Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Violence Overshadowing Annual Wayne Gala by Kate Brown

In a shocking display, Gotham’s high society was rocked on this year’s Wayne Gala, as the youngest son and only blood-related member to Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, throws a custom 1.3 million dollar bust at adoptive brother, Richard Grayson-Wayne, in a surprising outburst of temper.

Attendants of the night are unsure as to what caused the sudden change in demeanor that seems so out of character for one of Gotham’s most eligible bachelor’s sons. Richard Grayson-Wanye, who is currently employed under the Blüdhaven PD and sustained no injury, refrained from commenting on the temper tantrum.

Though so far unconfirmed, society experts claim that this will not be the last time we will see the teenager act out in a violent fashion, and speculations into the boy’s previous homelife and questions of Bruce Wayne’s capabilities as a parent arise anew.

Crack.

The pencil breaks. Its upper half clatters against the wall behind his desk where countless others share the same fate. Mildly annoyed, Damian thumbs the broken half like a dagger, as he stares at the box of pencils he had gotten yesterday, now half full.

Something is wrong with him and the thought isn’t new.

Whereas his siblings are out on patrol, he is bound to his bedroom after another disobedience. It is irrelevant that his acting worked out for the best, as he isn’t the one who is supposed to make decisions. At this point, he doesn’t even waste his breath complaining about the unfairness of it all.

There is no invisible line separating him from his siblings, or the people around him for that matter. It is a glaring red band that threatens to wrap around his ankles and drag him down below, whereas it smooths and gives way to everyone else who in turn remain oblivious to its existence.

He doesn’t need to speak the words out loud to know that he is right. There is something fundamentally wrong with him that separates him, and he doesn’t know where ‘wrong’ begins and ‘different’ takes over.

He operates ‘differently’ in the field. It becomes ‘wrong’ when straying too far from what his father wants. He acts ‘different’ than other children his age, but the school counsellor reprimands him for labelling it as ‘wrong’. Something is ‘wrong’ with Damian, is what his siblings say to his face and behind his back, and he both understands and doesn’t as to what they mean by it.

It makes him feel… uncertain.

He reaches for a new pencil.

“I’m Jon!”

Damian stares down at the hand being offered to him, and ponders if this is some form of punishment he is unaware of.

The hand wiggles impatiently until its owner finally decides to wave it rudely right in front of his face, until Damian steps back and musters the shorter boy with a scowl.

“I guessed that much.”

Beyond the mop of hair, he makes eye contact with their parents, who wear a wince and a frown at their first contact.

“What is this supposed to be?” he addresses the adults. There is a hidden agenda, but he is unable to tell what this boy is doing in his living room, with his dirty shoes and worn-out clothes.

“This is Jon,” Superman repeats in forced cheer.

“We thought it would be good for the two of you to meet.” His father adjusts the edges of his sleeves as he says it, a white bandage carefully tucked below the black fabric once more.

Though the fire at the Bowery had been catastrophic, Damian had learnt about it two days later, at school. If it hadn’t been for Batman’s interference, two men would be dead. He knows he isn’t entitled to know about everything his father does, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth he cannot place.

In front of him, the kid is giving him a shy smile showing his missing front tooth. He turns back, unable to not stare as the features of the pale freckled face turn into an insecure frown. When Jon lowers his head to avoid his gaze, he briefly regrets it.

But Jon is another perfect intruder on the other side of the line, and Damian has no desire to ever see his stupid face again.

“No thank you.”

There is a sharp, hot pain on the side of his neck, and it takes everything in him to stay still. The sounds from the fight are still ringing in his ears, but a foreboding hush settles over the alley and its two occupants.

He knows he is going to be in trouble for this later. The blood forms a large puddle around the man like a halo, Damian’s daggers sticking out of his neck as if the heavens themselves had struck and decided to help him out.

There is no helping out. It is his first night of patrol in four weeks, and he has already messed up.

His hand comes back from his neck coated in blood, and he cannot distinguish whether the heartbeat rising above everything else is the adrenaline or a sign of something worse. The gun is somewhere on the floor, but he still feels shell-shocked.

Below him on the ground, the man’s breath is evening out in rattling exhales.

There is a protocol for gunshot wounds, except it doesn’t cover the panic he feels. His hands are so cold he doesn’t feel them and tremors rock his upper body. He cares less about the sticky warmth by his collar than about the chance of being discovered. At any moment, Batman or one of his siblings might come by, and he would be standing above a body with his knife as the murder weapon.

His attacker takes his last breath, and he is alone.

Damian is no stranger to death. It is something he is used to, its necessity in certain situations engraved into his mind through hundreds of hours of training. When the gun had fired, he hadn’t made that choice, and it was the frantic panic of the moment that had him miscalculate his strike.

He wasn’t supposed to panic. He isn’t supposed to carry his emotions out on patrol with him but lately, he might as well have been wearing them like a coat. Without him knowing, they had clawed their way through and sunk their teeth into him when he had been told to stay back even though he had proven to be worthy of his title again. He couldn’t be trusted with a delicate situation, not yet. Maybe he should just check the alleyways for the rest of the night and stay low.

Maybe he should just go back home and beg his grandfather to take mercy on him, even though he failed at the very reason he existed. But if Damian doesn’t go anywhere tonight, it won’t matter.

His hands roam over the wound, digging through the flesh to determine whether it is a hit or a graze. It might as well be a stranger’s hands searching for non-existent metal in a sea of searing hot pain. Minutes go by and in practiced motions, they apply gauze with pressure until the layers finally stop bleeding through.

Damian isn’t going to die tonight. He frowns.

r/RobinWatch 21 hours ago
by u/mothgrit7

Batman and Red Robin save citizens from building collapse, speculations about Robin’s whereabouts

+ Add comment

Psychdroopout 20 hours ago
doesn’t anyone find it weird that robin barely gets spotted anymore?

What he doesn’t account for is the determination with which he and the younger Super are shoved together. The next Friday, he opens the door to the two only people who can quite literally see through him, and he instantly becomes hyper-aware of the bandages below his turtleneck.

Superman greets him in warm excitement. “Hi, Damian,” he waves and holds out a pie that is still warm. “Your dad said your Chess Club was cancelled? And you know, Jon and I were in the area.” Behind him, the boy acts as though he desperately wishes for the ground to swallow him whole.

It is a blatant lie, but he has the courtesy to not comment on it.

“So we thought we’d pay a quick visit. Jon here was…” He continues talking but Damian stops paying attention. His eyes fall on the dish steaming beneath the kitchen towel.

In a cross pattern, the red filling seeps through the white cloth, as though Superman had thrown it on right when the pie came out of the oven. The thought of food makes him nauseous, the amount of painkillers he takes for his injury effectively sapping his appetite.

His eyes don’t leave the centre, and for just a second, the cake pulsates like a heart. The stain oozes bigger and the towel soils red, blood dripping down the sides like molasses. Big globs splatter onto the pavement below, but nobody around him reacts.

He blinks, and it is gone.

“Hi, Bruce!” Superman grins, eyes falling on something behind him. “Brought Ma’s pie.” He lifts it lightly, his hands showing clean.

“Well come on in, then.”

The adults breeze past them, and suddenly it is only him and the boy on the doorstep, crickets chirping away on the lawn around them as he tries to get his breathing under control.

 “Are you okay?” His eyes snap up into blue ones, their concern flickering to nervousness as he fails to respond. “You look kind of… my-my grandma says pie always helps. And you know, we brought pie, so…”

Somewhere deeper into the manor, Superman calls for them, but neither of them moves.

“I helped her pick the cherries,” the boy adds, squirming uncomfortably under his unwavering glare, sending fleeting glances past him into the hallway. On the corner of his mouth, there is a little bit of red, and all Damian can see is the blood seeping into his gloves as he drags the man toward the docks.

He wants to throw up. “I don’t like pie.”

“That’s… sad.”

.

They are sitting across from each other in the salon, a chessboard on the table between them. Next to Jon is a sheet of paper outlining the movements each piece is allowed to make, his illegible handwriting scribbled all over.

It is their fifth arranged meeting, and the second they spend not awkwardly sharing space until Superman decides to have mercy on them.

Jon chews his bottom lip, his right hand reaching forward and hovering over the board once again as he glances between his pieces and the cheat sheet next to him. After the second time Damian scolded him for it, he stopped touching the pieces unless he intended to move them.

He moves his Bishop forward and Damian raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to lose?”

Jon startles, blue eyes flickering back and forth between him and the board as he finds his mistake. Now it is his turn to frown, and he shakes his head. “I’m allowed to do that. Four squares.”

“Yes, but now I can capture your Bishop with a Pawn.” He accentuates his explanation by setting the piece beside the board, where it joins the other white ones. Five of Damian’s black pieces stand with Jon but they are a tactical loss. It was important to not let his playmate feel too demotivated, lest he try to engage him in conversation.

His eyes flicker to the grandfather clock and he feels relieved at his upcoming release.

Jon moves another piece and he turns his attention back to the board. The other had taken his Rook to the top, far too fast to have been properly calculated. Disinterested, Damian captures his Queen and turns one of his pawns into one.

“Do you want to come over to the farm next week?” Jon blows a raspberry, moving his last Knight across. “I could show you the animals. And we could go to the Fair in the evening- if you want to, I mean.”

“I don’t like such frivolities.” He moves his newly formed Queen and captures yet another piece. In two moves, he will have Jon in checkmate.

“You’ll have to if I beat you once,” Jon says in that determined tone of his, sitting up straight in his chair to hold out his hand. The table shudders but none of the pieces fall over.

Damian rolls his eyes. For whatever reason, the other was strangely intent on placing bets and deals he would lose, a quality Damian could not yet determine to be an inherent flaw of character, or to be expected from people his age. It was a mildly annoying habit.

“So?”

“I’ll be impressed if we make it through another game in the last ten minutes.”

Though it has to be said that their games are advancing, as long as Jon stays focused. Strangely, Damian finds himself impressed, considering that the last time they had seen each other he couldn’t even name a single piece.

He shakes the hand offered to him, if only to get it out of his face.

Jon sits down with a satisfied grin, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. “Okay.” He moves his Rook down two squares and glances up with a glint in his eye that gives Damian a pause.

More intently, he re-assesses the other’s pieces, his own victory in two moves pushed to the back of his mind. His breath stops as he realises his mistake.

“Checkmate.” Jon grins.

Too cute: Robin saves pregnant cat from tree

Boy-Blunder beaten by old lady with a stick

‘Behaviourly challenged’- Teen Psychologist Dr.med. Steppen speaks up on Robin

The press still hates him. He gets better at convincing himself that he doesn’t care.

Except now they aren’t limited to hounding him as Robin; Damian Wayne gets pushed into their focus as he rushes out of a public event after a particularly cruel comment from Tim. He says it with a smile, so of course it is Damian who takes the dramatic exit for no apparent reason.

He inherited the trait from Brucie Wayne, a consensus that makes him want to burn the city down.

“I’m. Not. Going.” He stares defiantly at Alfred, his cheeks burning and his head throbbing from anger. The evening had not even begun and his throat was already aching from the argument. He had made his dislike clear from the start, and he certainly didn’t appreciate being called ‘difficult’.

When his father had asked him to go to the museum opening two weeks ago, he had been delighted. It had been late, and he had sat between discarded drawings and snapped pencils all evening, his frustration growing by the minute.

His father had knocked twice, tentatively letting himself in. Damian’s first thought was that he had done something. His second was that he couldn’t remember what. Truth be told, he had tried very hard to stay out of trouble, out of arguments, and had bitten back every sharp remark that tried to claw its way out of his throat.

In his conception, they were to attend the opening alone. That was his first misunderstanding.

Outside the room, Jason and Tim’s argument about who had been the original owner of the tie rose in volume, both too occupied to be aware of the staring match he was engaging in with Alfred. He didn’t know where his father had gone to cool off.

“I’m not going,” he repeated more quietly, his voice shaking.

His second misunderstanding had been that they would be attending as… father and son. Not as Waynes. Unbeknownst to him, the gracious donation to rebuild the Natural History Museum required their attendance.

Foolishly, he had thought that his father had invited him due to his interest in the topic.

“Perhaps it would help if you explained the problem to me.” The butler gently smoothed out the bowtie that was supposed to be around Damian’s neck, studying his face carefully.

Alfred had never flinched at any of his outbursts, and he hadn’t done so tonight. When his father had grown frustrated with him, the butler had sent him outside with instructions to tend to his other children, leaving the two of them alone in the dressing room. Taking his affliction out on him is simply not right. 

Damian swallows the painful knot in his throat. He feels too hot in his clothes.

He still feels angry enough that he wants to continue yelling; scream until the restlessness inside of him finally leaves and he is left alone. An evening of misery seems akin to torture, and he knows he cannot keep up a charade surrounded by reporters just waiting to pounce.

If he stands any chance at making it through tonight, he desperately needs to shut up. He needs to get himself together and endure it, no matter the mess of emotions burning underneath his skin; because that is what he had been taught to do. That is what he is good at.

He opens his mouth, but the explanation never comes.

In the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, a boy stares back at him but no recognition flickers behind those eyes. Damian clenches and unclenches his fists, mustering himself as it dawns on him that an evening out would be catastrophic.

The dress pants that had been fitted a month ago were short by two centimetres, not noticeable to anyone with a life except upper-class gossipers, in whose book his ill-fitting clothes are an easy target. His perfectly ironed shirt is wrinkly from all his fussing and waving about, and he regrets ever opening his mouth.

His face is the worst. He knows he takes after his father, but he fails to find the physical resemblance at all. On him, his hair stands up in odd angles, bits and pieces too long while others are too short. The cheekbones are too high, the angles too odd, and the remnants of baby fat are misplaced all over the rest. He is a caricature of inheritance, and he cannot stand it.

“I simply don’t want to go anymore,” he states, his eyes not leaving his twin behind the treacherous glass. Adjusting his hair only makes it worse, and he drops his hand in synchronicity with the double.

Alfred frowns. “I’m sure it would make your father very happy if you attended.”

“I doubt he’ll notice my absence. He’s got Jason and Tim, and they’re not being as ‘difficult’ as I,” he snarls. “And besides, I don’t even care about some museum opening back up. I want to stay here.”

“I shall inform your father.”

Five minutes later, he hears the engine of one of the cars revving up, the sound of the vehicle leaving the manor grounds the last thing before total silence. Damian sits on the floor of the dressing room with his knees drawn to his chest, unable to meet his reflection’s eyes.

A foolish part had hoped for his father to convince him to come.

It seems to be the beginning of the end. As ‘difficult’ becomes synonymous with his name, he waits for the day Tim updates the Urban Dictionary with his addition, if only so that Damian could know that he is still being perceived.

The better he becomes at following orders and being quiet, the less he gets punished. Without punishment and conflict, there seems to be little reason to acknowledge him. He trails behind and eventually falls behind, but it doesn’t appear to concern anyone.

Tonight, the conversation is about an upcoming photography competition Tim had entered into. In the early hours of the morning, when they arrive back in the cave and he walks behind them, their voices accompany him to the medical equipment.

“I can’t believe you entered some of those,” his father laughs, and it is an earnest laugh that tugs at something in his chest.

The competition falls on the same day as Damian’s second chess tournament, but he hasn’t bothered to invite anyone. Tim hadn’t invited him to his thing either, and everyone else had already taken a day off to cheer for him.

 “How did your teacher not question close ups of Batman and Robin?”

“Gotham,” Tim deadpans and they both laugh. It surrounds him everywhere, inescapable as he tries to ignore the jealousy he feels while he reaches for the medical supplies.

There is no doubt in his mind that Tim won’t win the competition. Like with Jason’s win in his short story contest, they will go out for dinner in the evening, celebrating his victory and praising him all night. The certificate will be hung in the study, and for the next weeks, their father will talk about the win at length to anyone who cannot escape fast enough.

When Damian had won his first chess competition, he had placed the certificate on his desk in nervous excitement, the outstanding discovery making him jittery. The next day, his temporary suspension from school had covered it completely, and he didn’t dare to ask whether his father hadn’t seen it or didn’t care. For now, it collected dust at the bottom of Damian’s trashcan.

Tim laughs again, and he spurs back into action. With his right hand, he swipes the wound disinfectant and pulls his left glove off. The skin below his wrist glistens with wound water, and small red dots form above the pink-ish raw area.

Sometimes, his silence doesn’t come organically. He has to scratch open his skin or bite his cheek until it bleeds, so he cannot interject in a conversation. It would help if cleaning the mess wasn’t such a hassle.

For good measure, he grabs a plaster and turns around to leave. Tim glances at the meds in his hands but doesn’t even frown.

Damian is ‘difficult’ when it comes to his siblings.

“He started it,” he hisses between clenched teeth, barely resisting the urge to point a finger at Tim, who is holding tissues to his bleeding nose. As he says it, he realises that it sounds childish.

His father sighs, his scowl making way for something softer as he glances at Tim. Damian follows his line of sight, and sees the other checking whether his nose is broken, as the amount of blood truly seems unnatural. A small bout of pride swells in him, along with shame.

“Go to your room,” his father’s voice is void of emotion, and he doesn’t even look at him. “I don’t want to hear anything from you for the rest of the night.”

“He started it.”

Damian sits hunched on the floor of the living room, taking shallow breaths that send daggers through his bones. Jason and his father stand close by, as he gets blamed for losing a senseless fight he picked for reasons he cannot place himself. Maybe he just hates Jason.

Any movement too quick for his eyes is an assault on his senses, so he stares at his bleeding hands.

“No!” Jason shouts, throwing his hands up in anger at their father’s reply. He turns his glare toward him, and Damian barely refrains from averting his eyes as he looks toward the noise. “I was defending myself, not instigating the little psychopath to a fight. He wants to roughhouse? That’s what he got.”

They started it, Damian wants to say as Alfred stares him down, behind him his father, whose glare matches. Below his feet is a shattered glass and a puddle that seems to extend beyond its possible volume. He still hears the sound of it crashing, the pieces splintering all over the kitchen tiles as the realisation of his action sets in.

The interview with Red Hood and Red Robin is scalding, groundbreaking, and anything anyone is talking about at the moment. It extended a joke between brothers, and it hurt too much to be taken as teasing.

He has every right to be upset. But nobody except him seems to think that.

“Damian,” his father sighs his name as if he is discussing a tragedy.

Damian Wayne Winner After Nerve-Wrecking Finale

This year, the North American Junior Chess Rapid Opens saw a finale not seen before in its twenty-year history. Son of billionaire Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, age 13, participated as the youngest competitor in the state, after winning the Regional Junior Chess Rapid just months before as his first-ever competition.

Level-headedness and strategy turned in favour of the newcomer when his opponent, Amelia Decker, age 16, last year’s New York State Junior Rapid Champion, over-reached while attempting a dynamically- equal position, outwitted in the final three minutes of the game by her younger rival.

Damian Wayne finished on six points, claiming the win of this year’s Junior Open and qualifying him for the Finals. We are looking forward to what this young talent has to offer in the future.

He wins the tournament. The smile on his face is strained when the reporters ask him to smile for the camera.

“I overheard my dad talking with yours,” Jon says, almost sounding ashamed. They are at the farm for the weekend, alone with Mr. and Mrs. Kent to watch over them as they plant new flowers and herbs in the garden, away from the bustling of the city.

Wordlessly, Damian takes the shovel from his hand, rolling his eyes when he doesn’t explain. “And?”

He doesn’t bother looking up from placing the roots, carefully pouring earth around it to stabilise, as he knows that Jon is worrying his bottom lip. The nervous habit annoys him less than it used to, but he doesn’t like it.

A weathercock squeaks in the in distance as the wind picks up, and Jon startles.

“You don’t want to go back to your mum, right?”

His hands still. He looks at his friend, the basil forgotten.

“To live with her. Your dad said-“Jon pauses, his eyes flickering over his face in confusion. “I thought… So you’re not leaving?”

Damian stares back, knowing that the same confusion is showing in his face. Without his will, his hands fold in his lap and he collapses backward into the dirt he had been trying to avoid getting on his shorts. He gulps and shakes his head, unable to look away.

The last time he had spoken to his mother, he had lied to her; just like every time in the last two years. America was alright. His studies were going well. He was fine.

He wants to ask what his father said, exactly, but the words refuse to leave his mouth. All he can do is watch as Jon wipes his hands on his trousers and sits down in the dirt right next to him, inching closer so that their shoulders touch.

“Maybe I misheard,” he mutters.

In his mind, he tries to come up with explanations to validate the excuse. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time for his friend to jump to a conclusion, but this time deep down he thinks that there cannot be a mistake. He wishes he could reassure the other, but he doesn’t want to lie.

In the distance, the sun is starting to set along the horizon. Light oranges that blend into red until they touch the earth. It is seldom that he sees the sunset instead of sunrise, and it is a bitter reminder that back at home, the sun sets quicker than it does here. He enjoys knowing that he still has time.

“I think Bruce doesn’t like me.” The admission is quiet.

Though it fills him with shame for calling his father by his first name, it doesn’t feel right to call him something else. He cannot remember the last time Bruce called him his son outside of a social function.

Next to him, Jon tenses and he isn’t sure whether he should have kept that to himself.

Damian draws up his knees to his chest, resting his chin on his crossed arms, eyes never leaving the horizon in fear of the night coming too fast.

“He’s… I mean, he’s your dad,” Jon begins, fumbling for words. It is quiet for a few seconds as he tries to come up with something to say. “He likes you automatically. It’s- it’s not like with friends. You didn’t like me at first. And we’re best friends now.”

He shakes his head.

Sometimes, he hates knowing that Jon could never understand. Jon hadn’t been planned, according to Lois, but it had taken little thinking for them to know that they wanted this. He was clumsy, slightly above average intelligence, and his powers failed more times than they worked. Things that applied to Damian were a failure, were just… they just were.

“He has no reason to.”

Until two years ago, Bruce hadn’t even known Damian existed. He had been good at covering up his shock, but Damian had overheard his mother’s and his argument, despite acting as though he didn’t. Bruce took him in because he had no choice. And at first, Damian had been determined to prove that he was worth it.

Jon shifts closer, resting his head on his shoulder while their knees clink together uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.”

He nods, briefly resting his head on the other’s.

Moving back to his mother would explain why everyone has been acting so strange with him. It certainly explains why he is allowed to be over at the farm, when he had gotten into trouble at school again just yesterday. It is nothing but part of a plan.

Silence stretches between them, only interrupted by the evening birds beginning their calls, and poor attempts at controlled breathing.

“I thought I was doing better.”

All those nights he spent biting his tongue until his head hurt from anger, the bandages, the plasters, the painkillers. Each and every time he turned away instead of resorting to the insults that sharply wedged themselves into his throat until he wouldn’t speak at all.  

“I keep thinking I’m doing better but...,” he shrugs. Maybe that’s his mistake. “Apparently I’m not good at that either.” Angry tears start forming, but he doesn’t wipe them away.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Jon studying him. He glances toward the farmhouse, where Mrs. Kent must have started dinner by now, before he turns back to Damian. “That’s bullshit. And I’m not letting you leave, screw your dad.”

Damian scoffs, surprised by the cursing. “And how do you plan to prevent that?”

Once Batman has a plan, he follows through with it, to the T if it is up to him. It is why every deviation Damian posed had been met with so much resistance. If Bruce was planning on sending him away, then there was very little anyone could do about it, as it was already decided.

He wipes the corner of his eyes.

Jon glances back and forth between him and a car driving across the lonely road. The evening breeze carries a country song along with its cool, and both of them shiver in their sweat-stained shirts. Without him knowing, the evening had crept up on them.

Jon’s teeth chew his lips with a tremble. He nods as though reaching a decision. “We’ll run away.”

And maybe because he looks so serious, or because the idea itself is so ridiculous it cannot be meant in earnest, a sudden, surprised laugh escapes his throat. Stunned, Damian holds his breath, then breaks out into laughter, loud and ugly and wet from where his emotions are still clouding the ridiculousness of the suggestion, while Jon stares at him in confusion.

He laughs because there is nowhere they can hide without being found. He laughs because he cannot believe that Jon would leave his family behind for him; when Damian spends most of his time being an absolute ass to everyone.

But something is wrong with his laughter, and he gasps for air in between the heaving in his chest. Laughing isn’t supposed to hurt, and increasingly, his laughter is interrupted by sobs.

“Damian?” Jon sounds concerned, a hand grasping at his shoulder.

His breath starts coming in shorter bouts and his vision grows blurry; orange and red and his hands and Jon and everything bleared into an abstract. He gives a startled laugh, and it sounds no different than when he cries late at night when nobody is around to hear him, his hands muffling any sound that might escape.

And it just hurts.

He presses his palms into his eyes and vehemently shakes his head, unable to stop himself from crying and laughing and the confusion he feels about what is happening to him. He doesn’t feel like laughing, but his body cannot stop.

Perhaps he has gone mad.

Jon’s hand is rubbing up and down his arm in soothing motions, and there is earnest worry written over his face that he knows he doesn’t deserve. The other boy has tears in his eyes, because he cannot bear to see people cry without joining.

Out of all the things, he is going to miss him most. The thought is clear and calm, and cuts through the tension throughout his body. His hysterical crying stops, but his chest still stutters in the aftershocks of his outburst. His head is quiet.

From the house, Mrs. Kent calls for her husband to set the table and it is their sign that time is running out.

“I’m supposed to be sad,” Damian sniffs finally, when he trusts his voice enough.

Even the birds and crickets seem to have stopped existing, as silence settles for a second that feels far too long. And then Jon springs into motion. He hits him lightly, rubbing his own palm against his cheek in a futile attempt to wipe away the tears. “Well, I get sad when you are”

“Because you’re a crybaby.” He coughs, blinking so that he sees his friend clearly.

“You’re so mean to me,” Jon whines back with no real bite, and he shoves him just to draw him closer after.  A tentative smile brings out his dimple as he looks toward the farmhouse once more, a flicker of sadness crossing his features. “I meant it, about the running away.”

Damian gives another wet laugh. “I know.”