely by accident.
As he comes home sooner due to a free period, he passes the parlour. More on instinct than reason, he pauses just outside the frosted glass and makes out three shapes he identifies as his brothers. The other door is still wide open, so their conversation carries to him easily.
It had been a good day for him. His Geography test had been a perfect score, Alfred had packed him Atayef for lunch, and another kid from his Maths class had asked him for help on a problem.
“He’s been so weird lately,” Tim seems to agree to the end of what Dick said and his good mood suffocates in an exhale. There is no doubt about who they are talking about, and a nervous shiver settles in the back of his neck. “He brought me food, like, all my favourites.”
“Did you check if it was poisoned?”
“I wasn’t stupid enough to take the chance. I fed it to the pigeons.” Tim and Jason laugh, while Dick leans back.
“Maybe he was trying to be nice,” he argues.
“You’re saying that because he got something for your dog. And you’ve got a thing for strays the same way B does, so your opinion is officially disqualified.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jason laughs. “If you haven’t figured that out yourself, then I’m sorry for you. But whatever it is that Damian is planning, I don’t wanna be a part of his little experiment.” He seems to sober, the light-hearted tone his voice previously held gone.
From behind the door, Damian tries to blend into the shadows but his limbs feel unusually heavy.
“It can’t be for no reason he tries to bribe us with dead birds like a cat,” Jason continues.
“Pun intended?”
“You know what I mean. I don’t trust him. Why is he suddenly trying to act all nice with us? It took months for him to drop the attitude but now he wants to be what? Friends? He doesn’t have any. I doubt he even knows what that is.”
Dick sighs heavily. “He’s a kid.”
The pit in his stomach reopens, and it seems to have a aquired a counter part behind his temple. The fact that his age is the only defense for him succesfulyl squashes the last hopes he had had. He swallows. He doesn’t want to listen to their conversation anymore, nevertheless, there is a need to know what they think of him. He already does, but a voice that sounds like his grandfather wants him to understand that he shouldn’t have let his guard down for childish hopes.
“So we’re supposed to forgive him?” The sofa creaks as Tim speaks up with contempt in his voice.
“I’m saying that we’re older and that this is hard for him.”
“Fuck that,” Jason proclaims and Tim joins in.
There is a short bout of silence, in which blinking back the burning in his eyes seems louder than an avalanche. Damian concludes that he has heard enough. When Dick breathes in to voice his rebuttal, he turns around the way he came, not intending to come back before nightfall.
He failed that one astronomically.
.
Boy-blunder takes the fall: Robin soaking wet from brief swim in muddy waters
A picture of him flipping off the camera is pinned to the fridge, the article glaringly hung up at his eye level. From behind him, he can hear his siblings snickering, no doubt the perpetrators of this stunt. He skims over the words, nothing he doesn’t know printed in the Gotham Gazette.
He had seen the article in Bruce’s office already when he needed a signature for school. It had been separated from the rest of the tabloid, sitting on top of important Wayne Enterprises documents as if Bruce had been studying it.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to laugh once in a while,” Tim eggs him on but Damian doesn’t even spare him another glance as he turns around on his heel and leaves the room. He isn’t hungry anymore.