Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The League of Assassins was all Damian had known. The fortress of Nanda Parbat was where he mainly stayed. Occasional visits to other compounds for training or to meet other League figureheads. But more often than not? He just stayed near his mother, Talia al Ghul. He stayed near his Grandfather, Ra's al Ghul. 

Damian's training started at birth. The importance of not showing weakness. He learned from a young age: crying did not receive attention. Not the kind he wanted, anyways. 

Of course, being a child, he did slip up from time to time. (And regretted it each time. A relentless hammer driving that nail farther into his brain: do not cry. Do not fuss. Do not whine. Al Ghuls do not show weakness. Al Ghuls do not feel weak.)

His mother showed kindness. Held him. Rocked him. Occasional kisses or back rubs. 

Until he was three, and deemed too old for such coddling by Ra's. And his mother traded affection for a sword. 

Damian was good with swords. Good with combat. Good with agility and fine motor skills. A tiny tot on the battlefield learning to bring men five times his size down. Only achievable through his enhancement from the Lazarus waters since birth. 

And Damian wasn't... happy per se. But he didn't know anything else. Only: training, heritage, inheritance, and expectation. 

That was, until he arrived. 

Someone related to Father (a man who he did not know). His mother had taken him in out of pity. An odd teenager. Damian had only seen him in passing at first. 

Todd was his name. Jason Todd. Apparently some failed project of Father. Damian looked at him with disdain, mostly. If this was his competition? He surely would take over his Father's title (not that he knew what that was--but that was unimportant. It was his destiny, as prescribed by his Grandfather.)

Jason was a shell. He often just stared, emptily, as he was trained. A fighter, certainly. Even though he seemed to have no idea where or who he was, or what was happening, he downed several men at a time. 

Grandfather brought Damian to watch, often. Described to him how this was his Father's punishment for defying Ra's. That, once they showed Father that his other projects were failures? Damian would be sure to take the mantle.

And so, one night, age five...

Damian snuck to see this failed project on his own.

It was night time. Around 1am. Damian had been left unattended in his room, which was more of a one bedroom apartment. Even at age five? Damian was independent. 

And so it was no effort to sneak out into the hallway, and down four doors. 

To where Jason was roomed. 

Jason was amnesic. When they had asked him, before, what he remembered, all that came up was: an explosion. Flashes of blue eyes. Someone calling his name. Snippets of someone with ‘big wings’. ‘The Joker’. (Damian didn't know who that was, but it was a ridiculous name.) 

He’d started talking a month ago. But was emotionally volatile. Disgustingly unable to keep his feelings contained. A weakness. Damian hadn’t thrown such tantrums since he was two. 

And it left Damian wondering: just who had this project been before he was...this? This scarred, robotic, husk of a human? The one that hardly even talked?

Why had his Father chosen him?

He intended to find out. 

Picking the lock, he slipped inside of the room, closing the door behind him. His eyes scanned the darkness to find where Jason would be.

Creak. The wooden floor whined under Damian’s small feet as he slipped inside Jason’s room. The space was sparse—no personal touches, just the bare essentials of a League assassin-in-training. A bed, a desk, weapons neatly arranged on the wall.  

And then there was Jason.  

Sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor like some kind of statue, barely illuminated by moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes were open—not sleeping—but unfocused, staring into nothingness. His breathing was slow and even, but something about it felt mechanical. Like he wasn’t really there.

Damian had been expecting something like that. This project was broken. He knew he was still in progress of being fixed by Grandfather. Hadn't yet been dipped in the Lazarus. Just a lost soul who Talia had happened upon. 

He approached, and even five years old, exuded professionalism. Anger. Arms crossed, a tiny scowl on his chubby face. "Todd," he said firmly. "Look at me."

For a moment, it seemed like Jason was going to ignore Damian. He just sat there, motionless, his vacant gaze remaining fixed on some far-off point. But after a few seconds, his head slowly tilted upwards. His dark eyes moved from their unfocused stare to lock onto Damian, almost like he was seeing him for the first time. There was a subtle shift in his expression—a flicker of awareness that hadn't been there a moment before.  

Still, he didn't speak. Only watched Damian with a kind of blank curiosity.

Damian studied him. Unimpressive. Jason's fighting skills were good, yes, even with his...impairment. But otherwise? Damian saw nothing special. A blank canvas for Grandfather to improve upon. 

"Stand."

There was a pause. A breath where Damian wondered if Jason would even hear him—let alone obey. Then, slowly, the older boy moved. It wasn’t the fluid grace of a trained assassin—more like something puppet-stringed, each motion deliberate but hollow. He unfolded from his seated position with eerie silence and rose to his full height, towering over Damian despite the emptiness in his stance. His eyes never left the child’s face. Waiting for whatever came next like a weapon waiting to be aimed.

It wasn't Damian's first time commanding. He had a small fleet of assassins under himself, already. Mostly for working around the compound. More servants than anything. But expected. He was an Al Ghul. He was born to lead. 

"Tell me what you remember."

Damian's question seemed to hit a nerve. Something, deep in Jason, flinched. His body language changed, just slightly—his head tilted to the side, his expression faltering. The blank curiosity in his eyes shifted into something...troubled. Maybe even pain.  

"I..."  

He trailed off, his voice hoarse from disuse. It was clear he was struggling to find the right words, to shape a coherent response.  

"I don't... I can't remember."

"Tt."

It was frustrating. He needed information. Information that Mother would not provide him. 

"Tell me what you do."

Jason took a shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he desperately tried to recall anything. Anything at all. But there was just...nothing. Nothing but fragments, brief impressions of moments that slipped away like smoke the minute he tried to focus on them.  

"I...remember...a man." Jason said finally, his voice little more than a pained whisper. "A man with bright eyes. Blue. Like... like jewels. And he was...he was calling my...name."

Blue eyes. Like jewels. 

Damian crossed his arms. "Why was he calling your name?"

Jason's brow furrowed. He seemed to be desperately trying to hold onto the faint memory, wrestling with the fragments to form a coherent picture. "I don't know," he said, his voice growing frustrated. "It's...fuzzy. It's all fuzzy." His gaze darted around the room like a trapped animal, desperately searching for some anchor to cling to. Then his body tensed again, a shudder running through him.  

"He was...upset. He sounded scared."

Scared?

Then it wasn't his Father. His Father was a great detective. An excellent fighter. He would not be scared. 

"Useless. Cease talking." Damian ran a small hand through his hair, huffing. He was mad. He had hoped he could get answers from this...this puppet.

Jason flinched at the command, but obeyed instantly—his mouth snapping shut mid-breath. He just stood there again, hollow and waiting, like an abandoned weapon on a battlefield. But then—something flickered in his gaze. Something Damian might not have noticed if he weren’t watching so closely.  

For a split second, Jason looked at him—not just saw, but truly looked—and his voice rasped out before he could stop it: "...Why do you care?"

And that gave Damian pause. Because this teen had never...spoken to him out of turn. Only to Mother on occasion, when she coaxed him. He eyed him up and down. Small stature making him really have to look up, and down. 

Finally, he decided to entertain it. "My Father chose you. You were his project. And I am the blood heir," he said firmly. "So I am trying to figure out why you would have been chosen."

Jason's jaw tightened, the question—and Damian's words—seeming to drill deeper into his fractured mind. "Project?" His voice was rough, but there was a sudden sharpness in it now. A flicker of something alive. "I wasn't...a project."  

He reached up on instinct, pressing a hand to his temple like he could physically pull the memories free. "...I think I had a name before this one."

Damian frowned deeper. He was being sassed? How dare he. But the addition of a name had him pausing. "A name. What name?"

Jason's fingers dug harder into his temple, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration as he tried vainly to recall the elusive name. Something tugged faintly at the back of his mind, a memory just out of reach, but no matter how hard he tried, it refused to come. His frustration seemed to grow. 

"I don't...know. I can't—"  

He broke off with a pained grunt, stumbling a step backward and catching himself on the edge of the bed. He was breathing faster, and it was starting to border into panic.

And Damian was lost. Because he hadn't seen someone express...

This. 

Whatever this was. Not without external factor.

It reminded him of the baby bird he'd found screaming and alone on the ground. Of the barn kitten who had mewled for its mother until Damian took to feeding it. 

He didn't like it. 

"Stop--stop that," he snapped, stepping back a little. "What are you doing?"

Jason didn’t stop. If anything, the pain in his expression only deepened—his breathing growing erratic, his hands shaking as they clawed uselessly at his hair like he could physically rip the memories free.  

"It hurts." His voice was raw, almost childlike in its distress. "I—it's there but it won't come back, it won't—!"  

A choked noise escaped him before he bit down hard on his lip to stifle it, eyes darting wildly like a cornered animal’s. Damian had seen assassins break under torture before—but this? This wasn’t discipline-induced suffering. This was something far more desperate.

For a moment, Damian was still. His eyes widened, and his fists clenched at his sides. For a child who'd never been soothed after an emotional outburst, this was new territory. "Stop... Quit..." he stepped closer with a huff. And finally:

"Sit!"

Jason jolted at the sudden command—his body reacting before his mind could even process it. He dropped, nearly crumpling back onto the floor where he'd been sitting earlier, hands braced against the ground like they were the only thing keeping him upright. His breathing was still too fast, too shallow, but at least he wasn't moving. At least he wasn't spiraling further into whatever that had been. His head stayed bowed as if waiting for punishment—as if expecting a strike for his breakdown.

And Damian did think about it. Should he hit him? Maybe flog him? That was what happened when he had outbursts, in front of Grandfather, at least. 

But...sometimes, there were moments with Mother. When they were alone. And she would...

A small hand came up to carefully run through Jason's hair. Fingers catching on the tangles. 

"...Breathe normal. You cannot do that in front of Grandfather," he muttered.

Jason flinched at the contact—a full-body recoil like he expected pain, not this...strange imitation of comfort. But then, slowly, his rigid posture loosened. The tension bled out in increments as Damian's small fingers carded through his hair, untangling knots with a clumsy gentleness. He exhaled—long and shaky—and forced himself to obey. His breathing evened out gradually until it no longer bordered on hyperventilation.  

"...Okay." A whisper-rasp of acknowledgment before he hesitated again, brow furrowing slightly as if trying to piece together an impossible puzzle. "...You're...not supposed to do this either."

"Mph. Do not tell me what to do. I outrank you," Damian said petulantly. But the gentle carding continued. His chubby face stared at Jason with a determined concentration.

Jason could only sit there, stunned into momentary silence by the sheer...surrealness of this moment. A five year old assassin was running his fingers through his hair as if trying to comfort a spooked child. And in spite of being older, stronger, trained in a thousand different ways to kill, he had obeyed. He was letting it happen.  

Finally, he broke the uneasy quiet between them, the words rough with disuse. "...How old... are you again?"

"Five," Damian mumbled. His grip loosened to resume the awkward petting. "I am Damian al Ghul. The heir," he added proudly.

Jason let out a soft, strangled sound. Something between a laugh, a scoff, and a half-mad moan. It was all the emotion of the previous minutes in one strangled noise. There were a thousand different things he could focus on in that statement. Who his grandfather was. What he was destined to become—a weapon.  

But the age struck him first. "You're just a kid."

"Tt." Damian smacked his head--barely even stung--before stepping back. "I am not. I am going to take my Father's mantle and become better. I will not fail Grandfather like him."

Jason grimaced at the smack, but he didn't so much as try to block it. It was so childlike—almost like he was being reprimanded for saying a bad word at the dinner table. His head was a jumble of memories and half-formed thoughts. But one piece stuck out now amongst the chaos.  

"Your father. Who is he?"

And that seemed to strike a chord. Damian tensed, his arms crossing. "...Mother will tell me on a birthday, if I defeat her in combat." He huffed. "I want to fight her now. But she won't tell me anyways."

Jason exhaled a long, slow breath, trying to steady himself. He could see the frustration in Damian's expression, the fire and passion burning clearly in those young eyes. It was...almost admirable, really. Except for the fact that he was a child who was actively being groomed to be a killer.  

"And you...want that? To take his place? To lead the League? You want to be like...your grandfather?"

Damian's response was immediate, confident, without hesitation. "Yes." He turned heel then. "Go to sleep. Mother is training you tomorrow. It is essential that the body is rested."

Jason didn't respond this time. Just watched Damian go, silent again—but not in the way he had been before. Not empty.  

Thoughtful.  

The door clicked shut behind the tiny heir of the Demon's Head, and Jason was left alone with his fractured mind once more—only now, there was something new in it.  

He needed to keep an eye on that kid.

Damian was exhausted. 

Small legs shook underneath of him. He held his katana up taller. An angered, high pitched shout as he sliced through another combatant. Ignored the blood splatter, the pained gurgling of a slit throat. 

"Again," Ra's voice demanded behind him. 

Another combatant approached. Damian took the defensive. His blade raised, dripping red.

The courtyard was awash in bloodshed, a testament to Damian's skill—a skill far beyond what a child his age should have possessed. Each attack was executed with brutal precision, and it was hard to deny the talent the boy had.  

Ra's watched with a stoic expression, the hint of a smile beneath his beard. "Excellent, my grandson. You have inherited the Al Ghul determination."

Damian raised his head. He hadn't even registered finishing the last fight. Only now did he feel the uneven surface of ribs under one foot, the weight of his blade being pried at by fingers, where it was sunken into a chest. 

He twisted. The fingers stopped moving. 

"...Yes, Grandfather," he said, his voice rough and dry with exhaustion.

Ra's stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. He examined the bodies littered around Damian—each felled with efficiency befitting an assassin twice his age. "Your progress is admirable," he mused. "But speed can still be improved."  

His gaze flickered toward something over Damian's shoulder—a shadow lingering at the edge of the courtyard. Jason. Watching in silence, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Ra's smirked faintly before addressing Damian again.  

"Perhaps it is time you train against someone worthy of testing your skills."

Damian turned as well. A tight frown crossed his lips, before he stood straighter. It schooled into neutrality. "...Yes, Grandfather," came the obedient response.

Ra's motioned Jason forward with a subtle wave. The older boy stepped out of the shadows, a quiet, almost predatory grace to his movements. His eyes flickered across the bodies littering the ground before lifting to meet Damian's gaze.  

Jason had been here for six months, now. Had been dipped under the Lazarus, once. It hadn’t had the desired effects; he’d been alive, after all. Moreso just brought back a speck of the man’s mind, and twisted it into something angry. Still fractured. Hazy, and confused. Riddled with memories he couldn’t place. But still useful. For some reason Damian didn’t know. 

Damian had begun to feel similarly to Jason as he did towards the barn cats he saw in secret. Something...protective, stirred in him, when witnessing the treatment towards him. Something rebellious in looking forward to see him sassing his Grandfather. Something weak, after that night he had calmed him from panic.

Something that made him feel oddly warm inside. 

But still, the teenager loomed, and Damian met pale green eyes that he was certain were brown that night he’d visited.

He said nothing. Just waited for Ra's instruction. The assassin-leader gave an amused huff.  

"Take your positions."

Damian moved to an area of the arena, clear of bodies. He dropped low. His hand rested palm down on the ground, his blade held behind him.

Speed would be key, here. He had seen Jason train. If he got his hands on him, if that blade came near him...

It would be over. 

And he really did not want to be dipped in Lazarus again. Even if it didn't effect him as strongly as others, not with madness. A product of his birth and exposure. It still was never pleasant.

Jason took his place across from Damian, studying the younger boy's stance. There was an intensity in his gaze, a focus that went beyond just observing his opponent. He watched the way Damian held his sword, the position of his feet, the tension in his shoulders. He was analyzing the boy like a tactician would a battlefield. Every detail was being processed and catalogued in his mind, looking for weaknesses to exploit.  

Ra's gave an almost amused hum before speaking. "Begin."

Damian launched. 

He was fast. Enhanced from Lazarus over the years, his age often was a source of being underestimated. 

Not by Jason. 

Damian neared him, aiming for the throat.

Jason dodged effortlessly to the side, avoiding the lunge with a speed and agility that belied his muscular frame. Damian was fast, but Jason was smarter—years of training, years of fighting giving him a level of experience that the boy could not yet match.  

Damian was relentless, attacking again and again, each blow faster, more precise than the last. Jason was unfazed, evading and parrying with an almost careless ease.

But not fighting back. 

Jason's blade remained lowered to his side. And that was what Ra's was really testing. 

Jason was disobedient. And while Talia didn't want to have him re-purified by the Lazarus waters? 

Ra's would make sure Jason was dead. So that he could be brought back better.

Damian's frustration was mounting. Jason wasn't attacking. He was just defending. Letting Damian throw attack after attack, wasting energy, tiring himself out. It was a strategy, and it was working. Damian was starting to slow, his movements becoming less precise, his breathing more labored. Still, he refused to give in, driving himself to fight harder, faster. He had to break through that defense. He had to win.

But eventually, his exhaustion won out. He slipped, on one of the bodies' feet and fell to the ground. "Kill him," Ra's ordered Jason. A test.

Jason clenched his jaw. His gaze flickered from Damian, crumpled on the ground, to Ra's watching from the sidelines. Everything about the situation was off. Something was wrong.  

But he couldn't disobey. Not in front of Ra's.  

He dropped into a crouch in front of the downed assassin, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. Damian was panting, tired and winded and defeated.   

Just a kid.

Unnaturally green eyes looked up into paler ones. Damian grit his teeth, trying to get up. 

But his arms gave out. He was so tired. 

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. A moment of weakness. 

And Jason...

...hesitated.  

The sight of those clenched eyes and trembling limbs, the sheer vulnerability of the moment, struck something deep in him. He remembered a time, long ago, when he'd been in a similar position, fighting for survival against impossible odds. The feeling of being desperate, scared, powerless...  

Looking at Damian was like looking into a mirror from the past. And it stopped him cold.

Damian paused when the sharp sting of steel didn't meet him. One eye opened. 

Ra's was less than pleased.

Jason could feel the weight of Ra's glare like a physical presence, a silent command to finish the job. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Especially not when he looked down and saw that tiny, exhausted face staring up at him.  

A child. A child. Five years old.  

He shook his head. A silent, stubborn denial.

And that was all it took for Ra's to turn to Damian.

"Finish it."

And where Jason had had mercy?

Damian only had cold obedience. 

His blade met Jason's throat within half a second.

Jason didn't move. His eyes stayed locked onto Damian's, unflinching, as the blade pressed against his throat. There was no fear there—just something almost like relief.  

Maybe this was better than whatever Ra's had planned for him. Maybe dying now meant he wouldn’t have to become whatever they wanted him to be.  

So he just...waited. No resistance. No fight left in him at all.

And soon, his body slumped to the ground. 

The last thing he saw was Damian's pinched expression staring down at him, and Ra's hand resting on his shoulder. 

Green. All he could see was green. It burned.

He couldn't breathe. Water was in his lungs.

Talia stood at the edge of the pit. Her face was neutral. But her eyes were pained. 

Damian had killed Jason. And Ra's had had him dipped into the Lazarus. 

A second resurrection. A True Resurrection.

When Jason finally surfaced, gasping for air, his body wracked with violent tremors, something had changed. The haze in his eyes, gone—replaced with a sharp, unyielding awareness. His mind was no longer fractured.  

He remembered everything.  

Dick. Bruce. The explosion at the warehouse—the Joker's laughter echoing in his ears as the world turned to fire around him. And now this? Being dragged back from death again, forced into servitude under Ra's al Ghul? Forced to fight a child like some twisted game of survival?  

His fists clenched against the stone ledge of the pit as he hauled himself out. He met Talia’s gaze first—seeing her conflicted expression before turning his attention to Damian and Ra’s standing beside him.

Jason had made a choice once already today: refusing to kill an innocent kid.

Now it was time for another one.

"You want me to be your weapon?" 

His voice was raw from screaming, but dripped venom all the same as he straightened up fully—taller than most men when not hunched over in confusion or pain.

"Then aim me."

He lunged for Ra's.

Of course, the fight didn't last long. 

While Jason was trained, skilled, and now twice enhanced from Lazarus...

Ra's was a foe even Bruce struggled to face. 

Jason's vision lagged. His memory gapped. Blacking out between attacks. Anger. Rage was all he could feel.

Ra's knew exactly how to disarm him—mentally and physically—stripping Jason of his power inch by inch as he exhausted him with cold, calculating precision.  

There was no passion, no emotion in Ra's attacks. Just discipline. Skill trained for centuries. Jason was a force to be reckoned with—but he was still only human. He had only lived and fought for a dozen years. Not lifetimes. Not like the Demon's Head.

By the time Ra's was finished, Jason was kneeling in the dust, bloody and panting. His body shook from exertion, but his glare remained sharp—untamed even now. Ra's loomed over him like a shadow of judgment. "You have spirit," he mused coldly. "But spirit does not win wars."  

He gestured to one of the guards flanking them. "Take him below for reconditioning."  

Jason bared his teeth in defiance as hands closed around his arms—until Ra’s added:  

"And bring Damian to observe."

Damian stepped forward from where Talia had been subtly shielding him from the fight. Her grip on his shoulder tightened just a moment before she let go. 

"Yes, Grandfather," Damian whispered. Bandages were poking out from beneath his shirt.

Jason’s blood ran cold at the order. Damian? To watch him be broken down, reshaped into the perfect obedient weapon? No. His fury flared again—but before he could react, Talia’s grip tightened on Damian once more as if silently pleading with Ra’s.  

"Father." Her voice was smooth but laced with warning. "The boy is injured and needs rest. His training can resume after his wounds are tended to."

Ra's turned his calculating gaze toward Talia, the air thickening with unspoken tension. For a moment, Damian held his breath—Mother rarely spoke against Grandfather directly.  

Then Ra’s exhaled through his nose, the faintest hint of concession in the gesture.  

"He will be allowed to sit. You will attend as well, daughter."

Talia exhaled slightly, her relief hidden beneath an expression of cold submission. "Yes, Father."  

There was more she wanted to say, but she held her tongue. Now was not the time, not with Damian so vulnerable.  

She would argue later.

And so they followed. Jason, dragged by the arms, stumbling, barking insults and threats. 

Damian, a slight waver in his usually perfect posture, leaning subtly against Talia's hip. 

And Talia, eyes on the back of her father. 

The reconditioning began in a dark cavern below the pit.

Ra's watched with satisfaction as the guards carried out his will. He was a man who relished in control—and he had already broken Jason's will.  

Now he would break his mind.  

Jason was strapped onto a metal table, his limbs spread and bound tightly. He struggled against the bonds with a snarl, his muscles straining to free himself in vain.

"Secure his head," one of the guards ordered.  Jason felt a leather strap being tightened across the table, pinning his head back against it. He tried to twist his face away, but the leather was too strong. He was forced to look straight up at Ra's as the assassin leader moved closer.

Ra's lifted a hand, and a servant placed a small vial into his palm—dark liquid swirling inside. "Lazarus," Ra's mused, rolling the vial between his fingers. "Enhanced with something... special." His gaze flickered to Damian—watching from the corner of the room beside Talia.  

"This will ensure obedience."  

Jason thrashed violently as Ra's uncorked it, eyes widening in horror. "Don't you fucking dare—!"

Damian's eyes remained clinically detached as he watched Jason. But internally, that same nagging feeling thrummed. Kittens and hatchlings.

Ra's motioned for the assassins to open Jason's mouth.

Jason let out a muffled, furious growl as hands forced his jaw open—but even with his strength, he couldn’t stop them. The moment the bitter liquid touched his tongue, he gagged violently.  

Within seconds, it hit like a freight train.  

His body seized against the restraints as the Lazarus mixture burned through him—not just healing or enhancing this time but rewriting. His thoughts blurred at the edges; memories flickered in and out like dying embers before being snuffed out one by one under Ra’s control.

And Ra's began a new narration. 

"You were failed," he whispered. "He failed you. He allowed you to die. And he left you without a second thought after."

Jason's breath was ragged as his head slumped back against the table. The words slithered into his mind like poison—each syllable twisting and reshaping what remained of his fractured memories.  

Bruce... Bruce had let him die, hadn't he?  

He hadn't come for him in time. Hadn't saved him from the warehouse, from the explosion, from the Joker. His fists clenched weakly against their restraints as betrayal coiled deep inside his chest.

  "You were everything for him. You gave your life for his fight. And now?" 

Ra's motioned to another assassin. A picture was held up:

Another boy. The only thing Jason could focus on?

The Robin costume the boy was wearing. 

"He has replaced you."

Jason’s breath hitched.  

His vision tunneled on the image—a new Robin, swinging beside Batman as if nothing had changed. As if Jason had never existed.  

Something inside him snapped.

"But we will help you."

A hand rested on Jason's now still head. A slow stroke down his hair that felt both like hot coal and warm blanket. 

"We will help you to get revenge."

The touch was...calming. Jason couldn't help but lean into it almost subconsciously—like some starved dog chasing the slightest gesture of affection. He hated it. He hated the way the words soothed his fractured mind, the familiar touch like a drug to soothe the ache of abandonment. But what other choice did he have?

Jason's chest rose and fell rapidly as the last of his resistance crumbled. His eyelids grew heavy, body limp against the restraints, mind dulled by the Lazarus concoction—his fury still simmering beneath but molded now, shaped into something useful.  

For Ra’s. For vengeance.  

"...Y-yes," he rasped finally—voice broken but obedient for once in his life. "Help me."  

Ra’s smiled as Damian watched in silence from the shadows. Talia’s thumb rubbed circles in his shoulder.

Chapter Text

Jason had been trained brutally. A weapon of vengeance, twisted into hatred incarnate against Batman. His dozens of scars had become hundreds. A map of lessons, of punishment, of expectation.

All that was left was anger. A deep seated hurt and abandonment. 

A codependence, and loyalty, to the League. 

And resurrected with Lazarus, the Pit Madness only fueled these incorrect memories.

But the Lazarus enhancement kept him from dying. And if he did die? 

He'd be redipped. 

Jason was assigned as Damian's "guard dog". The Demon Hound.

His job was essentially to follow the kid around. Ensure his safety, unless danger or training was ordered to be allowed by Ra's or Talia. 

Talia hovered. She became almost motherly towards him, even if it was detached and clinical. 

Damian became even more attached.

Jason's presence was a constant in Damian's life now—his towering figure always lurking a few steps behind, silent and lethal. But unlike the other assassins, there was something different about him. The way he would sometimes pause when they passed the courtyard where barn cats gathered, his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out but couldn’t. Or how, on rare occasions when Ra’s wasn’t watching, Jason would wordlessly fix Damian’s stance during training—adjusting his grip on the sword without scolding or cruelty. A quiet act of guidance that didn't align with the mindless weapon Ra's had tried to forge him into.  

Damian pretended not to notice these moments—just as Jason pretended not to care.

Damian's gaze flickered up towards Jason loosely. A silent, towering presence next to his throne-like seat at the top of the arena, like a morbid opera view. The arena was loud. A fight between Grandfather and some captured hero. He'd become tired of it. 

His guard dog would entertain him. 

"Todd," he said absently. "Come."

Jason’s head snapped up at the command. His eyes swept the arena before landing on Damian—the kid sitting with an almost bored look on his face.  

Jason took a step forward, obedient, unthinking. He knelt at Damian's side—still towering over the young heir, his scarred chest rising and falling with practiced breathing.  

He didn't speak, just waited.

Damian sat up slightly. He eyed where Talia was across their royal seating, stood, hands gripping the rails, watching the fight below. 

And then his gaze returned to Jason. He leaned down, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

"Fetch us a snack."

He handed him a token--one that came as a command, from higher ups in the League. A replacement for currency. 

And of course, Damian had specified "us". He almost always did. 

It was a mutualistic relationship. Damian got to boss Jason around. And in return? Damian took care of Jason. 

Small ways. Ensuring he was fed. Bandaging wounds. Ordering him to rest under the guise of dismissing him. 

To the outside eye, it was the demon prince and his hell hound. 

To Damian and Jason, it was the closest bond they could achieve. Something almost...

Brotherly.

Jason took the token, his fingers curling around it almost reverently. The weight of Damian’s unspoken protection wasn’t lost on him—even if he couldn’t fully remember why it mattered so much. He stood smoothly, moving with the lethal grace of a predator trained to hunt—except this time? His prey was honey-drizzled pastries from the kitchens.  

When he returned minutes later, there were two skewers of spiced lamb in one hand and a pastry and small cloth bundle in the other—Damian's favorite honey pastry, and candied dates tucked safely for later. He placed them carefully into Damian's waiting palm before stepping back into position behind him like a shadow once more.  

No words exchanged beyond necessity—just loyalty coded in silent gestures that neither would ever admit meant family.

Damian munched at his pastry. Jason ate his lamb skewers. It was a wordless companionship. 

Below, the hero was killed. The crowd cheered. Damian couldn't remember the dead man's name. 

Regardless, his shout rang over the crowd. 

"GRANDFATHER HAS PREVAILED! FOR THE LEAGUE!"

The words tasted like ash on his mouth. But he took another bite of pastry to make up for it.

Jason's grip tightened on the skewer as he watched Ra's raise his bloodied blade—another victory for the League, another life erased in the name of their crusade. There was no joy in the victory, nor even any pride. It simply was, as everything else in this world tended to be now. 

As if sensing the shift in his mood, Damian turned slightly and nudged him with an elbow. 

His gaze was sharp, expressionless, but there was a subtle gleam there. 

"Eat."

Damian was training. Talia, today. Not Ra's. His feet planted, he was currently moving through Tai Chi poses. A welcome respite against the usual intensity of hand to hand combat or sword training. 

Talia nodded as she watched. "Good. Continue to move through those eight postures." Her voice was calm, if not expressionless. Always was. 

Her eyes trailed to Jason in the background. He'd had a rough morning--a flogging for speaking back to Ra's. She could see the blood through his shirt. He stood motionless—back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw was clenched against the sting of the wounds on his back, but he refused to let it show beyond that.  

His eyes flicked briefly toward Talia before returning to Damian—watching the boy move through each posture with practiced precision despite how small he still looked doing it.  

The sight grounded him somehow—kept him from slipping too far into anger or pain as a darker red seeped through the crimson of his tunic.

"...Jason," Talia spoke after a while. Her tone held the edge of authority, but like always, dripped with something almost fond. "Come here. Remove your top."

Jason hesitated—eyes darting to Damian first—before complying. He stripped the ruined shirt off with stiff movements, hissing slightly as the fabric peeled away from the lash marks.  

Talia inspected them clinically before producing a salve from her sash. Her touch was efficient, distant—yet not unkind as she spread it over his wounds with practiced ease. "Foolish," she murmured under her breath so only he could hear, "but loyal." It almost sounded like approval.

"You were protecting him," she added knowingly. "What was it that my father wished for Damian to do?"

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, the sting of the salve making his muscles twitch under Talia’s fingers.  

"...Wanted him to watch another dip," he muttered lowly—another assassin being purified into servitude through the Lazarus Pit’s madness.  

His fists clenched slightly at the memory—of Damian standing silently beside Ra's, expression blank as if it didn’t affect him... even though Jason knew it did. He always saw how Damian's fingers curled just a fraction too tight when they passed that cursed pool now.

Talia's hand paused above an especially deep wound. After a moment, she loosely extracted sutures from her bag. A quick wipe with alcohol before she was slipping the needle and thread below flesh. "...It would not have brought him physical harm to watch," she noted. Neutral. Almost questioning.

Jason almost growled, teeth grit against the sudden sharp prick of the needle. "It wasn't about physical injury. It wasn't about that," he bit out. He remembered all too well how the last time Damian had witnessed a dip, he'd thrown up when they retreated to the solitude of their chamber. He hadn't made a sound—even when the tears were silent too. But Jason had known. Jason had seen.

Talia was silent. The needle continued to prick. In, tug. In, tug. Wounds restitched together. Finally: "You will teach him weakness, continuing to shelter him." She tied off the suture. "He will be worse off for it."

Jason swallowed back the retort that almost jumped to his tongue.  

They'd had this conversation before—several times, in fact. And each time, Talia had shut him down with that same flat, emotionless logic.  

He understood, in theory, the point she was driving home. That Damian needed to be hardened to survive in this world. But that didn't mean Jason had to like it.  

"He's a kid," he hissed between clenched teeth. "He doesn't need to be strong."

"And yet here we are," Talia said coolly. She pulled out gauze, and began dressing Jason's wounds. "And he learns bad habits. Do you see how he is standing?"

Damian was using the balls of his feet, and his toes, to stand on. Not flat and sturdy like usual.

"He received a cane to the bottoms of his feet, while defending you from being flogged for defending him."

Jason’s entire body went rigid at that—eyes snapping to Damian with renewed focus.  

The boy was shifting his stance, trying to mask the pain by distributing his weight oddly. And Jason had missed it entirely—too wrapped up in his own suffering to notice the small tells of Damian compensating for an injury he had indirectly caused.  

"...He shouldn't have done that," Jason muttered after a beat, voice gravelly with guilt and frustration alike. But even as he said it? He knew Damian wouldn't stop either way—just like how Jason would never stop shielding him from Ra's cruelty when he could manage it despite Talia’s warnings otherwise.

"No, he shouldn't have."

No, YOU shouldn't have.

"Return to your post. I will fetch a new shirt. Damian, continue your sets."

And with that, Talia left them--alone, unsupervised. 

It was intentional.

Jason exhaled through his nose—he knew that tone.  

Talia's words had been an order to them both, but the unspoken permission in her departure was as clear as if she’d outright stated it: handle this between yourselves.   

He turned slightly toward Damian—keeping his voice low enough that no passing assassins would overhear.  

"Kid." A pause. "...Show me your feet."

Damian glanced at Jason, currently in a "press" position. He was quiet a moment before continuing to the next pose; "lean". 

Rolling back on his heels made his spine stiffen. 

"...They are fine, Todd. Return to your post as Mother said."

There it was. That stubborn, prideful, willful brat that showed through Damian's princely etiquette.  

The last thing Jason was going to do was return to his "position" while Damian was trying to get away with hiding injuries he had received indirectly because of him.  

With a silent huff, he crossed to Damian—the quiet padding of his socked feet nearly silent on stone.  

"Feet. Now."

Damian glared at him. "You are disobeying a direct order. Perhaps I should have you further flogged," he muttered. He would never follow through.

Jason didn't move. Instead, he just stared at Damian—his expression unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest. The posture alone screamed I 'm not going anywhere until you cooperate.  "...Yeah. Like you'd even dare," he scoffed after a beat—still refusing to budge from where he stood firmly in front of the kid. "Feet."

Damian was silent a moment, before he reluctantly shifted to sit. The only way he showed pain was in the way he used his arms for extra support on the way to the floor. He slipped off his boots, and peeled off his socks, sitting back on his hands to let Jason look. 

His feet were black and blue. Swollen, especially around the arch. Likely a fractured heel on the left, though nothing more severe than just soft tissue damage on the right.

As expected.

Jason crouched, his expression betraying nothing as he picked up Damian's swollen foot, turning it gently in his grip. The marks were more obvious once the socks and shoes were removed—the dark bruising along Damian's arch and heel as bad as he'd imagined. 

His jaw clenched tight as he inspected the kid's injuries, but otherwise he stayed silent.

"...Are you finished?" Damian added dryly. "Mother will return, and we are actively defying orders. She is our superior."

It was a fair point. But Jason didn't respond. He was too focused on inspecting Damian's feet—his brow furrowed as he gently turned his foot again, thumb pressing ever so softly into the darkened and swollen arch.  

"...Can you walk on this?" he finally asked, voice low and gravelly.

"Tt. Of course I can," Damian said with a scowl. "I am not weak. This is nothing."

Typical. Jason could already feel the headache forming as he exhaled sharply through his mouth. Of course the kid was being stubborn about this. As if Jason wasn't well-versed enough from experience by now to know the signs of an injured kid trying to play it off like they had nothing wrong.  

"Right," he huffed in response—his grip still firm on Damian's foot. "Then get up and prove it."

Damian stood without another word. Without the support of his boots, the stone felt harder than ever. But still, he remained standing on those aching feet, a defiance in his eyes as he resumed his fundamental movements.

Jason watched Damian stubbornly move through his Tai Chi sets—a subtle wince in the kid's expression whenever he had to put weight in his injured foot. His jaw tightened, frustration flaring up in his chest at Damian's foolish insistence that everything was fine. He bit his tongue against his response of, you idiot kid, you're obviously in pain. Sit down.

Because that was the thing. 

He couldn't say that. Not when the League didn't care. Not when Damian would be forced to move anyways.

No. Right now, he would need to return to his post, before Talia came back and would be required to punish him.

His fingers twitched at his sides—itching to yank Damian back into a chair before he made it worse—but ultimately Jason just turned and stalked away, leaving the kid alone.  

For now.  

(He'd be back later with supplies, whether Damian wanted them or not.)

When Talia returned, she eyed the discarded socks and boots on the ground, and then the two of them. 

The only comment she made?

"Put your boots back on."

Damian padded down the hallway. Four doors down. His hand rested on the knob before opening it.

He looked into the dark, bare room. Jason's room. Scanning for him.

Jason wasn't in the room—just a sparse cot, a battered chair with clothing draped over its back, and weapons lining the wall.  

But Damian didn’t need to search long before hearing shuffling behind him—a quiet thump as Jason dropped down from his perch atop one of the stone rafters like some oversized bat.

Damian wasn't surprised. Just eyed the man for a few moments before motioning with his head. 

Come.

He padded back out into the hallway.

Jason hesitated—long enough that Damian noticed, and briefly stopped with one hand holding the door open..  

It was risky, following the kid around when he knew Ra’s didn’t approve of them leaving their rooms at night. But the way Damian had motioned—like he had something important to show him—had Jason moving before his logical mind could stop him.

They headed outside of the fortress. Towards the barn. Damian's steps were practiced, slow. "...Grandfather is gone until morning," he whispered into the chill of the mountain air. "We will not be caught."

Jason fell in step beside the kid—his hands shoved deep into his pockets to shield against the cold as they walked, his eyes sharp in the moonlight. "...Where are we going?" he mumbled in response, keeping his tone to a hushed whisper—just in case the shadows had ears.

But Damian didn't respond. 

They entered the stables. Carefully, Damian closed the door behind them. Breathing in the scent of hay, a moment, he wandered towards the loft, and climbed. 

Follow me.

Jason paused, taking another hesitant glance around the shadowed barn before following suit.  

The stable loft was dark, but Jason had no issue navigating his way up the creaking structure to follow Damian's footsteps. He was already tired and cranky...and more than a little irked...but his curiosity had the better of him at that point.

Damian sat down, cross legged, in the center of the loft. Old farm equipment and tarps surrounded them. Nothing of note. 

Damian motioned with his head in front of him. Sit. Mirror me.

Jason stared at Damian—unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest.  

Really? This is what you dragged me out here for?  

Still, he complied—if only because Damian would definitely be pissed if he refused. He plopped down with as much stubborn resistance as possible, mirroring the kid's pose...even though it made his sore muscles protest beneath the bandages from earlier.  

"...What?"

"Sh."

The silence stretched. Damian, half lidded eyes, just stared distantly into the shadows somewhere. 

Just when Jason was about to speak again...

Three kittens emerged from under a draped tarp.

Jason's words died in his mouth, his gaze shifting to the kittens that padded slowly over to them. In the dim glow cast by the moonlight, he could make out the trio—all calicos, all with wide curious eyes, and a cautious yet curious gait.  

"...You dragged me out here to see kittens?" he mumbled—though any bite was gone from his tone. He sounded more incredulous than annoyed now.

Damian just nodded in reply. "Sh."

The kittens moved across the wooden floor. One sniffed Damian's hand, before allowing the boy to pet it slowly.

Another ambled towards Jason. More skittish. It's ears flattened as it leaned to sniff his shoe.

Jason stilled—his breath caught in his chest as the kitten cautiously approached. He didn’t move, not even when its tiny nose brushed against the toe of his boot.  

It was a ridiculous sight—this towering, scarred assassin reduced to utter stillness by a creature barely bigger than his hand.  

Slowly—so slowly—he lowered one calloused palm to hover just above the ground, an offering without pressure… waiting for the little thing to decide if he was safe.

And after a few more sniffs...

Soft fur met skin. The kitten rubbed its head into his palm. Small enough to lift one handed. 

And something in Jason shattered.

Jason’s fingers twitched—a barely-there tremble—as the kitten nudged into his hand. Something deep inside him ached. A distant memory, flickering at the edges of his consciousness like a dying ember—petting cats in alleyways when Bruce wasn't looking, laughing when one nipped playfully at his fingertips…  

His exhale was shaky as he carefully scooped the tiny thing into his palm, cradling it against himself almost reverently. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not with how tight his throat felt suddenly.

Damian was quiet a moment. "...Grandfather knows of them," he whispered after a while. "...I had been feeding them. It...is the same as when he caught me doing so before. He wishes for me to kill them come morning."

Damian's hand shook for a moment over the kittens in his lap, before he resumed petting them with practiced stillness. 

"...I wish to...Have them 'escape'," he added quietly. "There is a prepared shipment, to another base. Fragile items. To be handled with care. If we supply them with food and water, place them in one of the crates...perhaps they will be better suited away from here."

Jason didn't look up from where he cradled the tiny creature, his fingers running gently over its soft fur. It was all he could focus on at the moment. The feel of each little heartbeat pulsing in its small body, the way it's tiny claws kneaded at the skin of his palm as it settled in. He wanted to protest—to argue that they could just hide the kittens somewhere. Surely Damian could find a place for them to stay hidden if they were really quiet… 

But something told him that was wishful thinking.

Jason swallowed hard, his grip tightening ever so slightly around the kitten before forcing himself to loosen it again.  

"...Yeah," he muttered after a long pause, voice rough—as if he'd just run miles despite sitting still. "Yeah. That’ll work."  

He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more—not when the alternative was them being killed come morning. So instead? He just pressed his face briefly into the kitten’s fur and inhaled its scent like it was something precious before finally lifting his gaze back toward Damian with a silent nod of understanding between them both.  

We protect what we can.

The kittens were brought to the shipping area. Loaded into a small crate, with a blanket, food, and drinking water haphazardly set up like a hamster bottle. 

It wasn't perfect. But the shipments were done quickly enough that they'd be fine overnight. And likely, the other base would just assume they were meant to be for pest control, especially as Damian forged a note saying so. 

They closed the crate and headed back towards their rooms.

Jason didn't say a word as they walked—his mind too caught up in the lingering memory of tiny paws kneading at his fingers. But when Damian split off to head toward his own chambers? Jason caught him by the elbow—just for a second—before letting go just as quickly.  He turned and vanished into the shadows of Nanda Parbat once more without another sound.

Damian touched over his elbow as he walked to his own room. Jason's grip had been light, barely there…but the message was clear:  

You did good, kid. 

Chapter Text

Damian lunged. His sword was outstretched as he made for Jason's side. 

Ra's had them fighting today. Not uncommon. A spar, though the League's version of "friendly training" always ended up in stitches anyways.

Jason dodged just quick enough to avoid the strike—twisting to the side with a crack of joints as he countered with a swing of his own.  

Spar sessions with Damian were intense to begin with. But after this past month of Ra’s "encouraging" them to fight harder? They were borderline brutal.  

Jason pushed forward without pause, his sword lashing out with practiced grace and sheer force to try to gain the advantage.

Damian was quicker. Slipping between Jason's feet, his blade met the back of his calf. 

A hand lingered over the wound for a split second. I'm sorry. Before he was stepping to get out of the way of retaliation.

Jason barely even flinched—too used to pain now for something like that to slow him down.  

But what did stop him was the subtle brush of Damian’s fingers against the wound—just for a second, too quick for anyone else in the room to notice. His grip tightened around his sword hilt as he shifted stance again, silently resolving not to retaliate too hard this round despite how much Ra's would sneer at him for it later.

Damian stopped about two yards from Jason. Turning around, he held the blunt end of his katana against his forearm--a defensive "cross" as he crouched low and waited. 

Jason's turn for the offense.

Jason assessed his surroundings. They were in the center of the main training grounds—Ra's watching from his throne, other assassins scattered around the sparring arena to watch…Ra's would definitely expect him to take the offensive. The whole point of these sparring matches was to improve Jason's "combat agility", after all.   

And so, Jason did the opposite of what was expected of him at that moment, simply mirroring Damian's stance as he waited, his breathing coming out in slow, steady breaths.

Damian paused. His brow furrowed. But, a quick glance towards Ra's disapproving frown had him moving. He went to feign to the left, and then move to cut his sword to the right. All fast and lightning like Damian's fighting always was.

Jason had a slight advantage in that he knew just how quick Damian's fighting style was—fast enough to leave most people no time to react effectively. He was already moving before Damian even moved. Twisting with the fluid speed of a snake as he dodged to the side, his sword slashing in the direction Damian would have been if he'd decided to go through with the original move.

It was believable. An aborted move that left neither with new scars. 

But Ra's always pushed. 

"Damian on the defensive," he called cooly. "Jason. You will attack." Not a request. 

Damian, slightly panting, assumed his previous defensive position.

Jason’s jaw clenched—his fingers tightening around his sword hilt as Ra's order echoed through the training hall.  

This wasn't a spar anymore. Not with him watching.  

He had to make it look convincing, at least—had to give Damian some kind of fighting chance if they didn't want this turning into something worse than just stitches for both of them after the fact. So Jason shifted stance, rolling his shoulders before launching forward in what appeared to be a genuine attack—but one with just enough openings for Damian to exploit if he was quick enough.

Damian read his body language easily. They always communicated like this. Silence that spoke loudly. Shifted to dodge, weave. Jason landed a few hits. Of course he did. Two shallow cuts to the arms, one deeper one to the outer thigh. Just enough to be believable. Damian retreated. His breath came in short puffs, his expression set in a mix of exhaustion and determination.

Jason hated this. Hated it.  

Every hit he landed—whether shallow or not—felt like a personal failure. Damian was just a kid, for fuck’s sake, but here they were, dancing around Ra's expectations like puppets on strings. Still…he couldn't let up entirely without risking worse consequences. So Jason pressed the offensive—just enough to keep up appearances—his strikes purposeful in their controlled aggression as he forced Damian to keep moving, evading and blocking where possible while still leaving small openings of his own when needed.

What Jason hadn't been accounting for was that Damian was tired, today. 

What Jason hadn't been accounting for was when Ra's purposefully rang the "stop" bell mid-attack from Jason. 

What Jason hadn't been accounting for was when Damian, caught off guard, failed to dodge...

And Jason's sword went through his sternum. 

For a moment, the world went still. Damian's eyes flit down to the impalement with confusion.

Jason's eyes widened in horror. He could feel the way it penetrated—felt the way Damian's body twitched, the pulse of his heart against steel.

He stood stock-still, his hands shaking—he felt the heat rise in his face as adrenaline flushed through him. He was suddenly hyper-aware of every pair of eyes in the room focused solely on them. On him specifically.

"Ah. Well," Ra's mused from the throne. "That's one way to get revenge on him for killing you previously."

Damian let out a small cough. A thin trickle of blood went down his chin. 

"...a...ahki?"

Revenge?  

Jason’s stomach dropped. He wanted to vomit. Wanted to scream. Instead, he remained frozen—staring into Damian's rapidly paling face as the realization of Ra's true intentions slammed into him like a physical blow.  

This had been a setup.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat—stuttering like a failing engine as he stared down at Damian.  

The sword was still embedded, still impaling him, and Jason couldn’t—  

He couldn’t move fast enough.  

His hands shot forward instinctively, catching Damian before the kid could collapse completely—but pulling the blade out now would make it worse, would kill him faster and—  

“Move,” came Talia’s voice suddenly from beside them both as she shoved past assassins who had lingered too long just watching this play out. She didn't hesitate when she reached for Damian's small frame; her expression remained neutral, even though there was something beneath her eyes when they briefly flickered up toward Ra's, before returning to focus solely on getting Damian stabilized enough to be taken elsewhere.

And then? Without missing another beat? She turned slightly toward Jason with nothing more than an icy command of: 

"Come."

Damian was carried on a makeshift stretcher on his side. The sword had thrust all the way through. 

He looked listless. Confused. His eyes kept threatening to flutter shut.

Jason was falling into step beside them without another word. He was still in a daze. His gaze flickered back and forth between Talia and Damian's still form, each glance making his stomach churn.  

The halls all seemed to blur together until they reached their destination—the medical bay.

Talia ordered the guards to leave when they approached. They complied wordlessly, disappearing into the shadows of the hall just beyond the open doorway—keeping watch, but still giving them enough space to operate in. 

As soon as they were gone? Talia's hands were moving—practiced and quick, even when one of them gently brushed Damian's face in what could be considered a fleeting, maternal gesture.

It didn't look good. Damian's left lung had been punctured, and his heart nicked. His spine was fractured, between the shoulder blades, where the blade had crashed through--T6 and T7 vertebrae. 

Talia had tried, at first. Examined. A scan with a portable x-ray. 

Eventually, though, she stopped. She traded stemming the blood flow for running her hand through Damian's hair as he let out choked gasps. 

"...He won't survive," she murmured simply. "...We will need to have him dipped, once he..."

Jason didn’t move. Couldn’t.  

He just stood there, rooted in place like some sick spectator to this nightmare—watching as Talia made the call that Damian was beyond saving. The sword was still embedded in the kid's chest, stark and damning—Jason's fault, Jason's mistake, Jason's hands that had killed him.

His fingers twitched at his sides—like they wanted to reach out and somehow undo what had been done by sheer force of will alone—but it wouldn't change anything now. No amount of wishing could turn back time or erase what happened under Ra’s calculated games today.  

And yet there he stood anyway…helplessly staring down at his little brother dying on an operating table because he had been reckless enough not realize sooner how much more tired than usual Damian must've been before their spar even began.

Damian's eyes flit towards Jason. Bleary, but stubbornly holding onto some semblance of awareness. 

"Ah--...ahki."

Jason's heart ached. He wanted to respond. Wanted to say something, anything at this point to try and bring the kid comfort in these last few moments.  

But instead? His throat constricted with regret, closing up around any possible response before it could be given. All he could do was reach out with quivering hands—brushing the kid's hair back as gently as he could manage.

It seemed to be enough. Such a meaningless gesture was practically a bear hug, in the League. 

Damian swallowed. After a moment, he spoke. 

"I...I am not mad. I...Have killed you ...remember?" 

He eyed the slitted scar on Jason's throat. 

"We are...even," he muttered dryly. And maybe it was even an attempt at a joke.

Jason let out a shaky exhale—not quite a laugh, but a sound that fell somewhere between a huff and a sob—and the corners of his mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "We're even," he whispered hoarsely in response—still trying his best to sound more confident, more sure than he felt right now.

Talia leaned to press a kiss to Damian's forehead. "...You will wake soon. Please, forgive me." Her hand reached for the hilt. In one solid motion, she twisted it and pushed up. 

Damian's body jolted a moment before going slack. His chest stilled. 

And for the first time, Jason witnessed his brother die. (It wouldn't be the last.)

Jason’s hands fisted at his sides—nails biting deep into his palms. He forced himself to keep watching, even as every instinct screamed for him to look away.  

This was his fault. His failure. His mistake that had led them here…and yet Damian had still tried comforting him in those last moments with some stupid joke about being "even". His jaw clenched so tight it ached—his entire body wound up like a spring ready to snap as Talia prepared for what came next.  

They’d done this before with Jason, after all: dragged his corpse straight back into that cursed green water without hesitation once death took hold of him fully again…and now they were going do same thing but to Damian—because of him.

Talia slid the sword out. Her eyes closed a long moment. For Talia? The equivalent of a mental breakdown. 

It only lasted a moment, before her bloody hand was gripping Jason's. 

"...My father had this planned," she said simply. "It is not your fault, habibi. He had him deprived of sleep the last three nights in preparation."

Jason stood there—his fingers limp in Talia's grip as his mind raced to process her words.  

Three nights. Three nights of sleep deprivation before today’s spar? That was—  

His hands started shaking again, his chest tightening like someone had taken a blade straight through it just as Damian’s sternum had been pierced mere moments ago.  

Ra's knew exactly what he was doing when he set this up. And now here they were: left dealing with the aftermath while that bastard watched from some unseen corner no doubt gloating about how well everything played out exactly according plan. 

He wanted revenge.

(He wouldn't get any.)

Talia stood, and with Damian's blood, she loosely left a handprint on Jason's sleeve.

"...This is the blood of your brother," she murmured to him. "Look at it."

And the blood was...not quite as red as normal. Not quite...human.

Jason was still too much in shock to do anything more than mechanically lift his arm as Talia wiped the kid's blood all over his sleeve without even a second thought about it. His shoulders sagged—all of his anger and helplessness and regret still there but buried now under the weight of that one simple statement:  

The blood of his brother.  

His jaw was still clenched tight and he didn't trust himself to speak without screaming or doing something incredibly stupid, so instead he just nodded numbly in response.

"He was not born of the womb," Talia said softly. "He was bathed in Lazarus. This will not cause him the same hardship as you, habibi. He will be alive again, and still whole minded. Understand?"

Jason couldn't help the sharp breath in at that. Alive.  

That was what came next, didn't it. It was the same thing that had to be coming next, after all—the very same thing that had been done to him himself. But it was just so different this time. It would change things between them forever. 

He didn't bother trying to hide the tremble in his voice or mask the pain in his eyes when he finally spoke. "...I understand."

Talia's unbloodied hand came up to cup Jason's face. 

"Then stop crying, sweet one."

Her thumb brushed a tear Jason hadn't even felt. 

"He will be stronger."

Jason didn't remember letting the tears in his eyes fall—his shoulders shaking with each deep exhale. He closed his eyes instinctively, his hands gripping Talia's forearm in a tight grasp as he leaned into the touch to his face. His breath was still coming ragged and he knew he should probably pull away and try to pull himself together, but after all of this, he needed something familiar—some slight comfort.  

"I know that," he finally mumbled, his words coming out in shaky whispers.  "I just... wish it didn't have to happen at all."

Talia nodded. "It was cruel, for him to have you do it," she agreed. "But he sees it. Your bond. It distracts you from the mission."

Jason didn't know whether he should feel comfort or fury with her choice of words, but either way, it did little to ease the ache in his chest. He swallowed hard, his throat burning. His breath still came out in strained, shuddering gasps as he tried his best to regain at least some measure of control. After a long moment, he lifted his head to look at Talia.  

His gaze was glassy—his eyes wet with more unshed tears.  

And his voice, when he spoke, was a broken whisper. "What's going to happen to me?"

Talia's face held little emotion. But her irises gleamed with conflict, with pity, with determination. Her breath caught in her throat. The words stuck, like she didn't even want to say them. But she did anyways.

"You will clear the way for your brother," she said. "You will be rid of the replacement. And in the process, you will get your revenge against Batman for allowing you to die. For causing you to go through this hardship in the first place."

Her thumb caught another tear. 

"That is what will happen."

Jason stood frozen, the weight of Talia's words pressing down on his shoulders. He hated that she was right. Hated how easy it was to let the anger simmer under his skin—the betrayal and abandonment that had been drilled into him since he woke up in that coffin coming back like an old wound torn open again.  

"...Yeah," he finally muttered, clenching his fists until they shook at his sides before relaxing them just as quickly—his eyes shutting tight against another wave of emotion threatening to overtake him entirely. "Yeah."

Talia leaned forward. Pressed a gentle kiss to Jason's cheek. Maternal. Comfort that he rarely got from anyone but her. 

"...And you will distance yourself from your brother. As much as it pains you. It must be done. For his sake."

Jason nodded slowly, painfully—a silent acceptance of the inevitable. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she said was true, and that it was what made the most sense, but that didn't mean that he had to like it. He already felt like he was losing Damian. The last thing he wanted was to have to distance himself even more.  

But he'd rather have Damian be alive to be mad at him later, so he forced himself to nod a second time. "You're right," he whispered—his voice barely above a breath.

Talia hummed. "...I see you as one of my own," she added. "I hope you know this."

Jason let his chin dip in a short, jerky motion—trying to swallow the tears that threatened to spill once again at the words. He did know that about her. And in the back of his head, he always had. But there was still something in hearing that she saw him as hers.  

He tried to respond but his words stuck in his throat—his voice cracking on a quiet "I—I know."

Talia lingered another moment. Her hand brushed Jason's hair back. And then she stood. 

"Carry him," she instructed. "We'll take him to be renewed."

Jason inhaled shakily—his fingers twitching as he looked down at Damian's still form.  

His chest ached. But he didn't hesitate—not even for a second.  

Carefully, with hands that almost didn’t shake, Jason lifted his brother—cradling the small body against him like something fragile, precious. Like if he held him tight enough maybe some of the warmth would linger under his skin just a little longer before they had to do this terrible thing all over again.

Chapter Text

Damian watched as Ra's fought another in the arena. His eyes scanned the cheering crowd with boredom. 

"Todd," he said, glancing over his shoulder for the demon prince's hellhound.

Jason was there—but not in the spot he usually occupied behind Damian. He stood off to the side, slightly removed from direct line of sight—close enough to keep watch but no longer lingering directly at the kid's back like he used to before everything happened. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest as his gaze flickered briefly toward Damian before returning forward again with deliberate neutrality masking his expression, even if internally? He was still constantly checking on him from afar without making it obvious. Because distance was necessary, and it had been for the past three months.

Damian was silent for a moment. His usual response to the neutrality. 

He'd come back screaming, when he'd been resurrected. Jason had held him until he calmed. Whispered reassurances that he would never allow it to happen again.

That was the last time Jason had spoken to him. 

It was frustrating. 

He stood. Wandered over, and handed out a royal token. 

"Fetch us a snack," he commanded. A plea. Please, return to me, as we once were. Please, show me that you remain.

Jason's gaze flicked down to the token held out in Damian's tiny hand. His fingers itched to reach out and take it—to give in to the kid’s plea no matter how subtle it had been.  

But he didn't so much as budge. Instead, his gaze flickered once more to Damian's face before grabbing it, and turning away without so much as a word—heading off to do as instructed as though he were nothing more than a mindless tool. Just as he was supposed to act now.

Damian received his honeyed pastries, his candied dates. 

But they tasted like ash when Jason came back with nothing for himself. 

"GRANDFATHER HAS PREVAILED! FOR THE LEAGUE!"

Damian padded down the hallway. Four doors down. 

His hand touched the knob. Twisted, and opened. 

His eyes scanned the darkness. Jason's room. He searched for his form.

Empty. 

The room was barren. No personal affects. No clothes left out. The cot, if anything, looked completely untouched—not a wrinkle in the thin sheets or a hard pillow out of place. 

If Damian didn't know better? He would think this room hadn't been used at all.

But he did. 

He didn't bother to look at the pillars of the ceiling. Just closed the door behind himself, crossed to the center of the room, and sat. 

"...I miss you," he whispered into the darkness. "...I do not...understand why you no longer speak to me. Is it something I have done?"

Silence. 

"You didn't buy lamb skewers for yourself today. Or...the last time. Or the time before that."

The wind blew outside. 

"...I..."

Damian's breath hitched. He bowed his head. 

"I just...wish for you to...return to me. I...it is harder. To bear these days without...that companionship."

The silence was deafening, heavy, all-encompassing. The air in the room felt like it was crushing Jason's chest. 

He wanted to move. To step out of the shadows and speak, to do or say something to comfort the kid. To explain that it was nothing personal. That it was necessary to create the distance between them now. (Because if he didn't now, he'd never be able to let go.) 

But he didn't. Because it was better this way. So he stayed silent.

Damian's head bowed further. 

"I just."

His voice was thick. Raw, in a way Jason had never heard it. 

"You are...all I have that is... good here."

A muffled noise. Damian put a hand over his mouth. 

"...Ahki. Please."

And the small child, as stoic as he tried to be, couldn't hold back the tears any longer. 

Hiccuping sobs filled the room.

Jason couldn't stay silent anymore—not when Damian was crying like that, muffled and desperate and so broken.  

His fingers twitched at his sides—the faintest noise of movement coming from the ceiling as he started to step forward before stopping himself, fists clenching hard enough for his nails to bite into his palms.  

"Stop," he finally choked out—his voice cracking in a way he'd never allow it to if anyone else were listening. "Quit that. Please."

But Damian didn't. If anything, hearing Jason made the kid cry harder. He collapsed in on himself. Onto his side, hugging his own stomach, like he was trying to fill the ache that came with months of not even the barest comfort. 

Jason couldn't take it anymore. He dropped out of the shadows—moving to Damian's side in just a handful of long strides. 

He didn't even think about it. He just pulled the kid into his arms, hugging him close against his chest as he started to rock from side to side.

And Damian clung. It was a desperation spoken in silence. In white knuckles and heaving breaths and the way he buried into the crook of Jason's neck. 

"Ahki. Ahki...!"

Jason shut his eyes tight, wrapping his arms around Damian a little more tightly. He didn't speak. But he let Damian cry. Let the kid clutch at his clothes desperately and whimper against his shoulder like the child he was. 

And when Damian finally started to go silent, when his tears stopped but his chest was still heaving with the shock of letting himself break for the first time in months? 

Jason didn't let go.

He never would again.

It was Jason who came to Damian's room this night.

Racked with nightmares, he...couldn't sleep. Not for a few days now. 

Ra's was off base tonight. And tomorrow was a rare day of rest. 

Jason really wanted to rest. 

Damian woke from slumber as he heard his door open. He sat upright quickly, until his posture relaxed as he saw Jason's looming figure. 

"Are you injured?" was his first thought.

Jason shook his head wordlessly. He stood there in the door for a moment before letting out a low sigh—shutting the door behind himself and crossing the floor to sit on the edge of the bed.  

This was dangerous, he knew. But he was exhausted. And right now? All he really wanted was a few hours of sleep without his thoughts keeping him awake.

Damian stared a long moment. Confusion, concern, across his features. 

Finally, though, he shifted to lift his covers. A wordless offer.

Jason didn't react. In fact, he hardly even hesitated when he slid into the offered spot—settling his head against the pillows and closing his eyes immediately. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in an actually comfortable bed. Not since he'd been resurrected.

And Damian's was plush. Not the thin cot in Jason's room. Not the stone pillar he felt safer against, the height reminding him of rooftops and cold breeze. 

No. This was fine silk and feather down. 

Damian shifted to adjust the bedding around him. Wordlessly, he tucked him in. He reached for his katana nearby. Held it, sheathed, in his lap, and sat against the headboard. One leg propped up loosely, his forearm resting on his knee. 

A sentinel's stance. 

He would watch over Jason. And Jason could sleep.

And Jason? He was grateful. The tension in his shoulders started to ease almost immediately—the steady, rhythmic sound of Damian's shallow breaths and heartbeat the most soothing lullaby he ever could have asked for right now. 

He felt himself relax. And eventually, as Damian sat there with weapon in hand, finally—after days of sleepless nights and constant paranoia—Jason fell into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, he woke to sunlight filtering in through the sheer drapes and Damian still sitting upright beside him, though clearly fighting off sleep himself.  

His fingers twitched against the sheets before slowly reaching out—careful not to startle him as he touched Damian's arm gently.  

"You can sleep now," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion but firm all the same as he shifted enough for them both to lay down comfortably. "I'll keep watch."

Damian blinked down at him slowly. He looked...calm. His breathing picked up, not in alarm, but wakefulness as he brushed off the remnants of his meditation.

"You can sleep for longer. You are exhausted," he whispered, despite the fatigue weighing his own form down.

Jason's expression softened, something close to affection in his eyes as his fingers skimmed along the underside of Damian's forearm. "I've slept enough," he said quietly, almost in a whisper as he gently pulled to get Damian to lie beside him. "You need to rest...and I know you haven't slept in days either."

Neither of them had. Not with the reality of their situation. The closer they became, the stronger the bond of their brotherhood, the more danger they faced. 

And yet neither would deny comfort. Neither would turn the other away. Not again. 

Damian allowed himself to be pulled. Watched as Jason took his katana. As Jason tucked him in. As Jason sat up against the headboard. 

He was the sentinel now. And Damian, without another word...

Drifted off against the pillows.

Jason didn't sleep again.  

He just sat there—fingers absently tracing the hilt of Damian's katana as he kept his eyes fixed on the door, on the windows... every possible entrance.  

It wasn't much in terms of making up for everything, for all those weeks where he'd abandoned him even if it was necessary. But watching over him now like this?  

It was a start. 

And really, with how peaceful Damian looked finally being able to rest beside someone who cared enough to guard his slumber...  

Jason would count that as a victory no matter how small it might've been.

Talia was stitching Jason's wounds. A stab to his gut--delivered by Ra's, himself, when his legs had given out after running for twelve hours straight. 

"Shhh," she was soothing. "You held on for so long. I believe that was why he was angered. Your defiance in stamina was unexpected." Her knee leaned further into the thin cot mattress.

Jason's jaw clenched against the pain—his teeth bared as he held back a hiss from how she'd begun wrapping the wound, bandages pressed tightly against his bare stomach. He hated how much he had grown to trust her, to need her, to rely on her in moments like these.  

"The old bastard has no right to complain," he huffed, struggling to catch his breath. "He's the one that sent me running all day."

Talia nodded in agreement. "It is contradictory," she agreed idly. The closest she ever got to shit talking Ra's. Her hand rested over the wound once she had the bandages set. "Pain killers?"

Jason considered it seriously for a long moment before hesitatingly nodding his head. He hated pain killers. He had since he was a kid. But he needed to sleep to let his body recover at all, and the constant pain in his abdomen would make that difficult if not impossible at this rate.  

"Yeah," he finally breathed, trying to keep the tension in his jaw from affecting his voice too much. "Please."

Talia reached for a bottle, pressing it into Jason's hand. "Two, every six hours," she murmured. "You will be on guard duty with Damian the next three days."

Three days of rest.

Jason exhaled shakily, squeezing his eyes shut as he popped two into his palm before swallowing them dry. Three days with Damian? A blessing—but also a risk for both of them, if the way Ra's seemed to be watching their interactions was anything to go by.  

"Thanks," he rasped out eventually—not just for the medicine but for everything else, too, even if neither of them would ever acknowledge that aloud.

Talia nodded. Her eyes watched him with quiet sympathy. "Remember," she said. "You do not interact with him. Not where you both may be seen."

His shoulders tensed at the reminder—a stark return to the reality of his situation, just as sure as the wound in his abdomen throbbing beneath the bandages. But he just exhaled slowly, trying to will the pain killers to kick in faster so he could find some rest. 

"...I know," he answered finally, his voice still strained from the effort. "Believe me, Talia. I'm not stupid enough to forget."

Talia hummed. "...And yet you spend most nights in each other's rooms," she noted. "Do not think he doesn't see. That will cease. At least while he is on the grounds."

That made Jason tense even more—the realization that Ra's was more aware of their bond than they'd anticipated hitting him like a sucker punch to the gut. His fingers tightened against the bedding—the urge to argue, to protect the one person he actually cared about, threatening to overpower his common sense even as his jaw clenched in frustration. 

But he didn't. Not because he agreed with Talia, but because he knew she was right. "I understand," he echoed quietly, his tone flat.

Talia nodded. Leaned in, under the guise of pressing a kiss to Jason's temple. 

A whisper met his ear. 

"Thank you for caring for him, my son."

Jason's breath hitched—his throat tightening as his chest ached in a completely different manner than the wound she'd bound. A sharp, almost painful pang of affection for her despite everything that he still felt as she spoke the words so sincerely.  

A beat. "...Don't thank me," he murmured after several moments—the words coming out rough and low enough they would only be heard between them. "...He's everything to me. You know that."

Talia hummed. Her fingers shifted to massage Jason's scalp. Just briefly. And then she sat up. "As are you both to me," she agreed. "...Which is why I remain distant."

She stood. "Remain in your room until called for duty in the morning."

Rest, was left unsaid.

Jason's head dipped slightly in a respectful nod—he wanted to argue, to insist that he could still guard the kid for the night, but even the very thought of standing again made him feel nauseous. He needed the rest. Badly. And he'd be no use to anyone in the state he was in now anyway. "Understood," he muttered, forcing the words out to the best of his ability. "I'll wait in my room."

The door shut behind her with a click.

Chapter Text

"HYAH!"

Damian struck forward with his fist. Talia blocked it easily. 

"You will not win this year," she noted coldly. She dodged another angry lunge. 

"I will! I must! I will learn who he is," Damian seethed. "HHA!"

Another leap. He landed in the dirt with an "oomph".

Today was Damian's seventh birthday. And, like every birthday, it was spent attempting to defeat Talia. 

So that he could learn his father's name. 

So that he could find Batman. 

Jason, watching from the sides, knew this by now. But it was forbidden that he tell Damian. He'd been warned before, even by Talia: if he spoiled the secret?

He would no longer see Damian.

Jason's expression twisted in a grimace at the exchange—hating how cruel the entire situation was. But it was also a reminder that even in this moment, Ra's al Ghul had all of the power here, and he would use it against them if given even the tiniest reason to.  

So, he stayed silent—just like he had the last birthday. He wouldn't risk losing what was left of what really mattered.

Damian fell. 

And fell. 

And fell. 

Eventually, he didn't get up. Gasps like a fish out of water as he lay prone in the dirt. His eyes squeezed shut. 

Defeated again.

Talia inclined her head towards Ra's, who motioned her over. She went calmly.

Jason's muscles ached from how hard he had to fight to keep in place—every instinct in him screaming to go to Damian's side and check on him. He'll be fine, he chanted in his mind instead, as if he could will those words alone to make it the truth. He has to be.  

He could hear the voices of Ra's and Talia, but was unable to make out what they were actually saying. Something about another failed year. Something about Jason. Something about "the detective". 

And then, without so much as a glance back, they left the training room.

Damian wasn't panting, now. But he hadn't gotten up. Staring up at the ceiling with barely contained fury.

Jason stood rigid, fighting the urge to go to Damian even as the kid lay completely still. Finally, when Ra's and Talia were far enough away, he started across the training room. His eyes scanned, checking for any sign of injury, before he crouched down beside the kid—his voice hushed and cautious. "...You okay, demon spawn?” he questioned softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm.

Damian smacked his hand away sharply. He sat up with suddenness. "Don't speak to me, hound," he spit petulantly.

Jason jerked slightly at the sudden motion—his jaw clenching as his fingers curled into fists. He bit his tongue—the kid was angry right now, and he was hurt, and the last thing he should do was react to being called "hound".  

After a few, tense seconds he relaxed his hands and swallowed his pride in order to speak. Something he could only ever achieve for Damian. "...Just wanted to check on you," he mumbled, keeping his tone as even as he could. "...You fell pretty hard."

"Tt."

Damian made it to his feet. His legs were shaking, but still, his fists remained clenched. He didn't look at Jason.

Jason watched the kid with a mixture of annoyance and concern. His first instinct was still to comfort, to check, to make sure Damian was okay, but he stayed put—not wanting to make him any more angry by getting too close or touching him again. So instead he just stayed where he was, his expression almost tired as he watched the kid try to steady himself. "...You shouldn't push yourself so hard," Jason pointed out quietly. "You don't have anything to prove."

"I have everything to prove," Damian bit back. "This is not a game, Todd. Every year that I do not succeed is another year that I spend here. Another year that draws closer to--"

His mouth shut suddenly. A pause that wasn't anger, but regret. 

Damian wasn't telling him something.

Jason's brow dipped in a frown—his senses suddenly on high-alert as the kid just cut himself off mid-sentence. It was obvious that he had almost said something, and even more obvious that whatever it was he'd been about to reveal wasn't meant for him.  

The realization made his head spin—a thousand questions suddenly popping into his brain at all once and clamoring for attention. 

He had to stay focused, though. "Another year before what," he questioned.

Damian was silent for a moment.

And then, he shook his head. "...I require medical attention."

He didn't. 

He needed somewhere without the potential for being listened to.

Jason's gaze flickered briefly to the walls. Yes, there were ears everywhere here. His expression tightened slightly before he just exhaled and nodded, pretending to play along with Damian's claim about needing medical attention. "Alright," he agreed flatly—keeping his voice as neutral as possible as if it was only out of obligation that he even cared in the first place.

But inside?  

He was burning with questions. And the knowledge that something else was happening here beyond what either of them were allowed to know.

Damian walked towards their rooms. The second they had made it into Damian's, he...

Turned and hugged onto Jason. His face buried into his stomach.

Jason froze as Damian's arms went around him—his eyes wide as his hands hovered in the air, completely taken-aback by the gesture.  

The kid never sought him out like this, let alone initiated any form of physical contact.  

It took an embarrassingly long moment before he hesitantly returned the embrace, his arms circling the kid's thin frame with a mixture of surprise and worry.

Damian stayed rooted there. His eyes shut tightly. 

"...After my eighth birthday. If I do not succeed at defeating Mother," he mumbled. "They will be sending you after Father. And...You will not return here."

Jason went completely still. 

The words didn’t register at first—his brain refusing to process the weight of that statement.  

But when they did? His grip on Damian tightened instantly, his stomach twisting into knots as his breathing picked up in barely-contained panic. He wanted to scream. To demand answers—to ask why he was only being told this now—but all he managed was a strangled: "...What?"

And Jason had known, of course. Eventually he would be sent after Batman. He wanted to go after Batman. Wanted to hit him where it hurt.

He had just hoped Damian would be going with him. 

"Our missions conflict," Damian muttered. "You are aware, that you are meant to destroy my father. I am meant to become him. These missions cannot happen in the same breath."

Jason felt nauseous. His fingers dug into the fabric of the back of the kid's tunic as he shut his eyes tightly. It made sense, in a twisted, messed-up sort of way. But that was the problem—everything here was twisted and screwed-up. Every day was just another day of existing in constant torment and danger—and now...? 

Now it was being taken to a whole other level. 

His throat clenched. "...How long...?” he mumbled finally. "...How much time do we have?"

"...A year and some weeks," Damian muttered. "I have been... planning."

He wouldn't share those plans. Couldn't. Jason knowing any details would put any plans at risk, when Ra's would just recondition the information out of him if he suspected something.

Every muscle in Jason's body felt tight—his arms holding onto Damian like a lifeline as he clenched his jaw. He didn't like this. Not any of it. But Damian had been planning. And Jason knew that was dangerous, that Ra's would be watching them, too—not just planning for their missions. "You need to be careful," he mumbled. "...You've gotta make sure Ra's never finds out you're planning anything."

Damian nodded in agreement. "I am aware," he mumbled. 

He broke away after a moment. 

"You must promise me that knowing this, we...will exist in this year together."

In case we don't get the chance after.

In case we lose. 

The words remained unsaid, but the implication was heavy. And even though they both knew it was the reality of their situation, the thought still made Jason feel sick.  

He exhaled slowly. "...I promise," he breathed. Because really, what other choice did they have than to make every moment count? "We'll... make it through this. Together."

Damian nodded slightly. He took in a slow breath, before nodding towards the door. 

"...Remain in your room until you are called," he mumbled. 

Ra's would be coming soon, to bring Damian to his "birthday feast". And Jason couldn't be here when he did.

Jason's jaw clenched—he hated this, hated having to leave when it felt like they should be staying together, making the most of what little time they had left.  

But he knew better than anyone how dangerous defiance would be right now. So he just exhaled roughly before nodding—turning towards the door with his fists curled tightly at his sides. 

"...Be careful," Jason murmured one last time over his shoulder before slipping out into the hall—closing Damian's door quietly behind him as he went.

That night, alone in his own quarters?  

He didn't sleep a wink.

The halls were quiet. 

Damian's feet were light. Always were. The stone tile made no sound. 

Jason's door. Four down from Damian. 

He didn't knock. Never did, anymore. Just opened the door (the lock had long since been revoked) and slid inside.

His eyes scanned the darkness.

Jason was lying on his mattress. 

A small oil lamp burned dimly from his bedside table, barely illuminating the space. 

His eyes were open. Always were. As soon as he heard the soft footsteps in his doorway, he'd snapped to awareness—watching silently as Damian approached the foot of his bed.

A hand outstretched. 

"Grandfather is away for three days," Damian whispered. He didn't explain further. 

He didn't need to.

Jason exhaled, slow and measured, before finally sitting up. His movements were fluid despite the tension in his frame—years of training making even exhaustion look effortless.  

His fingers closed around Damian’s briefly, before releasing and pushing himself off the mattress. He followed without question, footsteps silent as shadows behind Damian as they slipped through dim corridors.

Back down the hallway. Four doors down. 

Damian turned the handle. A click closed once they were inside. 

Damian's room was lavish. Filled with many beautiful things, collections from Ra's gifts over the years. 

It somehow felt just as impersonal as Jason's room. 

But: The bed was still larger. Softer. Silken sheets and heavy blankets that protected against the bite of the mountain's night air. 

Damian slid into the bed wordlessly. Raised the covers.

Jason hovered by the foot of the bed for a moment, staring down at the open spot next to Damian. It had been a while since they’d last done this. It was a vulnerability. A connection in a life where such concepts were considered weak. 

Eventually, he moved. He settled into the bed silently—a careful distance between their bodies despite the generous size of the mattress.

This had become routine—on nights when Ra's was away, when Jason wouldn't be dragged for extra training sessions or brutal reconditioning drills…he could sleep. Safe under Damian’s protection in turn as much as Jason guarded him by day.

Damian stared at the door. His eyes stayed open, despite the exhaustion in his own frame. 

Because tonight? Jason would sleep. 

In the morning? Damian would. 

The soft noise of wind fluttered against the stone outside.

Jason was already drifting—his breathing evening out, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The weight of exhaustion pulled him under far faster than he’d ever admit.  

And for once? No nightmares plagued him.  

No Lazarus-fueled terrors, no phantom pain from past deaths or training sessions too brutal even by League standards—just quiet rest beneath warm silk sheets while Damian kept watch over him like an oath-bound guardian.  

He slept like the dead (and maybe he was) until dawn crested the mountains outside and shifted their roles again—Damian sinking into slumber while Jason stood sentinel, their unspoken pact remaining unbroken even as Ra's loomed somewhere unseen over them both.

It hurt.

Damian's breath was knocked out of him. His legs spasmed. He couldn't get back up. 

"Grandson," Ra's said coldly. "Rise."

Damian tried. He tried. But his vision whited out. Talia moved forward from somewhere in the sidelines. 

"Father. You have broken his back," Talia hissed.

Ra's stood over the crumpled form of the young heir, his expression utterly unapologetic. He was relentless as he stared down at the child who had inherited his will, the one his successor, his successor in the League, in Gotham. 

"Perhaps that is just what he needs," he replied coolly. "To learn."

Damian gasped out in pain from the floor. A show of weakness. But he couldn't help it. 

It hurt. Just between his shoulder blades. The upper spine. Where the blade had cut through just months ago. His vision swam.

Jason, who had been standing silent as a statue at the edge of the training grounds, moved.  

His loyalty—his twisted devotion to Damian overrode even the fear of Ra’s in that moment. He stepped forward, not with violence but with purpose—bending down and scooping Damian into his arms in one fluid motion before Talia could intervene. His grip was firm but careful—years of battlefield triage making him instinctively adjust for the injury without jostling it further.  

Ra's eyes narrowed dangerously at Jason’s disobedience, but Jason didn’t react—just stood there like a wall between them both as if to say:  

Try taking him back.

And Ra's didn't. An unamused expression, as his gaze flitted between Talia and Jason. 

He waved a hand. Dismissed. And turned without another word to head out of the room. 

Damian hiccuped in Jason's arms.

Jason's grip on him tightened as his anger flared. He felt the tremble in Damian's small body, the faint, ragged pants against his chest as he held him close—and it only made something tighten further in his chest.  

Talia followed them—still watching with silent calculation. It wasn’t until the door slammed shut behind Ra's that she spoke. 

"Come. I'll examine his back."

Jason obeyed without a word. 

He carried Damian into the nearby medical wing, laying him down gently on an operating table and remaining close—hovering over him like a guard dog the whole time. He still didn't trust her. Not fully. None of them. Not Talia. Not Ra's. 

Not with Damian.

Damian was crying. It was silent tears, occasional hiccups at the most. Involuntary. The pain was bad. 

An x-ray revealed two broken vertebrae. Shattered, even. 

The move in question? Ra's had thrown him to the floor by the throat. He hadn't had time to fall properly. And the weak points, caused by Jason’s own blow, couldn’t withstand it.

Jason’s hands clenched into fists at his sides—knuckles white with suppressed fury as the X-ray results were revealed. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Damian cry in their years together—ever. It never got easier. 

Talia moved efficiently, prepping a brace and painkillers, her expression schooled into neutrality. But even she hesitated for half a second before turning to Jason.  

"Hold him steady."  

Jason didn’t hesitate—moving immediately to pin Damian’s shoulders against the table with just enough pressure to keep him from twisting as Talia worked. His voice was low when he spoke next, rough but unwavering. "Breathe through it."

Damian was braced. Painkillers were administered. His eyes fluttered weakly as they'd finished. He had breathed. One hand on Jason's chest to copy. Now? As the pain killers took hold, probably too high a dose for his weight, his head sagged to the side. 

Talia rested her hand on his forehead. "...We will need to take him to the Lazarus," she said.

Jason went rigid.  

The idea of dragging Damian—half-conscious, barely able to breathe without pain—into the pit made his skin crawl. The Lazarus waters burned. They changed you, warped you in ways even he couldn’t fully comprehend despite experiencing it himself.

And he had promised, after the last time. His voice was dangerously low when he spoke next.  

“No.”

Talia's eyes rose to Jason's. Her own expression was neutral, but her eyes gave away the distress hiding under it. "My Father will not cease his training. You know this."

Jason's jaw clenched, a muscle in his jaw flexing with barely restrained tension. He did ‘know this.’ He knew better than anyone. He'd suffered Ra's al Ghul's training himself, been worked until his heart stopped.

But Damian. 

Damian was a child. His child.

Talia looked Damian over. Her eyes softened. 

"...A vial," she compromised. "...And we will reinforce it. His spine."

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose—a reluctant concession. A vial was still dipping him in the Lazarus effects, but not fully submerged. Not drowning in it like he had been.  

"...Fine." He didn’t move away from Damian’s side though, his hands still braced against the table as if he expected Talia to change her mind and drag him under completely anyway. "But I stay with him."

"I will need someone to hand me the tools," Talia responded in agreement.

An IV was placed. Sedation was administered. 

Surgery was underway. 

A metal spine meant to withstand the force of training.

Jason watched the procedure with a clinical detachment, following Talia's instructions mechanically as she ordered him to hold something, pass something, fetch something. But as she worked, his eyes kept drifting back to the rise and fall of Damian's chest. The expression of pain even the sedative couldn't erase from his face.  

He hated seeing him like this. Broken. 

He hated Ra's.

Chapter Text

Damian moved stiffer than normal. His posture was no longer slinky and loose. 

Straight. Upright. His back no longer allowed a relaxed position. 

Another fight. Talia, this time. Some rival assassin's group. 

Ra's sat in the chair next to him. 

Jason loomed in the background. The arena was loud. 

 Ra’s turned slightly toward Damian, his voice low and measured—almost conversational—despite the chaos of battle unfolding before them.  

"Observe, Grandson. Your mother fights with precision, but she lacks ruthlessness." His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his throne-like seat. "It is her greatest weakness."  

Jason’s posture stiffened behind them at the comment—eyes narrowing as he fought to keep his expression blank. He knew better than to react now, but Ra's words still dug under his skin like a knife twisting deeper with every barbed sentence towards Talia or Damian.  

Damian didn't respond either way—just watched silently from where he sat rigid in his chair.

Of course, Talia won. 

No snacks that day. 

But that night?

Damian wandered from his room. Footsteps slow and even. 

Four doors down.

He lingered outside of Jason's room, before opening the door slowly. 

Ra's was here, somewhere, in the fortress. It wasn't a sanctioned night. 

And yet here he was. Staring into the darkness of the room.

Jason wasn’t asleep.  

He was sitting on the edge of his cot—rigid, alert, as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His gaze snapped to Damian in the doorway immediately—scanning him from head to toe for any signs of new pain or injuries before settling back onto his face.  

He didn’t speak. Just stared back into that darkness with him, understanding passing between them wordlessly before he finally nodded once and scooted over—making room on the thin mattress without hesitation despite its size (or lack thereof).  

Tonight? They were bending the rules again.

Damian settled beside Jason. Both of their legs dangled over the edge. 

Silence. Until:

"...It hurts, Ahki..."

The nickname made something in Jason's chest tighten.  

He didn't pull away when Damian leaned into his side—even shifting so that his back was against the pillows to make the position more comfortable.  

His arm wrapped automatically around the younger boy's shoulders, calloused hand settling against Damian's arm in a rare gesture of comfort.  

"What hurts?" he asked, though he knew.

Damian breathed out slowly. The comfort was unfamiliar. But he didn't push away. 

"...My back," Damian whispered. 

Of course it did. Six months later, and the thing that strengthened him was still his greatest weakness.

Jason's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening against Damian's arm almost unconsciously. He hated the way the metal-plated spine seemed to dig into his arm no matter how careful he tried to be. It was a constant reminder of every failure to protect the younger assassin. 

His hand shifted—brushing down the back of Damian's hair instead. 

"Can I see it?" he murmured at last.

Damian nodded stiffly. Shifted to carefully pull his shirt off, and lean forward. Not much. Couldn't much, without bending it, causing more pain against his discs. 

The surgery scar was still red and irritated. The surrounding muscle was tight.

Jason’s fingers hovered for a moment before pressing in—light but firm along the rigid scar tissue. He worked methodically, kneading at the tension without pulling or jostling too much.  

"Breathe," he reminded quietly when Damian inevitably tensed further under his touch.  

It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was here—but it was something. And if Ra's found out?  

He'd kill them for it all over again, and they both knew it didn't matter anymore anyway.

Jason was in the arena. 

Above him, Damian watched, detached on the surface. Yet one hand gripped his armrest. 

It was a test of strength. Prisoners from varying fighting backgrounds, who were given a choice: 

Kill and be set free. 

Be killed and be set free.  

And the only thing in their way? 

Jason.

The prisoners hesitated—eyes flickering between Jason’s hulking form and the exit gate behind him. Some of them looked desperate, others resigned. All of them terrified.  

Jason didn’t move.  

His posture was relaxed—too relaxed for a man standing between survival and slaughter—but his fingers twitched at his sides like he was restraining himself from reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. He had been ordered to fight bare-handed this time, after all.  

One prisoner lunged first with a choked scream—a wild swing that Jason sidestepped easily before slamming an elbow into their temple hard enough to drop them instantly unconscious (he didn't want them dead, innocent, keep them alive if he could help it). Another came from the side; Jason caught their wrist mid-strike and twisted until something snapped, shoving them away just as fast as they crumpled with a cry.

Above in the stands, Damian's grip on the armrest tightened further when Ra's leaned over to murmur something in his ear—too low for anyone else to hear but loud enough that Jason instinctively knew it was about him by how Damian's spine locked up straighter than usual.

Jason couldn't get him in trouble. 

Another prisoner charged—

And this time?

Jason went for the kill.

Thirty. 

Thirty bodies lay bleeding and still at Jason's feet. 

"MY BROTHER HAS PREVAILED!" 

Damian's shout above the cheering crowd. 

"FOR THE LEAGUE!"

There was no smile as Jason looked up at the sound of Damian's words. Nothing but adrenaline, the blood pounding through his pounding head, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and the relief in his eyes as he found Damian's gaze.

A wordless promise passed between them.  

I did it. 

I survived. Again. 

For you. 

Damian understood. He held his head high as he rose from his seat—unbroken pride in every step down toward the center of the arena.

He was holding cloth in his hand. 

Something red. 

"THE RED HOOD!" 

Came the shout. An announcement. Jason had passed. 

The name he had chosen from his own original killer. 

The name he would use to bring down Batman.

The crowd erupted into cheers— Red Hood, Red Hood! —but Jason barely registered it.  

His focus was locked onto the red cloth in Damian's hand as the boy approached.  

Something stirred in his chest at that name—something like recognition, like memory, but he couldn’t place it. All he knew was that this moment felt right in a way nothing else had since his resurrection, and yet sent the fear of loss through him like lightning.

Damian held out the fabric to him with both hands; a symbol of identity, of purpose. Of separation.

Jason took it with shaking hands.  

A new mask. A new weapon against Batman. A physical divide between he and Damian.

He was the Red Hood.

Damian snuck into his room that night. Bandages in hand. A suture kit. 

As usual, the door opened silently. 

As usual, Damian padded up to the thin mattress.

As usual, Jason was already waiting.  

He shifted over on the cot to make room without a word—noting how tired Damian looked as the younger assassin perched on the edge of the mattress in the darkness. His eyes flicked over the items in his hand with weary resignation.  

He knew where this was going.

 "Off," Damian whispered, nodding towards Jason's tunic. 

He had been bleeding for hours. Wounds from the arena.

Jason didn’t argue—just peeled the blood-soaked fabric away with a barely-there wince.  

Damian had seen worse from him before, but this time? The wounds were deeper. One of the prisoners had gotten lucky with a concealed blade before Jason crushed their windpipe in retaliation.  

He watched as Damian set to work—cleaning, stitching, wrapping—with hands far steadier than any child his age should have been capable of. No words exchanged beyond necessity; just the quiet understanding that this was theirs and no one else's business to know about.

Damian pressed an icepack--homemade, ice cubes in silk--to his head.

And then, wordlessly.

He crawled into bed with him. A small frame curled up against his chest. 

"...I was afraid," he whispered into the dark. "That you would be defeated."

An arm curled automatically around his shoulders—pulling the smaller boy close enough that Damian could bury his face into his chest.  

Jason closed his eyes; inhaling slowly. His fingers were in Damian's hair in one moment, combing through the soft strands while his other hand rubbed slow circles against his back in the next.  

"I'll always come back."  

It was a truth now. He'd failed enough times to learn that.

But Damian knew otherwise. 

"Mother said that soon, you will forget me."

A hand clutched desperately at the bandages. 

"That Grandfather wants your focus solely on your target."

Jason froze—hand stilling in Damian’s hair.  

His chest tightened with something hot and jagged, breath stuttering against the weight of Talia’s warning. He didn't want to forget. Not this—not him—no matter how hard they tried to carve that loyalty out of his skull.  

"...Not happening." His voice was rough when he finally spoke again; quiet but unwavering.

"...Then I need his name," Damian whispered. 

"Father's."

A forbidden fact. The source of his betrayal. His rage. His purpose. To destroy that man. 

And Damian was seeking him out to prevent them from being kept apart.

Jason exhaled slowly—his fingers flexing against Damian’s back like he was fighting off the Pit’s whispers, Ra’s conditioning, everything screaming at him to stay silent.  

But this was Damian. And to be torn away from him would be a larger betrayal than even the Bat.

His grip tightened slightly before he leaned down, lips brushing against the boy’s ear as he murmured:  

"Bruce Wayne." A beat. "Batman."

The small figure curled tighter against Jason's chest. And then, slowly, relaxed. 

"...I will be gone," Damian whispered. "But I will come back for you. I promise."

Green eyes met green. Lazarus met Lazarus. 

"Do not forget me, ahki."

An order. A plea.

"Not a chance, brat."

Jason's arm tightened into a vice around Damian's smaller frame as he pulled him closer, holding onto him like a lifeline. His words were low and fierce - a challenge, an oath–as he pressed his forehead against Damian's, promising.

"I’ll wait for you."

Damian nodded. His head dipped back down, and he buried himself against his chest. Ear pressed to his heartbeat. 

It was unspoken. 

But this? 

This was the last they'd see of each other for a while.

Jason held him there until he fell asleep—staring into the darkness, holding the boy who had wormed himself under his skin close to his chest.  

Damian was leaving, and there was nothing he could do about it.  

So instead, Jason vowed, as he stared at the top of Damian's head of dark hair; as he breathed in the familiar scent of silk and lavender and something else that was unique to the boy.  

He vowed to wait. Until Damian returned.

Damian's eighth birthday was spent in the arena. He lost against his mother.

Damian's eighth birthday present at his feast?

A brand new thermal suit. 

He'd been given the option to choose anything. Anything at all. 

And that was what he'd wanted. Stated it would ease the ache of his back. 

(He'd been struck for admitting that weakness). 

For Damian's eighth birthday night, he headed down the hallway. 

He didn't stop at Jason's door this time. 

Four doors down. Eight. Sixteen. 

The air was frigid at night on the Himalayan mountains. Damian's thermal suit couldn't hide all of the chill. 

But it hid most. 

Through the training grounds and to the gardens. 

A sewer entrance leading down into the mountains. 

With one last glance towards the fortress--towards Jason, inside of it--he slipped into the frigid, unforgiving summit.

And just like that—  

He was gone.  

Vanished into the biting wind and shadow of the mountains, leaving nothing behind but an empty room, a silent hallway, and one person who would never forget his face.  

Jason woke the next morning to a training session already in progress—Ra’s voice barking orders from somewhere beyond his door. He dressed mechanically; stepped into place without hesitation or thought…until he caught sight of Damian's usual spot by their mother’s side. 

Empty.  

His fists clenched at his sides as realization settled like lead in his gut: Damian was gone. Damian had escaped. His plan had been done, long before he told the boy who to look for. 

And now? All Jason could do was wait.  

So he waited—through bloodied knuckles during sparring matches too brutal even by League standards; through nights spent staring at ceilings instead sleeping because he knew Damian wasn't resting either. Through reconditioning and Lazarus and frigid cold he swore he could feel from Damian's bones.

And he waited. 

And waited.

And waited.

Chapter Text

Damian was cold.

The snow was deep. He was short. 

Snow shoes didn't work on powdered snow. 

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge. 

His body was sore. He didn't remember how long he'd been out here. A few days? The sun had rose and set a few times. 

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge. 

But the mountain tops were disappearing past clouds in the sky, so he was making progress. 

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.

He was hungry. Very hungry. He hadn't packed much for this trip; seed and nut butter bars, a thermos of hot water that had long since been drank. 

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.

His legs burned with every step—muscles stiffening from the cold and exertion and exhaustion alike. His breath came in short, labored puffs of white as he pushed forward, gripping the straps of his small pack tighter against his shoulders to keep them from slipping.  

The world around him blurred—snow blending into sky until everything was just a haze of white and gray and numb pain—but Damian didn’t stop moving.  

He couldn't afford to. Not when Ra’s would already have scouts combing these mountains for him by now; not when Jason's words still echoed in his skull like an oath: "I'll wait."   

Trudge. Trudge. Trudge.

A sharp gust sent snowflakes stinging against his cheeks, forcing him to pause momentarily as he lifted an arm up to shield himself before trudging onward again. The wind howled louder than ever before…but beneath it? 

Another sound reached him then, distant yet unmistakable– one that made Damian freeze mid-step despite knowing better than anyone how dangerous stopping could be out here… 

An engine roared somewhere below the ridge line ahead- deep rumbling vibrations shaking loose powdery drifts along nearby cliffsides- followed shortly after by tires crunching over ice-covered terrain at high speed.

Damian hid. Of course he did. Because he was still near Nanda Parbat, even if it had long since faded into the summits of mountain. 

But it wasn't the League. Not this time.

It was a park ranger. He could see it--"HIMALAYAN MOUNTAIN PATROL" in a few Sino-Tibetan languages as well as English. 

And a park ranger meant...outside people. 

He'd heard of them, of course. "Civilians". He’d been sent to assassinate a few. Never interacted with them before outside of that. 

He was a child. He'd heard that they were soft towards those. 

So he risked it. 

"HELP!"

A cry across the mountains. Damian waved his hands in the air.

A pair of binoculars snapped up, scanning in the direction of the shout with the speed and precision of a professional. It only took the ranger a moment to spot the tiny figure outlined in the blinding snow, but it was enough to make him do a double-take when he saw what that figure actually was–  

A boy. Barely up to his chest in height. Alone in a harsh, barren, dangerous-as-hell mountain range.  

"Jesus. How the hell…"

Damian knew how to act. Of course he did. Undercover missions required it. Urgency was needed here. If the man was panicking? He wouldn't ask as many questions.

He pretended to collapse. 

It worked like a charm.  

The ranger bolted—knee-deep snow be damned—shouting for his partner over the howling wind as he plowed forward with desperate strides. Within seconds, gloved hands were hauling Damian up into strong arms, pressing him against a thickly padded chest while another voice crackled urgently over radio static behind them both:  

"We got a kid out here! Repeat - child found near sector nine! Severe hypothermia risk—send medevac NOW-!"

Perfect. 

Damian let himself be carried. Played the part of small, confused, innocent child. His high tech thermal suit was hidden under a normal looking puffer and snow pants. 

"D-dad. I want my dad..." he slurred into the man's chest.

"Easy, kid— easy. You're safe now." The ranger's voice was gruff but gentle as he adjusted his grip, bundling Damian tighter against him while his partner radioed in their coordinates for extraction. "We'll get you to your dad soon enough. Just hang on a little longer for me, okay?"  

The lie worked beautifully. No hesitation—no suspicion—just genuine concern from both men as they hurried back towards their parked vehicle with hurried steps (one of them already draping an extra thermal blanket over his shoulders).  

Within minutes of reaching the base of the mountain, Damian was swaddled securely in warming gear inside a heated SUV en route to emergency services...  

And further away from Nanda Parbat than ever before.

He'd disposed of the thermal suit and gear discreetly between the mountains and the hospital. No need for suspicion. 

He felt naked without his katana. But he couldn't risk blowing his cover. 

It did help that he was actually hypothermic. Something he'd been pushing past, of course. 

And during the hospital, he let loose. Waterworks. Babbling incoherent nonsense. Everything. 

The workers were putty in his hands.

Damian didn't have to fake the exhaustion that followed.  

Nurses bustled about, wrapping him in layers of soft fleece while doctors ran diagnostic test after test, monitoring his core temperature and hydration levels from within a warm, bright room lined with medical equipment. He was given fluids through an IV, his chattering teeth finally ceasing as warmth returned to his fingers and toes.  

Finally?  

He was deemed well enough to rest.  

Or at least try to in an uncomfortable hospital bed.

It was nothing like his cozy mattress in Nanda Parbat. Felt unsafe without Jason standing sentinel. But that didn't matter. 

Because Damian was one step closer to the next phase of his mission. 

So for now? He rested. Knowing that the last place he'd be expected at was a civilian hospital. 

And he made sure to stay confused. Build the tension. Pretend he was too confused to remember his dad's name. 

Morning came. Damian was rested. Well enough, at least. 

A nurse had come to check on him. 

"I-I don't remember," he was telling her, a mug of warm tea in his hands. "Everything's fuzzy. I hit my head on the mountains..."

The nurse's expression softened, lips pursing in sympathy as she perched on the edge of his bed. "It really is a miracle that you're alive at all," she murmured quietly, reaching out to rest a gloved hand gently against his wrist. "Do you at least remember your own name, sweetheart?"

"...Thomas," Damian said. 

The civilians didn't need to know his actual name. A middle name would suffice. 

"Um. I remember...I remember where dad is..."

"That's good!" The nurse beamed, jotting something down quickly on her clipboard before looking back up at him with patient encouragement. "Can you tell me where that is? So we can help get you home?"  

She didn’t notice the way his fingers tightened around the mug—or how his breath hitched just slightly at ‘home’—but Damian had long since mastered hiding those tells anyway.

"Gotham," he said instead. "USA."

And to sell it?

"I really miss my dad..."

"Gotham..." The nurse repeated, noting his words with a slow nod. "Well that's quite a long ways from here. But don't worry; we'll get you back to your father, Thomas, I promise."  

Her tone was soft and soothing—the kind of gentle reassurance she'd use on a child—and Damian didn't flinch away when her slender fingers lightly ruffled his hair in a maternal gesture. Even if the action was...odd. Even if it was something only Mother, only Jason, had given him. 

He smiled, all eight year old innocence and gap toothed teeth. 

"Thank you, miss..."

And that was how Damian ended up on a plane the next morning, with some American social worker.

The social worker was a no-nonsense woman named Linda Davis. Early forties, short blonde hair, and a strict "business first, chitchat later" demeanor.  

But for all her stern efficiency, she was an obvious sucker for children.  

Damian discovered this almost immediately when her expression softened as she caught him staring out the window at the bright morning sky beyond—and she ended up moving from her own seat to sit beside him instead, gesturing at the clouds with an encouraging smile.  

"Excited to be going home, sweetheart?"

Damian looked over the view of the receding mountains. 

Jason had never felt more far away. 

But he pushed down the sensation of pressure in his throat. Instead, he nodded. 

"Yes. And you'll help me find my dad?" he asked innocently. 

Even though he knew. 

Even though he intended on escaping the second they hit Gotham soil.

Linda grinned, reaching up to adjust the blanket still tucked snugly around Damian's thin shoulders (he'd spent the entire ride shivering—a side effect of his recent hypothermia) before ruffling the boy's dark hair. "Of course, honey. Gotham isn't a small city, but we'll find your dad. Don't you worry."

And so Damian curled up in his seat, and watched out the window.

He was getting close. 

He could do this. 

The plane landed in Gotham. And Damian?

"I have to pee..." he whispered to Linda as they'd gotten into the airport. Bustling, crowded, like Gotham always was.

Linda didn’t hesitate—just guided him quickly toward the nearest restroom with a firm grip on his shoulder. "I'll wait right here, okay? Don't take too long."  

The second he was inside?  

Damian moved. Fast. He scaled the wall of an empty stall to slip through the small window near the ceiling—too high for any ordinary child but nothing for him—landing soundlessly outside before darting into the nearest crowd of passengers pushing past security lines. Within seconds? The terminal swallowed him whole in its chaos…just as planned.

Linda would report him missing within minutes, but by then it wouldn’t matter: he wasn't going to be caught by mere civilians.

Gotham was a large city. 

Damian had gotten out from the airport. The amount of different people was...

Staggering. 

He kept to the shadows, for the day. Snuck to a library to research Batman in the evening. 

He had had very little time to peruse beyond a location, the night before his birthday. 

Batman was known to prowl at night. 

Batman was also known for:

 - Obsessive patrol patterns (especially around Crime Alley and the Narrows)  

- A network of informants (street kids, bartenders, even some cops)  

- Brutal efficiency against anyone hurting children  

Damian's research was thorough—cross-referencing archived newspaper clippings with whispered forum rumors until he had a map of Batman’s most likely routes burned into his mind.  

But knowing where to find him was only half the battle. The real challenge? Getting close enough without being mistaken for a threat first.

And so Damian waited. 

When night finally came, he moved. Still dressed in the clothes CPS had given him, a black t-shirt and jeans, he scaled onto the rooftops.

And he watched. Eyes peeled wide to find a glimpse of who he was looking for.

It didn't take as long as he'd feared.   

Twenty minutes into his watch, he spotted the distinctive silhouette of a figure in a cape cutting across a rooftop, outlined in moonlight as he traversed Gotham’s skyline with almost inhuman speed.  

Batman was out. And the Dark Knight wasn't alone.  

The Boy Wonder was trailing at his side—flying over the city in a manner no mere human should be capable of.

"Tt."

Jason's replacement, Damian remembered. He'd not had a name, until researching. 

Robin. 

Otherwise known as Tim Drake, he'd deduced from his research into Bruce Wayne. An adopted son.

Not blood. 

Damian would have to dispose of him later. For Jason. For himself.  

For now, though: the mission was paramount. 

Save Jason. No matter the cost.

He slipped through the shadows after Batman and Robin, eyes narrowed as he observed.

Batman appeared to be in high spirits as he led Robin across the rooftops with confident strides. The Boy Wonder followed close behind in a rare moment of levity—occasionally bantering with the older hero as they leapt across rooftops with acrobatic grace.  

Neither noticed the figure stalking them—a small shadow trailing along the edge of light cast by the streetlights as Gotham's urban sprawl sprawled out beneath their feet.  

For a moment, Damian could have sworn he saw Batman smile. The sight was almost laughable.

His Father truly was weak. 

And this...replacement? Even more so. 

Pitiful. 

But still. He needed them. He couldn't rescue Jason on his own. 

He just hoped Jason would still remember him by the time they got there.

He waited until Batman and Robin were sitting on the ledge of a roof, eating some sort of childish looking meal from some place called "Batburger", before he made his move. 

A subtle one. Purposefully allowing the scuff of his shoes as he stepped out from the shadows and into view. 

(To Bruce and Tim? Some random, civilian looking eight year old had just crept up on them.)

Batman and Robin reacted instantly—both leaping to their feet the moment the shadows shifted, weapons in hand and stances tense—but the second their eyes landed on the short figure emerging from the darkness, their shoulders relaxed.  

They both blinked.  

Because there was no real danger from this harmless-looking little boy.  

At least, that's what they thought…  

Robin was the first to lower his staff—head tilting slightly as he studied the kid in curiosity. "Hey there. Shouldn't you be home?"

Damian eyed Robin for a moment. Scrutinizing. Calculating. 

He wasn't worth responding to. A problem to deal with later. 

His gaze turned to Batman instead. 

"Bruce Wayne," was all he stated. A cold voice too old for an eight year old.

Both Batman and Robin froze.  

Robin inhaled sharply—his grip tightening around his staff instinctively—while Bruce (still in full cowl) didn't move an inch, expression unreadable under the mask as he took in the child before him with growing realization.  

Because no ordinary kid would know that secret identity—much less say it so casually. And something about this boy... something about his eyes, about his tone, struck a chord deep inside him even if he couldn’t place why yet.

Robin glanced at Batman uncertainly before taking half a step forward to intervene. “Kid… where did you hear that name?"

"Silence," Damian huffed at Tim, glaring at him a moment before he straightened. 

He offered out...

A necklace. One Bruce had given Talia, many years ago. During the nights they had spent tangled up together, without clothes in the moonlight. 

A necklace from about eight years ago.

Batman inhaled sharply, a flicker of shock flaring through his normally stoic demeanor—but his hand remained still, fingers curled tightly at his side instead of reaching for the necklace as his gaze darted down to study it in the pale glow of Gotham's streetlights. 

There was no way this random kid had stumbled across such a personal, intimate token of proof. Unless...  

"...Where did you get that."   

His voice was low, rough with restrained emotion. Almost a growl.

And Damian knew he had his attention. 

He didn't know much about this necklace. Just that his Father had had it custom made for Mother. She often spoke to him of it, for the brief moments of information on the man he'd gotten. 

He was sure he could return it later. 

"This is my mother's," he said. His green gaze held white capped lenses with determination. 

"Given to her by my father."

The words struck like a blow—a blunt force to the chest, knocking the breath out of him.  

Batman stood perfectly still, frozen amidst Gotham's shadowy silhouette as his mind reeled with implications he hadn't dared to consider for years. Couldn't consider. Because to think of her was weakness; a weakness he hadn't allowed himself to feel in a lifetime.  

He was barely breathing as he spoke in a voice he'd trained to stay steady through anything. "Your mother?"

 Damian inclined his head. His hand remained outstretched. The pendant blew softly in the wind. 

"Talia al Ghul," he said. "I am Damian Thomas al Ghul."

Plain and simple. No need to cut around the bush here. The sooner his Father confirmed his identity? The faster he could continue his mission. 

He wasn't prepared for the emotional response that that statement gave. 

Because while Damian thought that Bruce knew about him?

Bruce had had no idea at all.

The answer struck him like a knife to the heart—piercing the hard armor of Batman to rend open the raw wounds he'd spent years burying.  

"Talia."

His voice was little more than a strangled whisper, all of the air being sucked out of his lungs at once as he finally reached for the necklace. Fingers trembling as they curled around the delicate, silver chain. It was a reflex that couldn't be hidden, not even under a cowl.  

"My son."

Damian scowled. The man was saying one word at a time. Like a caveman. This was who he was meant to train under? His destiny?

"Yes. That is what I said," he repeated, his voice detached and clinical as he allowed him to take the necklace. 

"Now, I--"

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.  

Bruce moved—faster than Damian could react—his arms wrapping tightly around the boy’s small frame before lifting him into an embrace so tight it hurt. His shoulders shook with something silent and broken as he buried his face into Damian’s dark hair for just a second, inhaling sharply like he was trying to confirm this wasn’t some cruel hallucination.  

Tim was staring at them both in stunned silence now—eyes wide behind his domino mask, jaw slack beneath it all as realization slowly dawned on him too.

This kid…is Bruce's son.

And Damian? 

Damian was stock still. Because suddenly, he was in the arms of Batman, of Bruce, of his Father. 

Someone he'd been raised to see as some sort of God. Not... this. 

"WHAT ARE YOU---!"

Damian didn’t get the chance to push him away.  

Because Bruce—still holding him close—whispered one word against his hair with a voice so thick it nearly shattered.  

"Mine."

Mine. 

The word echoed in Damian's head. Confusion filled his features. 

But slowly, slowly...

He relaxed into the grip. Didn't return the hug. But allowed it. 

"...Correct," he mumbled in lieu of response, his brow furrowed. 

(This was not according to plan.)

Bruce exhaled shakily—reluctantly loosening his hold enough to pull back, place him on his feet, and study Damian’s face with an intensity that made the boy shift uncomfortably. His hands, however, remained firmly on the small shoulders as if he was afraid letting go would make him vanish entirely.  

“I didn’t know,” he admitted quietly, voice raw.  

A confession that held eight years of regret in three words alone.

Damian stared. Confusion was lacing his pinched features. "Didn't know what, Father?"

There was a moment—just a moment—when something broken and hopeless washed over Bruce’s face. As if he was reliving a thousand painful memories of missed opportunity; of chances never taken and words unspoken.

But just as quickly, the expression was gone. Replaced by a familiar mask of stoic resolve and grim determination. His gaze hardened as he searched Damian’s face—studying as a detective would for the first time instead of merely looking at him.  

"I didn't know I had you, Damian."

And Bruce saw it. The familiar slant of Talia's nose. Those piercing, Lazarus green eyes, almond shaped. 

His cheekbones. The beginnings of his jawline.

This boy was his. A DNA test would be required. Of course it would be. But Bruce already knew. 

And Damian just stared. 

"...Mother and Grandfather said that you did."

Bruce felt as if his heart was being ripped from his chest. The fact that Damian had grown up believing Bruce had been aware of his existence this whole time...  

He'd been denied a home, a real home, for the past eight years. Bruce had been denied every milestone of this child whose name was now etched into his ribcage.

And he hadn't even known until now.  

"They lied," he said gruffly as he finally released Damian—stepping back to allow the boy breathing room again. "You should have been with me from the beginning."

Damian untensed with the distance. More comfortable being alone than touched. Did this boy even know affection? Raised at the whim of the League. Too many visible scars, and that was with him fully clothed.

Damian furrowed his brow. "I...Was not to come to you until I was worthy. I have not completed my training under Grandfather," he said. "They said you were aware," he repeated, like the weight of that was something set in stone.

Bruce closed his eyes at those words.

So not only had Damian been lied to, his upbringing had been carefully orchestrated—planned out to the point that the boy was still spouting the same lines he'd been fed his whole life.  

The thought was both infuriating and sickening. 

Eight years. 

How different would Damian have become if he'd been raised in Gotham City instead? Raised like a child instead of a weapon? 

He'd lost so much to the al Ghuls already.

"...It...It does not matter," Damian added. A rare stutter that surprised even himself. He huffed, and quickly reached into his pocket. 

He held out a vial. Something dark green. 

A League's Reconditioning Potion.

Bruce's heart stuttered in horror as Damian spoke.

"I swear my allegiance to you. You can set my mind to whatever you desire. I only ask one thing in return," the boy, his boy, told him clinically.

Every muscle in Bruce’s body locked tight—rage and revulsion ripping through him like wildfire as he stared down at the vial in horror.  

His own son. His child. Had just offered to let his mind be wiped clean of free will like some obedient tool to be reshaped at a whim.  

Bruce’s hands trembled before he forced them steady, gently pushing Damian’s arm back down with deliberate care. “No.” The word was firm, final—unwavering even as his voice cracked under its weight. “Never.”

Damian's expression faltered. Something close to desperation. 

He'd taken it wrong. 

"...I am nearly fully trained. I am indispensable. I am worthy. I will be a good soldier, just--Father, I need this request."

Bruce’s expression twisted with something between grief and fury—teeth bared in a silent snarl as he snatched the vial from Damian’s hand and crushed it in his gloved fist. The green liquid splattered across the rooftop, glinting like poison under Gotham’s moonlight before evaporating into nothing.  

"You are my son." The words were ground out between clenched teeth—each syllable laced with barely restrained emotion as he knelt to grip Damian's shoulders again, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Not a soldier. Not an asset.”  

Bruce swallowed hard, voice dropping to a raw whisper. "Tell me what you need."

Damian's expression was akin to a deer in the headlights. Eyes open wide, scanning the ruined potion, shards of glass on the concrete. 

His eyes flit back to Bruce. A stunned silence. A wariness of distrust. He didn't understand. 

And how could he? This was something he had prepared for. Thought would be required. 

Because it would have been, in the League.

Bruce saw it—the confusion, the fear, the way Damian braced like a soldier expecting punishment for stepping out of line.  

It shattered something inside him beyond repair.  

So he exhaled slowly—forcing himself to release his grip on the boy’s shoulders before gently tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear (an affectionate gesture that made Damian stiffen further).  

"I want to help," Bruce murmured quietly. "You don't need to...I won't do that to you. Just tell me what you need."

A long stretch of silence. Damian seemed to have to process that. 

And then, slowly. 

"Why did you abandon him? What is special about this one?"

He pointed at Tim.

Tim was frozen behind them, watching the entire display with wide eyes and a dumbfounded expression.  

Bruce, meanwhile, was still too absorbed in his pained realization to even notice the boy. "What?" He asked gruffly, glancing briefly over one shoulder at Tim.

"--Tt.”

The confusion turned to anger. Damian took several steps back. 

"Jason. You replaced him. And now Grandfather is going to wipe his mind of me, and it is your fault! You are weak!" he shouted. 

And Bruce could only stare. 

Because...

Jason. In the present tense.

Bruce's entire body locked—blood running cold as realization struck him like a bullet to the chest.  

He couldn't breathe.  

"Jason is alive?" His voice cracked under the weight of those words—raw and disbelieving, like he'd just been punched in the gut with an impossible truth. "Damian—" He reached out again, grip tightening on his son’s arm as if trying to keep him from slipping through his fingers. "Where is he?"

Damian scowled. "Yes--of course he is, your attempt to be rid of him would not kill my brother," he said petulantly. "He is far too strong."

Something shattered in Bruce then, the weight of eight years of guilt and grief and hope crashing down on his shoulders at once.  

Jason was alive. He was alive.  

But what was it Damian had just called him?  

"Your...brother?" He repeated numbly, staring at Damian as if seeing him for the very first time.

"Yes. Not by blood. But he..." 

Damian huffed in frustration. 

"We must save him. They will be wiping his mind, and he will forget me."

Bruce was already moving—pulling Damian back toward the edge of the rooftop with urgency, one hand flicking open his wrist computer to call in reinforcements.  

"We will," he swore—voice low and rough like gravel but unwavering in its conviction as his other hand reached for Tim’s shoulder, pulling him close too.  

"Prepare for extraction."

Damian was prepared for...a lot more resistance. 

He stared in surprise when Bruce just...said yes. 

But he wasn't going to question it. "You will need more than a measly child in bright colors. He is in Nanda Parbat," he said simply. "It is from where I escaped."

Damian had escaped a compound in the middle of the mountains.

Bruce paused mid-step—his cowl turning to look at Damian for a long, silent beat.  

There was something unreadable in his expression beneath the mask—something between awe and anguish—before he exhaled roughly and activated the comms on his wrist with a decisive click.  

"Nightwing. Code Black." His voice was steel wrapped in gravel, carrying the kind of weight that demanded immediate obedience without question. "Now."

Damian didn't know what Code Black meant. 

All he knew was that suddenly, they were in the Batmobile, and headed towards something called a "zeta tube", and "The Justice League". 

Whatever that meant.

Chapter Text

It meant war.  

Bruce had the Batmobile in overdrive—his hands locked white-knuckled on the wheel as he tore through Gotham’s streets at breakneck speed, weaving between traffic with reckless precision. The city blurred past them like a fever dream while Damian sat rigid beside him, gripping his seatbelt for stability—never having experienced anything so chaotic in his life.  

Tim was pale in the backseat, clutching the oh-shit handle as he listened to Batman bark orders into his comms—each word laced with deadly intent:  

"Prepare League transport."  

"Full stealth deployment."  

"No margin for error."

Damian got out of the Batmobile once they arrived. He was a bit underwhelmed by the Batcave--of course he was, after living in an entire compound. 

But he didn't let it show. "I require gear to borrow," he said instead, arms crossed. 

As if Bruce would allow his newly discovered son to come on such a dangerous mission.

Bruce was already striding toward the Batcomputer—one hand pulling off his cowl while the other flew across holographic keys in a rapid-fire sequence of commands.  

"You’ll stay here," he said flatly, not even glancing back at Damian as satellite images of the area surrounding Nanda Parbat (they couldn't access the fortress itself--jammers) flickered to life across multiple screens. "I can’t risk losing you, too."  

The too was heavy with history—with Jason’s loss still fresh enough to bruise.

"What."

Damian scowled as he approached. He was not taking no for an answer. 

"He is my brother. I will go. Besides. He will not come if it's you. He hates you."

Bruce froze mid-motion—his entire body going unnervingly and suddenly still as the words hung between them, cold and sharp as a knife blade.  

His jaw had clenched so hard the bone was white—hands curled into fists so tight the veins bulged along his knuckles. Something dark and dangerous and broken was swimming beneath the surface of his gaze as he slowly turned, looking at his son.  

"He…hates me?"

Damian simply nodded, as if stating the weather. "Yes. He despises you. His mission is to kill the replacement--"

A point at Tim, who was grabbing gear (but would definitely not be coming either),

"and then you."

The Batcave was silent—unnervingly so—as Bruce stood motionless, absorbing the words like a man weathering a bullet to the chest.  

For a moment, his breathing was the only sound in that massive cavern of shadows and steel. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled despite everything threatening to boil over beneath his skin.  

When he finally spoke again? His voice was barely recognizable—rough with something raw and gutted behind it:  

"Then we’ll fix it." A pause; jaw tightening further as if forcing back an ocean of grief with sheer will alone before adding quietly—desperately: "Even if he hates me for it."

Damian furrowed his brow. "...No need. I have brought another potion just for this purpose. Though it unnerves me to apply it to my brother," he rummaged in his pocket before pulling out another loyalty potion, "it may become necessary."

"No."  

The word was immediate and unmoving—a command that left no room for compromise. "Those potions will do nothing but strip your brother of who he is."  

Bruce crossed the space between them in a stride—grabbing the vial out of Damian’s hand before reaching up to grip both his shoulders in a grip too tight to shrug off. He crouched before him, forcing Damian look him in the eye as he continued quietly:  

"I will not let you do that. I won't."

Damian stared at him in bewilderment. "He is the Red Hood. He will end the replacement and you in seconds."

Bruce exhaled sharply—jaw tightening at the mention of Jason’s new name.  

"He won’t," he said with quiet certainty, pulling Damian closer in an iron grip. "Because you're going to help me remind him who he is."  

Not a weapon. Not a monster. Not a ghost wearing his son's face—but Jason Todd.

Damian scrunched his brow. After a moment, though, he huffed. 

"...If he hasn't already forgotten me. If he has? You both may as well be dead."

He tilted his head side to side. "If he remembers me, I may be able to persuade him. We are close."

Bruce finally let go—straightening slowly as a grim sort of resolve settled over his features.  

"Then we don’t have time to waste." His hand hovered over the Batcomputer for just a moment before inputting another command—this one sending coordinates and schematics flashing across every screen in the Cave simultaneously while alarms blared around them like war drums.  

"Prepare yourselves," he murmured, glancing at Tim once before meeting Damian’s gaze again with something fierce burning beneath it all. "We're bringing your brother home."

Damian was allowed to gear up after that. A simple black suit that was the old base to a previous Robin one. A bit big for him. But something. 

He sheathed a katana before stepping through the Zeta Tube with Bruce, while Tim settled at the Batcomputer.

The world twisted—pressure and light warping around them in a dizzying blur before reality snapped back into focus.  

And suddenly, they weren’t in the Batcave anymore.  

Damian stumbled slightly on landing—clutching his borrowed sword as unfamiliar gravity adjusted beneath him—but was steadied almost instantly by Bruce’s hand gripping his shoulder (too firm to be affectionate, but too careful to be harsh).  

They'd transported to a Justice League base as close as they could get to Nanda Parbat's assumed location. A small tower, not often frequented, being in the mountains. 

There were many heroes already there.

Including Nightwing.

He ran forward to Bruce, gripping his chest piece by the sides tightly. 

"Bruce. You better not be fucking lying. Jay better be there."

"He is," Bruce said with quiet conviction—a hand moving to grip Dick's wrist in reassurance before his gaze flicked briefly to Damian, eyeing the child still half-hidden behind him for a fraction of a second. "Damian isn't lying."

Damian looked up at Dick in scrutiny. His eyes skimmed over his uniform like he was judging a potential threat, instead of an ally. 

A tiny, tiny, mini copy of Bruce and Talia.

Dick could have laughed at the sight of the kid—so solemn and severe in his borrowed Robin suit—but there were more important things to think about.  

So he swallowed his smile and knelt down to meet Damian's gaze with a reassuring half-smile of his own. "Hey kiddo," he greeted warmly. "I'm Dick Grayson. But everyone calls me Nightwing."

"Hmph," Damian mumbled. "You are less impressive in person."

Dick's smile widened, amused and unfazed—as if Damian's attitude was no more of a threat to him than a puppy nipping at his ankles. "Is that so?" he chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "I'm hurt. How old are you, kiddo?"

Damian tipped his chin up defiantly. "Eight," he replied firmly. 

Eight. The age Dick had been when his parents died. When Bruce had taken him in.

Dick's smile faltered for just a fraction of a second—the mention of the number striking something old and familiar beneath his skin—but he masked it with another warm chuckle as he ruffled the boy's hair, ignoring Damian's indignant squawk.  

"Eights a good age," he said. "Got a lot of time to get tough, though."

Damian stepped back, looking offended at the touch. He smoothed his hair back angrily. "I am an al Ghul. I was born 'tough'. Do not patronize me, you imbecile."

"Got it," Dick said, raising both hands in mock surrender—though the glint of amusement never left his eyes. "No hair ruffles, no baby talk. Noted."  

He glanced at Bruce (still stiff-backed and tense) before lowering his voice just slightly to address Damian again:  

"Can you draw us a map of where Jason’s being kept?"

Damian perked up at that. Hope crossed his features, though it was quickly replaced with a solemn professionalism. 

"Yes. There are multiple possible locations. Grandfather will not hand him over willingly, and guard is likely to be high as I have been missing for four days. No doubt they are expecting this attack," he said. "Pen and paper." A hand jutted out.

Bruce barely concealed a wince at the mention of his son's Grandfather—of Ra's al Ghul, one of his oldest and most ruthless enemies.  

Dick, meanwhile, had already grabbed paper from the nearest table—slapping it down in front of Damian with an encouraging nod. "Show us what you've got."

The map was...

Incredibly detailed. Everything from labeled room names to occupants to numbers to defense strategies to exit routes, medical locations, even a few plans for good offensive locations for the Justice League to take into consideration. 

And then he handed it over with a stoic nod. "The green highlighted rooms are where they likely would keep Todd."

Bruce stared at the paper—eyes flickering over the perfectly marked details with something between disbelief and horror that an eight-year-old had this kind of information memorized—before slowly nodding.  

“...Good work,” he murmured, voice rough.  

Dick whistled low under his breath before grinning at Damian. "Damn, kid. Batman’s gonna owe you a patrol route after this."

"Tt. Of course he will. I am the blood son," Damian said petulantly. "But it does not matter. We must move."

Diana came to Bruce's side. A reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Clark has everyone else gathered. You want me to call them over? Go over the plan?"

Bruce didn’t respond at first. Instead, he took a deep, shuddering breath that only Dick and Diana—standing closest to him like sentinels—could hear.  

Finally, he nodded once—a sharp, jerking motion that spoke of a tension coiled within him like a spring, ready to snap. "Go ahead."

The group was gathered in front of a screen. 

Bruce, of course, took the helm of going over their plan. With Damian's insider information, and the JL's team under Batman's strategic genius?

They were getting Jason back.

The plan was simple: stealth, precision, and no hesitations.  

The Justice League's heaviest hitters would lead the attack—Nightwing and Superman heading one front and Wonder Woman taking another, with Flash, Aquaman, Green Lantern, Martian Manhunter, and more acting in support. 

The goal? Take out as many guards as possible while Batman led Damian into the heart of the compound. 

Find Jason. Get him out.

The League of Assassins was prepared for the attack. 

And as soon as the jet landed outside of the base, total chaos ensued.

It was war.  

The League of Assassins had fortified their defenses—arrows raining down from turrets, assassins swarming out of the woodwork like ghosts. But it didn't matter.  

Batman moved like a shadow—Damian at his side as they carved through waves of enemies, pushing toward the heart of Nanda Parbat where Ra’s al Ghul would be waiting with Jason in chains.

They were getting him back. No matter what.

It took fifteen minutes for Bruce and Damian to sneak past the defenses. 

Tim, providing support from comms, spoke. "I'm telling you, B. What if this is a trick? The little dude could be luring you into a trap."

"No."  

Bruce's voice was like steel. Unmovable. Unbroken. Unshakable.  

"He's not lying." He had to believe that. Because if Damian—his son...was leading him down a road to Jason's second (third, fourth, fifth,) death...  

"Keep the JL informed if any issues arise."

"...Fine," Tim muttered. "Just...bring Jason home safe."

He muted his comms to let Bruce focus. 

Damian stilled, in front of him. Pressed against the wall carefully as a group of assassins neared. Bruce hadn't even heard them.

Bruce followed Damian's lead and stilled as the guards passed by, barely even breathing as he waited.  When the coast was clear, he continued forward, following Damian's path and careful steps like a hawk. The boy moved with a kind of silent efficiency that was haunting to behold.  

As if he'd done this before.  

As if escaping through enemy territory was an everyday occurrence to him.

And it was. 

Damian had spent his life here. He knew every nook and cranny to hide in. Knew every tell that someone was approaching, even those trained to be silent as the League demanded. 

They arrived at a room. Damian crept toward it with careful precision. "Todd's room," he whispered to Bruce.

Bruce held his breath—every muscle in his body coiled tight as he pressed against the wall beside Damian. He could feel it: the barely-there tremor of anticipation running through him like live wire, something that had nothing to do with battle and everything to do with fear.  

Jason might be behind that door.  

"Stay close," he murmured—eyes locked on Damian before flicking down toward the boy's borrowed Robin suit (too big for him but familiar enough to make Bruce ache). "If things go wrong—run."

Damian merely scoffed in response. 

He motioned for Bruce to stay back, before using the sheath of his katana...

To throw at the door. 

Almost immediately as it swung open, several booby-trapped throwing stars clattered onto the ground with no target.

Bruce barely had time to react before Damian moved—his instincts kicking in too late to stop the boy from lunging inside without hesitation.  

"Damian—!"  

But it was already too late.  

His son was through the door, stepping over fallen weapons like they were nothing more than pebbles, calling out sharply into the dim light:  

"Todd!"

The sound echoed back at them like a taunt—empty and mocking. It bounced off empty walls in an endless mockery of sound before fading away into silence, leaving nothing but the cold aching of realization in its wake.  

Jason wasn't there. Not even when Damian clambered up onto the stone pillars.

Damian's shoulders dropped almost instantly.  

"He's…" he started to say. Stopped. Stared into the darkness of the room with a growing mix of disbelief, anger, hurt. "...Not here."

A breath. And then:

"Of course not. This is not defensive enough. He would be near the Pit. Grandfather would want to be where he could draw power if necessary."

The Lazarus Pit.  

Bruce's heart dropped. Of course. Of course Ra's—cruel, ruthless, brutal as he was—would hide his son in the room of the very weapon that fueled his immortality.  

He took a deep breath. Steeled himself. "Then that's where we go."

"I know a secret way," Damian said. "I do not believe even Grandfather is aware of it."

He headed towards the outside, slipping through the window.

Of course he did.  

Bruce couldn't help the hint of a smile as he followed—his kid, his boy leading the way with a confidence far too old for his age.   

"You know this place well," he said softly, keeping his voice low as they made their way through the compound again. "Too well."

Damian's eyes scanned for danger as they quickly made their way across the training grounds. The battle was raging on in the short distance--occasionally they saw flying heroes dart close by. 

"It is where I have grown," Damian said simply. "And it is any good warrior's instinct to know their surroundings. It does not matter that that instinct is to Grandfather's detriment."

A pause.  

Then, almost hesitantly: "You are…" Bruce started—stopped—his voice thick with something unspoken. "...Not like him."  

The words were heavy. Damning. Because even if Ra’s was Damian’s grandfather? Even if the League of Assassins had raised him from birth? Bruce could see it now.  

This boy wasn't a weapon molded by their hands—he was so much more.

Damian paused. His step faltered just a moment, before he huffed. "No. I am better," he said simply. "Now shut up and focus."

He pulled up a drain grate with strength too profound for an eight year old, and wordlessly dropped into the damp tunnel.

Bruce followed without hesitation—landing with barely a sound in the darkness below.  

The tunnels were cold, oppressive; dripping with stale water and something thicker—something that clung to his skin like regret. But he didn’t care.  

Because Damian was right ahead of him, leading the way with a conviction that burned brighter than anything else down here ever could.

Damian's eyes glowed faintly in the dark. Lazarus effected. Bruce knew, already. But it didn't make the sight any easier.

Bruce kept his eyes locked on those eerie, glowing irises—watching as they cut through the darkness like twin blades.  

He wanted to ask. He needed to ask—how many times had Damian been dipped? How young had they started? What horrors had he endured for that unnatural glow in his gaze?  

But this wasn't the time.  

So instead, he pushed forward—focused only on one thing:  

Jason.

Damian led them to a small tunnel in the drain system. It looked naturally made--erosion. 

"It becomes narrow. You should fit," he said. "Given you aren't claustrophobic."

Bruce eyed the tunnel with something bordering on concern. Too narrow, too long, too dark.   

Perfect spot for an ambush.

A thousand different warnings flashed through his mind—caution, worry, anxiety—yet he pushed them aside. He'd face worse than an ambush.  

He'd face hell itself for Jason.  

"I'll fit."

Damian nodded, and went to go in first. He fit easily--small as he was. Just had to crouch and shuffle. 

Bruce would be on his hands and knees. As they got further in? His belly. 

But he'd fit. Barely.

The walls pressed in around him like a vice—cold, damp, suffocating. Bruce forced his breathing steady; ignored the scrape of stone against armor as he crawled forward with only the glow of Damian's eyes ahead to guide him.  

He could hear it now: voices in the distance—echoing faintly from somewhere beyond these claustrophobic tunnels.  

One unmistakable among them all. Jason’s. Older than Bruce was used to hearing it, but familiar all the same. 

Raw and angry.

"...They have not wiped him," Damian whispered. "He sounds coherent. We must hurry."

He moved faster. Too fast for Bruce, to keep up with. Reckless.

Bruce pushed himself forward—faster, as fast as he could with his broad shoulders scraping against narrow stone. He called out to Damian between ragged breaths, voice rough and strained in the darkness.  

"Kid. Slow down. We're getting too close. We need a plan."

Damian paused, a few yards from Bruce. His fists clenched. He didn't want a plan. He wanted Jason. 

But he forced himself to still. Allowed Bruce to catch up. 

"...What is your idea?"

For a moment, Bruce simply breathed, his breaths loud in the cramped, claustrophobic space.  

He could feel the tension coming off Damian in waves—the urgency to just rush in, but he forced himself to focus, to think.  

"We need to be careful. And wait," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper as he pressed himself against the rock wall. "Let me get a look first."

Damian nodded, sharply. "...The tunnel opens wider soon. You will be able to crouch," he muttered, before continuing forward.

The tunnel began to open just as Damian had promised—the cramped stone walls pulling away until the ceiling rose high enough for Bruce to kneel. The voices in the distance grew louder; clearer.  

Jason's voice rang out in a snarl—raspy and rough with anger but definitely alive.

Damian carefully led him forward. 

The opening of the tunnel was high up. Over an underground cave, Jason was visible. Strapped to a table, squirming and screaming and alive.

Bruce's breath caught in his throat at the sight of Jason—alive, breathing, fighting.  

For a moment, all he could do was stare.  

But Damian wasn't waiting. Already moving toward the ledge—ready to leap down and cut Jason free himself if he had to.  

Bruce grabbed him by the shoulder before he could jump. "Wait." His voice was steel-wrapped gravel now: firm and unyielding as he scanned the cavern for threats below them both—Ra's' assassins were nowhere near Jason yet but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming.

Ra's, himself, was stood beside Jason, talking to him in an almost cocky manner. 

Talia was stood nearby. Emotionless. 

"...We cannot wait. He has him ready to be reconditioned," Damian hissed.

Bruce's grip tightened—only for a second—before he let go, his jaw clenching as Ra's' voice echoed up toward them. "Then we don’t wait," he murmured gruffly. "But we do it right." His eyes flicked to the other exit across the cavern—then back down at Jason, restrained but still struggling beneath his bonds like a wild animal caught in steel jaws.  

A plan formed in an instant:  

"I'll draw their fire," Bruce said lowly as his hand moved toward one of the explosive pellets on his belt (non-lethal but flashy enough for distraction). "You get to Jason."

Damian nodded sharply. "...Grandfather will expect you to have left me at home, as was your first instinct," he mumbled in agreement. 

Their wave lengths had connected for a moment. 

"I will free him from his restraints and sneak him away. Will you be able to escape?"

"I'll be fine," Bruce grunted, already palming the pellet. "I've been much deeper into the League's ranks before." He looked toward the other exit—then up towards Damian again. "You ready?"

Damian nodded, before taking a slow breath and disappearing into the shadows just after dropping from the ledge.

Bruce watched him go—eyes tracking him through the shadows as he disappeared from his side. And then he exhaled slowly, quietly. His jaw hurt from clenching it so hard. "Here goes nothing..." he whispered to himself as he threw the pellet toward the ground.

Chapter Text

The pellet detonated with a deafening crack—bright light and thick smoke erupting into the cavern. Ra’s barely had time to turn before Batman was already moving—dropping from the ledge and landing in a crouch right as Talia shouted, her sword flashing free of its sheath.  

Chaos erupted instantly—assassins surging forward from hidden alcoves while Bruce threw himself into combat, dodging blades and slamming fists into ribs with brutal efficiency.  

All while Damian cut through the shadows like a knife—silent, unseen, slipping past every enemy until he reached Jason's side.

"Ahki," Damian breathed as he got close. Ra's was busy taunting Bruce. His hands shook as he hurried to undo Jason's head restraint first. "You remember me? It is not too late?"

Jason’s head snapped toward Damian—eyes wide and wild, burning with something unrecognizable beneath the haze of pain and rage. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then—his fingers twitched against his restraints as recognition flickered through him like lightning in a storm. He remembered.   

"Damian?" The word was choked out—rough, broken, disbelieving as his gaze locked onto the boy’s face with dawning horror before shifting past him to where Ra's loomed over Bruce like death itself across the cavern floor. His voice dropped into something ragged: "...Kid, what did you do?"

Damian fumbled for Jason's wrists next. "I am rescuing you," he said plainly. "I will not allow them to make you forget me. You are mine."

Something in Jason’s expression fractured—his breath catching as Damian freed him, one restraint at a time. "You stupid little—" He sucked in a sharp gasp when his wrists came loose, immediately reaching up to yank the last of the straps off before lurching upright with a groan. His hands found Damian’s shoulders—shaking slightly but firm as he pulled him closer for just a second, voice rough: "You shouldn’t be here."   

But then Ra's was turning—Jason shoved Damian behind himself on instinct before stepping forward between them and the Demon's Head with teeth bared. Protective.

Damian was not fooled. 

Jason was weak. He was practically wobbling where he stood. In no condition to fight Grandfather. 

But right when Ra's went to move towards them...

Talia stepped in the way.

Jason gritted his teeth–his whole body trembling with the effort it took to stay standing–as Talia blocked Ra's' path easily, her own katana bared.  

Ra's' gaze flicked between the three of them in cold surprise. "Daughter," he scolded. "You would interfere with this?"

In the background, Bruce brought assassins down in waves.

Talia didn't flinch. Her grip on her sword was steady, her expression unreadable—but the slight tremor in her voice when she spoke betrayed something beneath that cold mask.  

"Enough."  

A single word—quiet, but final.  

Ra's stared at her for a long moment before his lips curled into something cruel and amused. "Ah," he murmured. "So it seems even you have grown soft."  

Jason exhaled sharply—stepping back toward Damian as his vision swam (weak, too weak to fight but he’d be damned if he let Ra’s touch the kid again)—when suddenly-

Damian grabbed Jason's hand and tugged. 

"Quickly. Thank you, Mother!" he called sharply. And for once? He meant it. 

He hurried towards the exit point.

Talia didn't respond—but her blade stayed raised, unmoving, between Ra’s and their fleeing forms.  

Jason stumbled once—almost going down before Damian yanked him forward again with a surprising strength for an eight-year-old (or maybe it was just the Lazarus in his veins).  

The fight between Talia and Ra's started behind them.

Damian paid it no mind. He was of single focus:

Get Jason out.

He reached to tap on the comm that had been given to him. Cringed at the amount of voices and chaos in his ear suddenly as it crackled to life. But he ignored it. 

"Nightwing," he barked. "I have Todd. Repeat. I have him. Father is locked in battle, but will be regrouping with us later. The priority is to get Todd out safely. He is injured. I am unable to carry him and we will not last long without reinforcement."

Dick’s voice was the first to come crackling across the comms, sharp and concerned: "Damian? You have Jason?! Where are you? Over."  

Tim's voice came instantly next, just as worried: "The hell? Where is B?! Why wasn't I told about this?! Over!"  

Bruce's voice cut through before Tim could continue protesting: "Calm down. Damian? Report in. Over."

Damian hadn't stopped moving. As they got into the light of the outside, he pulled Jason urgently towards a small building in the gardens--a landscaping shack. 

He pushed him in before closing the doors behind them. 

"Tool shed in the gardens. East end. We are currently not spotted. Send evac immediately."

He hung up the comms to face Jason. 

And suddenly, he was launching himself at him with full weight. (Which was not much).

A bone crushing hug.

Jason barely had time to react—his legs buckling under the sudden weight as Damian crashed into him with a force that nearly sent them both tumbling back against the shed wall.  

For a second, all he could do was stare—breathless and bruised and alive before his arms wrapped tight around Damian in return, fingers gripping the back of his too-large Robin suit like it was the only thing keeping him standing (it probably was).  

"Damian," Jason rasped—voice cracking as he pressed his face into the kid’s hair. "Christ, kid..."

"You remember," Damian said, his voice thick and suddenly small in a way that betrayed his age. "You remember me."

Jason exhaled hard—something between a laugh and a choked noise as his grip on Damian tightened, fingers trembling faintly where they dug into the boy’s back. “Course I remember you,” he muttered into the top of his head, voice rough but soft—too soft for how he usually sounded when angry or hurt or alive. “Couldn’t forget my dumbass little brother even if Ra’s tried.”  

He swallowed thickly before adding:  

"Idiot. You shouldn't have come."

"Of course I came," Damian hissed, raising his head. "I told you I would return."

"It's not a promise you should have made," Jason snapped, pulling back just enough to glare down at the kid with a mixture of irritation and worry. "You're eight, for Christ's sake. This isn't something you should be doing." 

His gaze scanned over the kid's face—bruises and scrapes and injuries that he didn't have when he last saw him. "Have you even slept in the past week?"

"...It does not matter," Damian replied. "I am here and you are you, and Father will be taking us away where we will not be separated."

Jason sighed—long and exhausted—before dragging a hand down his face. "Kid," he started, before cutting himself off with a shake of his head (too tired to argue). "Whatever." He glanced toward the shed door where distant explosions still rattled the compound outside—then back at Damian with something unreadable in his expression. He didn’t want to go with Bruce. He didn’t want to deal with any of this. But at the moment? It was keeping them together. He’d have to make do and readjust plans later.

"...Your old man better hurry up."

Damian stayed curled up against Jason's chest. A shield that only covered maybe a fourth of him, but determined nonetheless. 

That was how Dick eventually found them upon making it to the tool shed. How he found Jason. His little brother, who he hadn't seen in over four years. Not since the Joker had killed him. Not since they'd buried him.

Dick’s breath caught in his throat—his whole body locking up for a heartbeat as he stared at the sight in front of him.  

Jason. Alive.  

Damian—protective, curled against him like he was ready to take on the entire League himself if it meant keeping Jason safe.  

For a second, all Nightwing could do was stand there, frozen—before his voice cracked out:  

"Jay."

Damian glared back at Dick, but after a moment, looked up at Jason. 

"Do your murderous urges extend to him?" he asked, casual, nonjudgemental.

Jason's eyes flicked down to Damian for a second before shifting up to Dick. He still looked tired—exhausted, in fact, with the way he was leaning heavily into the wall behind him for support.  

"Not today," he answered with a humorless smile.  

Dick's eyes were already beginning to water as he took a slow, hesitant step forward—like he was walking toward a spooked animal.  

"Can I…?" he barely managed the question, already reaching out toward Jason's face.

Damian slowly inched back to allow them space. Though he lingered close by, arms crossed, watching with narrowed eyes.

Jason tensed slightly—half-expecting Dick’s touch to be another trick, another hallucination, something painful.  

But when the older boy’s fingers finally made contact—carefully brushing against his cheek like he didn’t know if he was real, either, all Jason could do was exhale sharply.  

And then:  

"...Missed you too, Dickface," he muttered gruffly.

That did it.  

Dick made a pained noise and surged forward—nearly sending them both to the floor as he all but threw his arms around Jason's neck in an iron grip, holding him like he thought Jason would vanish again if he so much as blinked.  

"You idiot," he choked out, eyes streaming behind the domino. "You absolute moron."

Jason just let out a huff—half-laugh, half-groan as Dick squeezed the air from his lungs. "Can't...breathe, dipshit..."  

He didn't pull away, though.  

His own hands were clenched around Dick’s suit, fingers gripping tight like he was unsure if he wanted to cling, or shred.

Damian stared silently, before eventually, he spoke. 

"We are in the middle of battle. This reunion can wait until we are sure we will not all be killed."

Jason exhaled—harsh and ragged—before pulling back from Dick just enough to glare down at Damian, though the effect was ruined by how red his own eyes were. "Bossy little shit," he muttered before flicking the kid lightly on the forehead.  

Dick, meanwhile, wiped at his domino with a shaky breath before nodding sharply. "Right." His voice was still rough with emotion but steady now—leader-mode activated as he turned toward the shed door where distant fighting still echoed through Nanda Parbat’s walls beyond it.  

"Bruce is covering our exit path." He glanced toward Jason (still weak but alive) and then Damian (small but stubborn). "...Let’s get you both home."

Dick supported Jason. Damian moved around them with precision. Anyone came close? 

His blade sliced through them. 

And unlike Nightwing, he aimed to kill.

Dick’s grip on Jason tightened—his other hand twitching toward his escrima sticks as he eyed Damian’s ruthless efficiency with something halfway between pride and concern.  

"Damian," he started, voice low and warning.  

Jason just let out a tired scoff—leaning heavily against Dick but watching the kid like this was normal. "Heh." A smirk flickered across his face despite everything. "Atta boy."  

Dick shot him an exasperated look before sighing through clenched teeth as another assassin lunged at them—only for Damian to cut them down without hesitation, blood splattering against pristine stone pavement in dark arcs behind them all.  

"Y'know what? Fine," Dick muttered under his breath before adjusting Jason's weight over his shoulders again and pressing forward through the chaos (Damian protecting their backs now instead). "But we are talking about this later."

They made it to the Batwing. Superman was there--defending, providing aerial support. 

"Father. We have arrived at the extraction vehicle. Where are you?" Damian barked into the comms.

The line crackled with static for a second before Bruce's gruff voice rang out across the comms, almost drowned out by the roar of the Batwing's engines. "I'm on my way. Ten minutes maximum," he all but snarled—and it was hard to say whether the anger in his voice was for them or the League of Assassins that he was busy taking apart behind him, one assassin at a time.  

Dick looked toward Bruce's voice—his face as hard as steel as he nodded sharply. "Understood."

"I will come help--" Damian started, before another voice cut on. 

"Don't worry, literal child. We got like. The whole JL here. Your daddy's fine," Hal's voice quirked.

Jason snorted—leaning against Dick with a weak but amused smirk. "Damn," he muttered. "Kid, even Lantern is telling you to sit down."  

Clark came and grabbed Damian, whose face twisted in open scorn before he snapped. "Unhand me."  

But Superman was already lifting him into the Batwing with gentle hands as Nightwing hauled Jason inside next to him, both too exhausted and injured to protest further for once.

“Who even are you?" Damian snapped at Clark. "You are dressed in a onesie."

Clark's mouth opened—then shut again, blinking in genuine surprise before turning to Dick and Jason like help?  

Jason just cackled weakly from where he was slumped against the Batwing’s seat.  

Dick, meanwhile, sighed—deeply exhausted—as he wiped at the blood still trickling down his temple. "Damian," he started patiently (or as patiently as someone could sound while bleeding). "This is Superman. He's a part of the Justice League. He's Bruce's friend."

"An ally," Damian acknowledged. "But a trustworthy one?" His eyes narrowed, before he shifted to stand in front of Jason. 

"Stay away from my brother."

Clark blinked—completely baffled for a second before his expression softened into something painfully understanding. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, stepping back with both hands raised in an easy surrender (as if Superman had anything to fear from an eight-year-old in a bloodied Robin suit). "I won’t go near him."  

Jason just groaned from behind Damian, slumping further against the seat. "Kid...Superman isn’t the problem here." His voice was rough but fond as he flicked Damian lightly on the back of his head. "Relax."

Damian huffed, eyeing Clark until he had sped off to beat back some enemies getting too close. 

And without another word, Damian clambered into Jason's lap. 

"Where does it hurt?" he demanded.

Jason just laughed—weak but warm—as he wrapped his arms around the kid, holding him close with a familiar, worn affection.  

"All over, kiddo," he rasped, burying his face into the top of Damian's head with a long exhale. "Feels like I got hit by a truck. Two, three...maybe a few trains. Hell."

"Tt. Ridiculous. We do not have trains here," Damian said seriously. "But if Grandfather hit you with one of the loading trucks--"

Jason snorted—biting back another weak laugh before pulling back just far enough to ruffle Damian's hair (still stained with blood). "How are you real," he muttered, shaking his head with a weary but affectionate smile. "I missed you, you little maniac."

Damian blinked at him. Because this? This light hearted version of his brother?

He wasn't familiar with. 

Dick watched them silently for another few moments—taking in the way Jason seemed to be struggling to stay upright but still keeping an arm tight around Damian—before shifting closer with a weary sigh of his own.  

"Jay," he murmured, fingers itching like he wanted to reach out and confirm that this was real—and not another of Ra's cruel tricks. "Are you...okay?"

Damian answered for Jason, scowling up at Dick. "He is injured. Obviously."  

Jason let out a tired chuckle but didn’t argue—his head lolling back against the seat as his grip on Damian loosened slightly (still keeping the kid close). "Yeah," he admitted roughly. "Been better."  

Dick exhaled sharply—running a hand through his hair before nodding once, jaw clenched. "Okay," he muttered under his breath before raising his voice again: "Medical first, then debrief." His gaze flicked to Damian and softened slightly despite himself. "...And maybe some sleep for both of you."

"I am fine," Damian insisted, but grunted when Jason tugged him down to lay against his chest.

"Yeah, sure. Of course, kid, you're so fine," Jason snorted, already shifting to curl Damian more comfortably against him even if his eyes were growing more and more exhausted with every passing moment.  

Dick sighed—something almost fond in the sound—as he looked away to stare out the window. "We'll see how fine you both are when we get back to the cave," he muttered, crossing his arms.

Damian stayed alert. Even as Jason practically passed out more than fell asleep under him, he stayed rigid--an almost feral possessiveness in his eyes. 

Bruce returned about six minutes later. He stepped into the Batwing—bloodied and bruised but otherwise intact—his gaze immediately landing on Damian (still coiled protectively over Jason) before flickering to Dick, who just gave him a silent nod.  

For a long moment, no one spoke.  

Then:  

"...Good work," Bruce murmured gruffly as he moved to take the pilot’s seat without another word—engines roaring as the Batwing lifted off, leaving Nanda Parbat burning in their wake.

Externally, Bruce was focused. Getting them home, listening as Dick commanded retreat from the battle. Mission accomplished. 

Internally?

Jason was alive. Bruce had an entire son he had had no idea about. There was so much to process.

And yet—as the Batwing soared through Gotham's smog-choked skies, Damian still stubbornly awake over Jason’s barely-breathing form and Dick finally letting himself actually smile for the first time in years—Bruce allowed himself one single thought to slip past the mission focus:  

We're going home.  

(They had time now. Time to fix this. To be better.)

Chapter Text

They arrived at the cave after about three hours. The entire flight, Damian had stayed hovering over Jason--not allowing anyone near him.

When they landed, he was silent. Watched as Bruce slowly turned all the controls off. 

"...He will become enraged," he mentioned. "When he sees you." 

His eyes met Bruce's in the rearview mirror.

Bruce’s hands stilled on the controls for just a second before he shut them down completely, exhaling through his nose.  

“I know,” he answered quietly—voice rough but steady as his reflection met Damian’s in the mirror. “But I can take it.”  

His gaze flicked to Jason—still unconscious, still alive—before settling back on Damian with something unreadable behind the cowl’s whites.  

“We can take it.”

Damian nodded slowly. Lingered. Finally, he shifted to get off of Jason. "...He is unconscious. He was not responding to sternal rubs."

Bruce was already moving—unbuckling himself from the pilot’s seat and standing stiffly before stepping toward Jason’s slumped form. His hands hovered for half a second, assessing the extent of his injuries with clinical detachment—before carefully sliding one arm beneath Jason’s knees and another behind his back, lifting him with practiced ease. (He held him closer than necessary.) 

“Medical bay,” he murmured gruffly to no one in particular as he started forward—gaze flickering toward Damian again. “You too.”

As they exited the Batwing, Tim was immediately approaching. "Oh my god--woah. Wait. He's huge now. Wasn't he shorter than Dick before? Are you guys okay?" he asked frantically, still in the Robin costume. 

Damian, who had been reluctantly being ushered forward by Dick, huffed in a clear disdain for Tim.

Dick snorted—running a hand through his hair as he shot a fond but exasperated look at Tim. "Yeah, well. Four years in a Lazarus pit can do that to you."  

Tim's eyes widened, gaze shifting between Jason and Damian in shock. "Jason was in a Lazarus pit for four years?"  

Bruce didn't answer, already continuing toward the medbay with Jason cradled against his chest. "Medical bay," he repeated gruffly. "Now."

"Tt. Of course not. He was dipped five times," Damian muttered. "Four years would leave him an empty husk. Imbecile."

He strode past Tim, hurrying to Jason's side. "Father. Allow me to tend to his wounds. He trusts me."

Bruce hesitated—just for a second—before carefully lowering Jason onto one of the medbay cots with surprising gentleness. His jaw was clenched tight, but when he turned to Damian, his voice was quieter than usual.  

"...Fine." A pause. "But you let Alfred double-check your work."  

Dick made a soft noise behind them (somewhere between relief and amusement), while Tim just gaped silently from the doorway—still processing everything.

"Who is Alfred?" Damian muttered, as he hurried to start stripping Jason with a practiced ease. 

And of course he wouldn't know. They hadn't even gotten the chance to introduce him before they had gone to save Jason.

Alfred is going to have a field day, Bruce thought. "He's our...he's our butler," he explained gruffly—almost mechanically shifting into a defensive stance at the foot of Jason's cot to watch Damian's painfully efficient method of disrobing the younger Wayne.  

"...He's also family," he added quieter, more gently.

Damian absently scanned Jason over for injuries. Bruises. His arm was definitely broken. Flogging marks. Blade cuts. 

He reached for the antiseptic. 

"How is he family if he's a servant?" Damian asked bluntly, beginning to clean the various wounds.

Bruce exhaled—slow and measured, a habit he'd picked up from years of dealing with emotionally constipated vigilantes (and now his own biologically emotionally constipated child). "Because family isn't about titles," he answered quietly, watching as Damian worked. "Alfred raised me. He stayed when no one else did."  

A pause—heavy with unspoken things before he added gruffly:  

"...And if you call him a servant to his face? You'll regret it."

Damian frowned, glancing up at Bruce. "...It is confusing here," he muttered, before focusing back on his work. 

Stitches, next. He did it perfectly, not even a shake in his hand. 

And then the broken arm. "He needs a sling. It'll heal faster, with the Lazarus. But it will need a few days." He felt over where it was broken--just below the elbow.

Bruce watched silently—his own hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to step in, to help, but forcing himself not to interfere with Damian’s work (the kid clearly knew what he was doing, as disturbing as that was).  

When Damian mentioned the sling, Bruce just nodded stiffly before turning slightly toward Dick. “First aid supplies,” he muttered—already moving toward one of the medbay cabinets himself.  

Dick exhaled sharply but didn’t argue—just darting forward to grab a pre-prepared sling from where they were stored before returning and handing it carefully over to Damian. Tim remained frozen in the doorway, watching everything unfold with wide eyes—silent for once in his life.

Damian took it. With a practiced efficiency, he rested a hand on Jason's lower bicep. The other gripped his wrist. 

A tug, pronounced with a sharp: clk-CLCK.

And the bones were set in place.

Tim flinched—visibly shuddering at the sound—while Dick sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. Bruce didn’t react beyond a slight tightening of his jaw, but his eyes darkened with something unreadable as he watched Damian secure the sling with practiced ease (too practiced for an eight-year-old).  

“...You’ve done this before,” he observed quietly. It wasn’t a question.

"Yes," Damian said. "It's always this arm. Probably a weakness in the bone from previous breaks..."

Carefully, he wrapped it in gauze to keep it bent and still, before positioning it in the sling. 

"He is highly bruised. But he does not enjoy pain medication unless necessary. Do not administer any until he consents."

Dick shifted nervously in the corner—still trying to process the fact that this kid could treat broken bones as easily as Bruce tied his own shoes—before finally speaking up. "Uh. Then how are we going to keep him comfortable?"  

Bruce just sighed, running a hand down his face tiredly as he shook his head. "Pressure bandages. Ice packs. Anti-inflammatory pain relievers. And a heavy dose of sleep."

Damian was currently shifting some shorts onto Jason, and quietly wiping him down with some baby wipes, clearing the blood and dirt. He was almost...possessive. His brow was pinched in concentration as he did everything possible to make sure Jason was comfortable. The fact that they were offering such small measures of pain relief was foreign to him, but he wasn’t going to complain.

Bruce exhaled—long and slow—before stepping forward to rest a hand on Damian’s shoulder (just for a second, just enough to let the kid know I see you. I’m here) before pulling away again.  

“You did good,” he murmured gruffly—as close to “thank you” as he was going to get right now with Tim still gaping at them from the doorway and Dick hovering nervously nearby like he wanted nothing more than to crawl into Jason’s cot himself and never leave his side again.  

Then, quieter: “...Now it’s your turn.”

Damian paused. Glanced up at Bruce for a long moment, before reluctantly standing straight. "...Fine." He moved to the empty cot beside Jason. Glared a little when Dick and Tim both crowded the unconscious man's cot, but didn't move to stop them.

Bruce exhaled—some mixture of relief and exhaustion—as he watched Damian finally comply, stepping toward the second cot with all the reluctance of a feral kitten being forcibly removed from its chosen cardboard box.  

Alfred chose that exact moment to stride into the medbay—tray of medical supplies in hand and eyes sharp as they landed first on Jason (bruised but stable), then on Damian (small, bloodied, suspicious), before settling on Bruce. 

"How is Master Jason settling in?" he asked, moving to the cot. A hand rested on Jason's forehead, brushing down his hair with a subdued fondness.

"He's alive," Bruce answered quietly, his shoulders finally relaxing a fraction as he finally gave in to his exhaustion and slumped against the wall behind him with a low sigh.  

Alfred, who was used to handling Bruce when he was exhausted and injured and just plain hurting, only nodded with a soft hum before shifting to stand in front of Damian. "And you, young Master?" he asked, resting a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Any injuries? Pain? Discomfort?"

Damian shrugged the touch off almost immediately. He tipped his chin up. "I am operational," he replied clinically. "Nothing that requires immediate attention."

Bruce and Dick exchanged looks at Damian's response—the corners of both their mouths tilting downward into matching frowns as they watched the kid's stubborn determination to remain tough in front of the newcomers. 

Alfred, who had seen this kind of thing a thousand times before in his kids, did not react—just kept his expression neutral as he moved toward the equipment beside Damian's cot.  "Off," he said gently but firmly. "Shirt off. I need to take a look."

Damian frowned at that. "You cannot order me around. I outra--"

"Off, I said," Alfred repeated, his words still firm but just as gentle as before. "This is not a powerplay, young sir—and I, for your information, can and will order you around when it comes to matters of health." His eyes flicked toward Bruce then as a nonvocal "you too" before shifting back to Damian. "Do as you've been told, please."

Damian looked flabbergasted at the tone. His eyes flew to Bruce--a wordless:

The servant is speaking to me like this?!

(Yeah. They were going to have a lot of...social adjustment with this kid.)

Bruce just ran a hand down his face in something that could only be called pure exhaustion.  

"Kid," he began in a quiet but firm voice. "You're bleeding and bruised and covered in dirt and god knows what else. You're going to let Alfred look you over and you're going to do your best to cooperate. Got it?"  

And even without looking, Bruce could tell Damian was still glaring up at him defiantly. He just waited, keeping his face completely neutral even as his jaw clenched.

But the order was clear. And while Damian was reluctant, Bruce did outrank him. 

So, with a scowl, he went to remove his chest piece, and then his undershirt. 

Scars. He was covered in them. There weren't more than a few patches of skin unscathed. Varying blade marks. Burns. Tears. Whip and cane lashes. Chemical burns. Electric. And numerous surgery scars. The largest was along his spine. It seemed most recent, too. Red and raised and angry.

Alfred's breath caught—just slightly—as he took in the sight of Damian’s bare torso. He didn’t react beyond a slight tightening around his eyes, but Bruce felt it like a physical blow, his own stomach twisting as he forced himself to look away (to give the kid space) before clenching his fists at his sides.  

Dick made a wounded noise behind them before spinning abruptly toward Tim and grabbing him by the shoulder—hauling him out of the medbay with more force than necessary (and ignoring Tim’s startled protest as they went).  

Alfred exhaled shakily before moving forward again—hands steady despite everything as he reached for antiseptic and gauze. "Well," he murmured quietly (not to anyone in particular). "We shall have our work cut out for us."

Damian didn't seem phased. He loosely allowed Alfred to tend to a few cuts and scrapes on his arms--the only injuries he'd received during the battle at Nanda Parbat. 

He had other injuries, still fresh, but healed over. With the Lazarus in mind, probably only five or so days old. A stitched deep blade mark across his collarbone and chest, and a stitched stab wound just above his left kidney. "I heal quickly," he said absently.

Bruce’s knuckles went white—his entire body tensing as he forced himself to stay where he was (to not react, because Damian clearly didn’t see this as abnormal).  

Alfred didn't respond beyond a quiet hum, his hands still careful and steady as they cleaned the freshest of Damian's wounds with practiced efficiency. But his mouth was set in a grim line, and when Bruce met his eyes briefly over the kid's head? There was something furious in them.  

Ruthless.  

It wasn't directed at Damian—of course not. Never at Damian. But it was there all the same.

Damian didn't react to the pain of his wounds being cleaned. He just watched Jason closely, almost bored. 

Bruce couldn't take his eyes off that spinal scar. It was ugly. Thick and red and raised. It looked painful, and the longer Bruce stared the worse his stomach twisted into knots. 

Finally—finally—Bruce forced himself to step forward, kneeling down in front of Damian (just enough to be at eye level without crowding him) and pointedly ignoring the way his knees protested against the cold medbay floor.  

“Damian,” he started carefully—voice quiet but firm. “Your spine.” He hesitated for just a second before continuing: “What happened?”

Damian made a face. More annoyance than anything as he gave what he believed to be a mandated report. "I lost a battle with Grandfather. He grabbed my throat and threw me into the ground. I landed incorrectly and my T6 and T7 vertebrae shattered. A…previous injury, that led to the weakness."

That didn't seem to be the end of the story.

Bruce’s breath caught.  

Dick—who had just returned from shoving Tim out of the room—stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as he processed what Damian was saying (what he wasn’t saying).  

“...And then?” Bruce prompted, voice rougher than intended.

"I was showing weakness. Crying. It was pitiful," Damian muttered darkly. "Mother was to either place me in the waters, or reinforce my spine. She chose the latter."

Dick paled—mouth set in a thin line before he turned away abruptly.  

Alfred’s face was carefully controlled as he continued tending to Damian’s injuries, but his knuckles were white around the antiseptic pads as he wiped them harshly over the various scrapes and gashes.  

Through it all, Bruce’s expression didn’t change. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and carefully neutral:  

"And how were you reinforced?"

"Metal plating and rods," Damian said, as if describing a cavity being filled. "My spine can withstand considerable damage now without risk of failure."

There was a long, heavy silence.  

Then—  

Dick abruptly turned on his heel and walked out of the medbay without another word (though Bruce could hear him punching the far wall with enough force to crack concrete moments after).

Alfred’s hands stilled for just a second—just long enough for Bruce to see how shaken he was—before continuing methodically wrapping Damian’s ribs with bandages.  

And Bruce? Bruce had no words. He just stood there, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt as he watched Alfred work in stony silence until finally:  

"Damian," he said softly (too softly). "That shouldn't have happened."

Damian only rolled his eyes. "I am aware. I was six, at the time, and far less trained. I should have landed better."

The kid was just so matter-of-fact about everything. Like it was nothing. Like he deserved to have his spine shattered and then just have it reinforced with metal because he "landed incorrectly."  

It was no wonder that Dick had left. Bruce was having trouble keeping it together right now.  

Alfred had finished wrapping Damian's ribs now. Only his spine injury remained.  

Bruce's hand shook almost imperceptibly as he forced himself to meet Damian's eyes. "Turn around."

Damian did so loosely. That scar taunted Bruce almost directly. 

It had to hurt. The kid had literal metal visible under his skin, in the patches where his spine was closest to the surface. Bruce could actually feel his heart in his throat now. He'd seen a lot of things in his time fighting crime—had seen a lot of things to make a strong stomach turn—but seeing those cold, hard pieces of metal visible under a kid's skin was...

Bruce took a shallow breath through his nose, trying to keep his expression neutral as he asked, "May I touch it?"

Damian nodded loosely. He stayed sitting straight. When Bruce touched over the spine, his muscles flinched. Just barely. But there. Enough to confirm it hurt even to just the touch. (He couldn't tell if the flinch was from the pain itself only, or from generally being touched.) 

Bruce was careful when he traced carefully over those pieces of metal, his stomach twisting the entire time as his fingers gently palpated the area around the scar and the plating. "Does it hurt when I touch here?" he asked quietly.

Damian didn't reply--a wariness entering his expression. "An Al Ghul does not feel pain."

And the kid was eight. Eight, and he'd been conditioned to deny pain as if it was a sign of weakness.  

It took every ounce of self restraint he had to keep himself from letting those emotions break through on his face. He just kept his tone neutral as he asked again. "Just answer the question, Damian. Does it hurt or not?"

"An Al Ghul does not--"

"I'm not asking about the Al Ghul's," Bruce snapped suddenly, fingers tightening involuntarily as they brushed near the scar. "I'm asking about you."  

And he knew he probably shouldn't snap—not at an eight-year-old who'd spent his entire life being conditioned into this twisted mindset—but he was so mad.  

It took a heavy breath and all of the self control he had left to soften his tone. "Just say whether or not it hurts. Please."

Silence filled the medbay for a long few moments. But eventually, Damian gave a stiff nod. Like he couldn't bring himself to verbalize it. And that was the worst part. Knowing that the kid was so used to denying pain—to denying any sort of vulnerability—that he couldn't even say the word "yes" when asked if something hurt.  

Bruce hated this.  

He hated the League of Assassins for teaching this mindset to a kid. He hated Ra's al Ghul for taking Damian in the first place. But most of all, he hated himself for letting it get to this point.

Bruce exhaled slowly, forcing his hands to relax. "Okay," he murmured—gently pressing a hand against Damian's shoulder (not quite an embrace, but something steady). "That's okay."  

And then—before Damian could protest—he reached for the nearest medical supplies.  

"I can't fix what they did to you, not right now," he admitted quietly as he began applying numbing gel with feather-light touches along the scar tissue and metal plating (anything to ease the pain for now). "But I can make sure it doesn't hurt more than it has to."

Damian frowned. "...What is it you're applying?" he muttered, his head craning around. "It is healed. It does not need ointment."

"It's numbing gel," Bruce answered carefully—still keeping his touch light as he spread a thin layer over the worst of the scar tissue. "Just to make it hurt less for now."  

A pause. Then, softer:  

"Everything deserves to be treated with care when it hurts, Damian."

The words were left heavy in the air. But Damian didn't quite understand them. A slightly furrowed brow as he just let Bruce continue. 

And of course he didn't. All this kid knew was pain. He was even tense under Bruce's gentle application. It was horrible. Every instinct in Bruce was screaming: hug this kid. Hold him until he isn't so tense. Make him feel safe. Wanted. Loved.  

But this kid was a stranger. Damian wouldn't understand that—wouldn't know how to process affection like that. He'd probably fight against it if he thought it'd make him appear weak.  

So Bruce just kept applying the numbing gel with gentle hands and a heavy heart.

Eventually they were done. Damian was fighting it--of course he was--but he was clearly exhausted. Who knew how long he'd been awake at this point.

Bruce's hands lingered briefly over the now-numbed area. The kid looked like he was barely staying awake—his shoulders slightly slumped as his eyes drooped. But he still sat with his spine perfectly straight.  

Alfred, who had been silently tending to Damian's other old injuries while Bruce was treating the worst of them, looked like he was about to say something until Bruce gave a sharp shake of his head, cutting off the comment before it even started.  

"Damian," he murmured then, shifting to kneel in front of the kid again. "How long has it been since you've slept?"

Damian glanced down at him, and frowned. He seemed to consider for a moment, having to think on it. Eventually: "Two nights before my birthday, I slept about four hours. That was...five days ago," he calculated clinically. 

His birthday?

FIVE days ago?

Bruce's breath hitched.  

This kid hadn't slept in five days—and he was talking about it like it was just another normal Tuesday. Like being deprived of sleep for nearly a week wasn't absolutely detrimental to an adult, let alone a child.  

Then there was the matter of his birthday... which Bruce didn’t even know. Which made this whole conversation all the more gut-wrenching when he realized that Damian had probably spent what should have been one of his happiest days either injured or too exhausted to even celebrate properly (if at all).  

He couldn't bring himself to ask any follow-up questions—didn’t want Damian thinking that missing sleep and birthdays were something wrong (because clearly the League hadn’t seen them as such). So instead, he simply nodded toward Alfred. "Get him settled." Then, quieter, "Please."

Damian brushed away Alfred's touch. "I will remain with Todd," he said firmly. And suddenly, he was up. Moving towards Jason, where he clambered onto the cot carefully, and tucked himself under his arm against his side. A close show of affection for a League member. Green eyes met Bruce and Alfred in challenge: TRY to take me from him.

And Bruce...  

Understood.  

Even if Damian didn't say it—didn't know how to say it—the way he clung to Jason's unconscious form was enough. Jason had been his lifeline for years now. His brother in all but blood (not that that mattered for this family anyways). And right now? Even half-dead from exhaustion, Damian was going to protect him. Just like he'd always done.  

Bruce held up a hand before Alfred could argue (because of course Alfred would want the kid in an actual bed) and just gave a slow nod instead. "Fine." A pause. "But you sleep too."

Damian glared a moment, but reluctantly, he laid his head down on Jason's shoulder and closed his eyes. Carefully focused on his breathing. It was clear he wouldn't fall fully asleep. Not with people present. Not while Jason was vulnerable. But at least he'd be resting.

Bruce stayed where he was for several minutes, watching as Damian's breathing gradually evened out into light sleep. Then, once he seemed satisfied that the kid wouldn't be getting up any time soon...  

He stood, motioning for Alfred to follow before quietly exiting the medbay—leaving the door partially open and the lights dimmed low (so Damian would still probably be able to rest without worrying about what was happening outside the room).

Bruce exhaled deeply in the hallway, pressing his palms against his eyes for a moment before looking at Alfred. The older man’s expression was unreadable, but the tension in his jaw spoke volumes.  

"We need to keep an eye on them both," Bruce murmured lowly. "Jason isn’t stable yet—physically or mentally—and Damian…" His voice trailed off as he glanced back toward the medbay door.  

"...Damian is going to need time," Alfred finished quietly, tone grim but firm. "And care."  

Bruce nodded stiffly before turning away again—already mentally compiling lists of what needed to be done next (calls to Leslie Thompkins about spine injuries and metal reinforcement; contingency plans if Jason woke up violent; how in hell they were supposed to explain any of this to the public).  

This wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Text

Damian slept. Only lightly. Every fifteen minutes or so, he woke, and looked up at Jason. Adjusted the blankets, fixed his hair, his bandages. Back to sleep. Repeat. He was exhausted by morning. But he wouldn't rest. Not until Jason was awake. 

Not until Jason would take watch. Just like always. 

And he was patient. He could wait.

Bruce watched from the doorway, silent.  

He’d been doing this all night—checking in on them every half-hour (whether to make sure Jason was stable or just to reassure himself that Damian was still there, he wasn’t entirely sure). Each time, he found the kid curled against his brother like a particularly stubborn barnacle—barely asleep but refusing to move regardless.  

It was frustrating.  

(No, scratch that—it was heartbreaking.)  

This wasn't normal behavior for an eight-year-old child (not even one trained by assassins). The way Damian monitored Jason's vitals so meticulously; how he adjusted things with such clinical precision whenever something wasn't "right"; how he barely let himself doze off before jerking awake again out of instinct alone...It spoke volumes about what his life must have been like before now. About how much responsibility had already been forced onto those tiny shoulders long before Bruce ever even knew they existed.   

And yet? He didn't interfere again tonight beyond quiet observation, and fresh ice packs left beside their cot when needed, because if this is what made Damian feel safe? If keeping watch over someone else gave him comfort in some twisted way? Then Bruce wouldn’t take that away.

It was around 6am, and between a check in from Bruce, that Damian, who had given up pretenses of sleep at this point, felt Jason stir. Almost immediately, he lifted his head. A small hand cupped Jason's cheek as he stared intensely.

Jason opened his eyes slowly—groggy and disoriented at first before his gaze landed on Damian. It took a second to process: the medbay, the beeping heart monitor, the IV's in his arm. Damian. The familiar ambiance of the cave that felt both like a balm and like needles.

"Hey," he murmured—voice croaking through a dry mouth as he reached out to rest a hand over Damian's smaller one. "You okay, princeling?"

Damian, wordlessly, reached for a bottle of water by the cot. His hand didn't leave Jason's face. "Drink," he whispered, carefully holding it to his lips.

The cold water felt good—so good—as it ran down his throat. Jason drank it in like a man dying of thirst.  

"Thanks," he murmured when it was empty, watching Damian set the bottle back in its place. "You sleep at all?"

Damian paused--just for a brief second--before nodding. The answer was clear to Jason, who knew how to read this kid by now. No.

Yeah... Jason had figured as much.  

"You should rest," he murmured again, shifting slightly to make room on the narrow cot. "C'mere."

Damian frowned slightly. "You are injured. You will make an inefficient sentinel."

You should rest more. I'm worried for you. 

Jason sighed softly, knowing the kid was right but still...not liking it. He knew Damian would keep watch over him all night if he could. And for all that the kid was capable—more capable than most of Earth’s adult heroes—he had still been trained as an assassin and he was still eight. And for all his skills and strength, he was also a vulnerable little kid who was hurting too (even if he'd never admit it).   

"Damian." He gave a gentle tug on his arm. "Just lie down with me."

Damian frowned deeply, but after a moment, slowly did lay down. He curled up to Jason's side, head nestling into his collarbone. 

"...We are somewhere called The Batcave," he reported quietly. "The replacement so far has remained upstairs. Grayson and Pennyworth are occasionally present. Father moreso. Every thirty minutes like clockwork. His next check will be in twenty."

Jason's stomach soured at Bruce's mention. That hatred, deeply ingrained in him, flared up. His fingers tightened around Damian—not enough to hurt, but just...protective.  

He hated Bruce. Hated the entire idea of him. But right now? He was more focused on making sure this tiny kid who had clearly been fighting exhaustion for days didn't force himself into a state of complete collapse.

"Okay," he muttered instead—because at least Damian was finally laying down properly (even if it took an order from Jason to make it happen). "Now close your eyes."

Damian frowned. Hesitant. But the exhaustion won out over his stubbornness. He closed his eyes. 

And with Jason now watching? He was practically unconscious within minutes.

Jason, finally feeling like he could think just a little bit now that Damian was actually resting, exhaled a slow breath. His thoughts were still swirling—still racing with thoughts of everything that had happened so far—but the steady breathing against his chest at least gave him something to focus on other than the anger. 

He lifted his hand to brush carefully through Damian's hair instead—so gentle it was like he was handling something precious. (He was.)

It was exactly nineteen minutes before Bruce came for his next check in. This time, he paused in the doorway as he saw Jason was awake. 

Their eyes met. Bruce's face was carefully neutral. 

Jason on the other hand? Flooded with emotion. Betrayal. Hate. Anger. Disgust. 

Nothing positive. Not through the Pit.

Both men studied each other for a long moment—Bruce taking note of how Jason immediately tensed the instant he spotted him (though not enough to wake Damian up), and Jason...  

Jason's gaze burned. "Get out," he hissed suddenly—so harsh it was almost a growl. "Now." 

Bruce, to his credit, didn't even flinch. He'd gotten worse from better before. "We need to talk," he said coolly instead.

Jason's mouth twisted into a sneer. "I have nothing to say to you," he snarled back, trying not to jostle Damian in the process—who was still blissfully asleep at his side. "So leave."

Damian's hand twitched. A light sleeper by nature. The only reason he hadn't woken yet was the fact he was more unconscious than asleep.

Bruce's gaze flicked over to the kid. His mind moved quickly–weighing the risks of continuing this conversation now that Damian was involved. He didn't exactly want to upset the kid right off the bat, but...   

There were some things that really did need to be said.  

"Jason..." he started—voice low and careful. "Five minutes.”

Jason's fingers flexed against Damian's back—protective, possessive. "If you wake him up," he gritted out between clenched teeth, "I will end you."  

Bruce exhaled through his nose. "...Two minutes," he amended quietly.

Jason's eyes flashed, but it was only for a moment before he gave a short jerk of his head. "Two minutes." He hated that Bruce was essentially blackmailing him into a conversation—using Damian to get the upper hand on him. It made Jason absolutely furious.  

But he could do two minutes. As long as Damian was still sleeping. And as long as he was in charge of this entire interaction.

Bruce motioned to Damian, who was tensing slightly, trying to wake up.

"Get him settled first. Then the two minutes begins," he murmured. He stayed in the doorway as he waited.

Jason's nostrils flared, and he had half a mind to tell Bruce to screw himself, but...  

Damian was waking up.   

That was the only thing that could override the anger right now. His fingers loosened around Damian's shoulder, shifting the kid gently until he was off of his back. He knew he slept better with no pressure there. "Hey, hey," he said softly—voice low and careful again. "It's okay. You can go back to sleep. Everything's fine."

Damian's nose scrunched. A child-like expression that was rare on him. 

But, after a few moments...

His frame slowly melted back against Jason. Soft breaths against his bicep, where his face had hidden against.

Bruce let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding—hands flexing at his sides as he carefully watched them both (like they were something sacred, something fragile).  

And then, when Jason glared back up at him in challenge again:  

"Two minutes," Bruce repeated quietly. "Starting now."

Jason's hands clenched tightly around the blanket—the only outlet he had for his anger right now—as he forced himself to stare up at Bruce. He hated this, being trapped. Being at the mercy of someone else. "Fine," he ground out. "Two minutes."

Bruce stepped further inside then, moving to lean against the wall opposite the cot. He kept his hands where Jason could see them—a silent show of goodwill. "I'm not here to argue with you," he said evenly. "Only to talk."

Jason had to fight down his knee-jerk retort. "Yeah?" he retorted instead. "And what the hell do we have to talk about, exactly?"

"The past," Bruce said carefully—watching Jason's face closely. Trying to figure out how to phrase this properly. How much he could risk saying to start.

Jason's expression darkened—sharp and dangerous like a storm rolling in. "The past," he repeated bitterly, fingers twitching against the blanket. "You mean how you replaced me? Or how you left me to die? To rot?"

Bruce inhaled deeply, bracing himself for the backlash he knew would come with that. "We thought you were dead," he said quietly. "We all did. I did."

Jason scoffed—the sound bitter, humorless. "Yeah? Funny how I was still breathing when I dug myself out of that coffin," he spat back. "Guess finding my replacement was easier than just checking my grave, huh?"  

Bruce’s jaw tightened. He could see the pain behind Jason's fury—could feel it like a knife twisting in his own chest—but arguing over semantics wouldn’t help anyone right now (least of all Damian, who was starting to shift again in Jason’s arms).  

"Tim wasn't your replacement," he said firmly instead—not rising to the bait (for once). "He chose Robin for himself before I ever let him take up the mantle."

"Oh, he did, huh?" Jason hissed—still unable to keep his voice soft even though he could see Damian stirring again. "And I guess you just said, 'sure, whatever, kid! What's the worst that could happen?'"

Bruce winced at the sarcasm—at how close to the truth that was. "It wasn't like that," he murmured instead. "Tim...he was different from both of you. He was obsessively determined to become Robin. I tried to stop him."  

Jason laughed bitterly. "Oh, you tried, did you? And you tried real hard, huh?"

 "I did," Bruce bit out, finally starting to feel the anger building in himself, too, even as he tried desperately to stay calm. "I tried to convince him to go be a normal kid. To have a normal life."  

Jason's eyes narrowed. "And when that didn't work?" he hissed out. "What then, old man? Did you throw up your hands and give in?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. "I trained him," he said tightly. "To make sure he wouldn't die out there."  

Jason let out a sharp, bitter laugh—his fingers tightening around the blanket again before they finally twitched—as if physically restraining himself from doing something stupid (something violent).  

"Yeah? And whose idea was it to dress him up in my colors, huh?" he sneered instead. "Who looked at some kid who idolized me and thought 'this is fine'?!"

And as Jason's voice rose towards the end...

Damian whimpered. A small distress against Jason's skin. It was like even half unconscious, he could sense the rising tension.

Jason immediately recoiled—his entire body jerking with the realization that he'd just disturbed Damian of all things. His fingers loosened on the blanket; his breath steadied. His expression softened almost comically fast as he leaned back down over Damian, murmuring softly, "Shh...shh...it's okay. I'm here."  

Bruce took a slow step forward—only to stop dead when Jason shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass over Damian's head.   

"One minute," Jason reminded him coldly, pressing his lips against the crown of Damian's hair in apology before looking back up again—expression steeled once more despite how exhausted he clearly was too now (both emotionally and physically). "And you're done."

Damian fell back to sleep. 

The medbay was silent for five precious seconds.

And then...  

"I made mistakes," Bruce said quietly. It hurt to say but it was true. And Bruce wasn't going to shy away from admitting when he was wrong.  

Jason's gaze shot to his—sharp, guarded—but he didn't speak, which Bruce took as permission to keep going. "I made a lot of mistakes," he reiterated quietly. "In how I trained you...in how I raised you."

Jason's expression hardened, and he opened his mouth—likely to spit back a harsh retort—but Bruce held up a hand, cutting him off before he could even speak.  

"Let me finish," he said firmly. "Please."  

There was an agonizing pause. And then... finally... Jason gave a slow, grudging nod.

Bruce took a slow breath, trying to find the words that wouldn't start another fight.  

"I wasn't a very...affectionate guardian," he admitted quietly. "I was...cold, and distant. I kept you at arm's length because I thought that was what you needed."  

Jason's gaze hardened—almost defiant—and he opened his mouth to speak before...stopping. Willing himself to stay silent, even though it didn't look like it was easy for him.

Bruce exhaled. "But that wasn't what you needed," he continued, voice heavy with regret. "And I failed you in more ways than one."  

Jason flinched—like the words physically hurt him—before his expression twisted into something darker again. "Failed me?" he repeated bitterly. "You buried me, Bruce."  

This time, Bruce didn't argue back about who was at fault for that night in Ethiopia—he knew better than to drag up those wounds right now (not when Damian was still curled against Jason's side. Not when he blamed himself anyways). Instead, he simply nodded once—slow and solemn as if accepting the weight of those words on his shoulders fully.

"Yes," Bruce admitted finally because it was true whether intentional or not; whether by mistake or malice: He had. And there would never be any taking that back now no matter how much he tried. 

The silence between them was thick—charged with years of pain and betrayal, too heavy to simply dissipate. Jason's fingers trembled slightly where they still rested against Damian’s back. He wanted to lash out. Wanted to scream and throw punches until his knuckles split open against Bruce’s jaw—anything to make the man feel even a fraction of what he'd felt rotting in that coffin for six months before clawing his way free alone—  

But then…  

Damian let out another tiny sigh in his sleep, brows pinching ever so slightly as if sensing the storm brewing just above him. And just like that, Jason's rage deflated into something hollowed-out and exhausted instead.   

Bruce waited—letting Jason decide how this ended (if it even could end). But when no further vitriol came...he gave a slow nod toward the door behind him. "My two minutes are up." A pause. Then quieter, "...Rest while you can."  

And with that? He left them both alone again—closing the door softly behind him this time without another word spoken between either one since there truly wasn't anything left worth saying now anyway not when wounds still ran far too deep for mere apologies fix overnight (if ever at all).

And Jason was left to seethe. Because it hadn't fixed anything. 

But the murderous urge was quelled. For now. By this tiny thing curled into Jason like the world was only held together when in his arms.

Jason exhaled slowly, forcing his clenched fists to relax—forcing the tension out of his shoulders one stiff muscle at a time. It hadn’t fixed anything. He still hated Bruce. Still wanted him dead. 

But right now? Right now there was a child pressed against his side who needed him more than Jason needed revenge. And that…that changed things in ways Jason wasn’t ready to examine yet.  

So instead, he carefully tucked Damian just a little closer—letting the kid’s steady breathing ground him as he glared at the closed door where Bruce had disappeared through moments ago before finally muttering under his breath:

“...Asshole.”

It was Dick who came next. About four hours after. He looked half asleep, eyes red rimmed, hair disheveled, once he'd opened the door. 

For a moment, he just...stood there. Stared at Jason.

Jason tensed instinctively—gaze snapping up to lock onto Dick’s the moment the door creaked open.  

His first thought was danger. His second? This man abandoned me too.  

But Damian was still curled against him, sleeping deeply for once, and Jason refused to wake him just because Grayson couldn’t keep his distance like he should have. So instead, he just leveled Dick with a glare sharp enough to draw blood if looks could kill—daring him to say one wrong thing.

But Dick was silent. Eyes harrowed as they scanned over Jason's face, the scars, the white streak of hair. 

He crossed the room in two strides. Reached to cup Jason's cheeks in both hands. And whispered:

"Oh, little wing. What did they do to you?"

Jason's entire body tensed at the tender touch—his breathing faltering slightly, fingers clenching around the blanket in a white-knuckled grip. It took everything he had left to keep from jerking his head out of Dick's hand.  

"Back off," he ground in reply, voice low and rough—the barest hint of a warning in it. "Don't play that pity card with me, Dick. I'm not some orphan off the streets anymore for you to bring home."

Dick hesitated, but carefully took his hands away. Only to grasp Jason's hand in his own, instead. "I know you aren't. You're taller than me now," he laughed weakly. Then his expression turned more serious. "I'm talking about the scars, Jay. On both of you. What the hell did Ra's do to you?"

Jason yanked his hand free—eyes flashing with something between fury and betrayal. "You don't get to ask that," he hissed, careful to keep his voice low for Damian's sake even as the venom in it spiked. "You don’t get to pretend like you give a damn now after leaving me to rot in that place!"  

Dick flinched—actually flinched—like the words had physically struck him across the face before his expression crumpled into something agonized. "Jay...I didn't know you were alive until Bruce told us last night."  

A lie. It had to be a lie because otherwise—because if Dick hadn’t known, then why hadn’t he ever bothered checking? Why hadn’t any of them ever come looking?!  

Jason opened his mouth to spit back exactly that when Damian suddenly shifted against him with a small whimper—brows furrowing like even half-asleep, he could sense Jason's rising fury tearing through him again. And just like before? The anger drained out instantly at the reminder of who was still pressed close enough feel every ragged breath Jason took right now.

Dick was quiet as well. Watched Damian, though it was really Jason he was observing in the corner of his eye. When the kid settled back down, he spoke quietly. "...You two are...close, huh?"

Jason gritted his teeth—forcing his muscles to relax again as he carefully tucked Damian further into the crook of his shoulder. 

"Yeah," he muttered bitterly without looking over. No way in hell he was going to give Grayson an opening to tease him about a "soft spot" for the kid. "What of it?"

"...It's good," Dick whispered. "That you had each other. I...I'm sorry you had to go through any of it at all. But I'm...it's good you had each other."

Jason's eyes narrowed—something bitter twisting at his chest. He wanted to spit back a harsh retort about how he didn't need Dick's pity or anything from him at all. But Damian was pressed up to his side, sleeping soundly again, and that made it difficult to get the words out without raising his voice too much.  

"....yeah, well," he muttered instead, fingers drumming restlessly again. "We made do with what we had."

Dick nodded quietly. "...It's gonna take a while to adjust, little wing. We're gonna be patient, okay? It's understandable that you're angry. And you don't have to forgive anyone. Just...promise you'll let us help."

Jason let out a bitter laugh—low and dark. "Yeah, okay," he hissed sarcastically, still refusing to meet Dick's gaze even as he pulled Damian just a little closer against his side. "I'll be good."   

Like hell.  

Dick sighed. After a moment, he stood. "Alfred wants to come in a few hours with breakfast. Wanted me to ask if he could."

Jason's eyes flicked up at that. "...yeah," he murmured after a moment, glancing down at the kid tucked up against him. "That's fine. Just...tell him to keep his volume in check."

Dick nodded slightly. "...And uh. Wanted to know what you guys would need. Clothes and basics obviously but. Anything else?"

Jason's shoulders tensed just slightly—the thought of having to ask for anything from the others still rubbed him the wrong way. Especially given how many things they owed him (at least by his way of thinking).  

But still...he knew there were things he'd be needing as well as things that Damian had to have. So he forced himself to nod jerkily, biting back that stubborn streak in his instincts that screamed to refuse help from anyone.  

"Yeah. We...we'll need a few things."

"Cool. Here." Dick offered out...

A brand new phone. Smart phone at that. Jason hadn't had access to tech in a long while. 

"Uh, uploaded with all our contacts and stuff. Just. Text what you need to Alf."

Jason's fingers curled instinctively around the smart phone in his palm, almost as if he was afraid Dick was going to change his mind and take it or something. For a few seconds, he just held it--staring at it like he was seeing something foreign.  

When he finally answered, his voice was almost soft—a rare moment of genuine, tentative trust. "....Thanks."

"See you later, little wing. Serious. Text me. For anything."

Dick offered a tentative smile before he stood and went to head back upstairs, closing the door again.

Jason just watched him go—eyes narrowed in distrust, fingers clenching and unclenching automatically around that smart phone.  

He was so not used to this. To being coddled, of all the things to feel.  

But...  

After a few more minutes, he let out a deep exhale and finally looked down to Damian again. The kid was still sleeping soundly, a rare thing in itself. So Jason kept still--kept quiet--as he carefully tapped out that first request to Alfred on the phone instead.

Three hours later, Alfred came down. 

He had a bag with the requested items, as well as a tray of breakfast. He was silent as he entered, eyeing Damian with a knowing look. 

His gaze softened as he took in Jason. 

Jason tensed slightly when the door opened again—prepared for another argument, another confrontation—but his shoulders relaxed almost immediately upon seeing Alfred standing there. And Jason felt...no hate, towards Alfred. The LoA hadn't warped those memories.

The older man looked...exactly the same as Jason remembered. Right down to that stern but kind expression he always had whenever one of them was injured or hurting.  

For a brief moment, Jason found himself at a loss for words entirely—just staring at Alfred like he couldn't quite believe this was real (that any of this was real).  

"...Hey," he finally managed to croak out quietly before clearing his throat and nodding toward Damian’s sleeping form with an unspoken request: Keep it down.

Alfred nodded in understanding, his movements deliberate and silent as he set the tray down on the bedside table with practiced ease. He glanced at Damian—assessing—before giving Jason a small, knowing look.  

"Master Jason," he murmured quietly, tone as steady and calm as ever despite how much time had passed. "It is good to see you again."  

Jason swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat—fingers tightening slightly around the phone still clutched in his grip before forcing himself to nod stiffly back at Alfred like none of this was affecting him at all (it was).  

"Yeah well...don’t get used it," he muttered under his breath.

The barest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Alfred's mouth. "Wouldn't dream of it, Master Jason," the butler said quietly. He looked like he might say more before his eyes dipped back down to Damian, still asleep in Jason's arms.  

For a moment, the older man was silent—lost in thought as he watched the two young men.  

And then he spoke again, voice soft.  

"...May I ask something of you, though?"

Jason's fingers twitched—instincts screaming at him to refuse immediately before he even knew what the request was. But...this was Alfred.  

"...Depends," he muttered after a beat, eyeing the older man warily. "Ask."

Alfred hummed, carefully setting up a bed tray where Jason could eat with one hand, and still not disturb Damian. 

"Do try not to kill Master Bruce, Dick, or Timothy," he said calmly. "I fear my old heart could not take it."

Jason actually laughed at that—a sharp, bitter sound that had nothing to do with humor.    

"Funny, old man." His fingers tightened around that smart phone again and he glanced down into his lap, expression darkening. "No promises."  

But...in spite of himself, he still reached for the tray of food. He was too hungry to refuse. Especially when it had likely been prepared by Alfred personally.

It was something easy to digest--breakfast scones filled with eggs and ham and cheese, some oatmeal, some juice.

"Hm. And that's all I ask, my boy," Alfred murmured. He glanced up at him for a moment before reaching to smooth a hand over his hair.

"...I did miss you. It is good to have you home," he said. His face remained perfectly polite, but the dip in octave portrayed the quiet grief hiding in the man's throat.

Jason froze—his entire body going rigid at the unexpected touch.  

For a moment, he just sat there—breath caught in his chest like he wasn't sure how to react (like part of him wanted to jerk away while another part wanted nothing more than to lean into it).  

And then...slowly...very carefully...his shoulders slumped just slightly under Alfred's palm as if some unnamable weight had been lifted off them for the briefest second.  

He didn't say anything back (couldn't find the words even if he'd tried) but when Alfred finally stepped away again? There was no immediate snap or snark from Jason—just quiet acceptance before finally picking up one those scones with far more restraint than usual with Damian still sleeping soundly against him.

Chapter Text

The cave was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle on the cave ceiling from the bats outside the sterile room.

After the 'ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future' (as Jason had started referring to Bruce, Dick, and Alfred last night, in his head,) had left, Jason hadn't been bothered more than a brief glance in the medbay window he pretended not to see every few hours. 

Damian had slept for about ten hours--more than the kid ever slept. And towards ten in the morning? 

He'd started getting a small fever. 

The kid had become a tiny furnace on top of him, his brow knit in his sleep. Jason cursed under his breath as he pressed the back of his hand to Damian’s forehead. The heat radiating off him was unmistakable—too warm even for normal body heat.  

"Shit," he muttered, immediately shifting to grab the thermometer from the bedside table. He hesitated only briefly before slipping it under Damian's tongue, careful not to wake him.  

The digital readout beeped softly—101.4°F.  

Not dangerously high yet, but enough to worry Jason given how exhausted Damian already was. And knowing this kid? He’d probably been running on fumes long before collapsing at Jason’s side in the first place (and injuries never helped).  

Jason growled low in his throat—anger flaring all over again at how little this kid had clearly been taken care of by anyone but himself before now. Because seriously, had they even fed the kid before letting him pass out? 

He took a shuddering breath before forcing himself into motion: reaching for a damp cloth from the basin nearby and pressing it gently against Damian's flushed cheeks while muttering another string of curses under his breath about "fucking demon grandpas and their fucking child-soldier bullshit, fucking Bruce not taking care of his kids."

Damian had, of course, stirred as the cool cloth was pressed to him. His nose scrunched before he opened his eyes blearily. A moment of panic, given their unfamiliar surroundings. But, as ever, he didn't show it outwardly, not even half asleep--just a raise in heartrate Jason could feel from how close Damian was to him. "...mn--"

"Hey, it's just me, kid," Jason reassured quietly—pressing another cool cloth to Damian's forehead for good measure. "Shhh, it's just me. Go back to sleep."

A part of him was almost...amused at how on edge Damian was. Even half-asleep, the kid was too perceptive for his own good (and probably still thought this was some nightmare he needed to wake up from). 

The other part of him? 

Furious.

Because the last thing Damian should ever have to worry about was waking up in unfamiliar territory.

Damian blinked up at him—still groggy but clearly processing where they were (and who was with him)—before slowly relaxing again under Jason’s touch.  

"...Tt." A tiny exhale through his nose—displeased but not alarmed anymore. His eyes flicked toward the thermometer still in Jason’s other hand before narrowing slightly. "I do not require medical attention."

Jason rolled his eyes—fond but exasperated as he tapped the kid’s nose with the thermometer. "Yeah? Well, your 101-degree fever says otherwise, brat." He pressed another cool cloth to Damian’s forehead before muttering under his breath—"stubborn little demon spawn"—while reaching for a glass of water.  

"You're drinking this," Jason ordered, holding it out stubbornly even as Damian glared at him like he'd just personally insulted every ancestor in the Al Ghul bloodline. "All of it."

But Damian did have one weakness. 

Jason. 

So even though he made a show of being huffy about it, he sat up, and took the water to gulp down as he sat up.

Jason almost had to bite down on a smile as Damian sulkily sat up to down the water. Of course, he still looked pale and flushed with fever, but was clearly already far more alert now that he was sitting up straight. "Good princeling," he teased, patting him on the head affectionately again. "Hey, when's the last time you ate?"

Damian set the glass aside, and slowly sat up, rubbing his face as he thought. 

"...After climbing off the mountain...before the airport. Perhaps two days ago?" he murmured, his voice groggy. 

(Bruce, Dick, Alfred--none of them had thought to ask. Of course not.)

They'd been focused on their precious Jason.

Jason’s expression darkened immediately, fingers twitching like he was about to punch a wall—or worse, one of the "adults" who should have fucking noticed this sooner.  

Two days.  

And Damian had trekked down the Himalayan mountains, alone, before that, into the arms of strangers, and yet somehow had managed to rally together the Justice League just to save Jason and...

Jason inhaled sharply through his nose—forcing back the Pit-green haze threatening his vision—before grabbing the half-eaten tray Alfred had left earlier.  

"Eat," he ordered, shoving it into Damian’s hands with none of his usual sarcasm or teasing now; just raw, protective urgency. "All of it." 

Because if this kid starved himself again while watching over Jason? He was going to gut someone. Preferably multiple someones. Starting with Ra's and ending with Bruce fucking Wayne.

Damian eyed it quietly. "...ahki, it has meat. I..."

He swallowed nervously. 

One of the things Damian couldn't stand: eating meat. The kid had always been an animal lover. And after being forced to kill numerous ones he'd become attached to?

He'd passed it off in the League as 'being better for the planet'--and Ra's, in his own sick, twisted way, did want to save the planet. So he'd allowed it. But the reality was that every time Damian ate meat, he remembered killing an innocent animal.

Jason's expression softened immediately—anger replaced with guilt as he realized his mistake. "Shit," he muttered, pulling the tray back and picking off the ham from the scones before offering it again. "Better?" And then, quieter—knowing exactly why Damian avoided meat in a way none of these other fools would ever bother to ask about—he added: "I’ll make sure I don’t give you any with meat next time."  

Because Jason remembered. He remembered how Damian had refused to eat rabbit after being forced to hunt one at five years old. Remembered how his hands had shaken after Ra’s made him slit a lamb’s throat for some stupid ritual sacrifice two years ago.

And Damian relaxed. Giving a slight nod, he went to eat the scones, and the oatmeal--cold, by now, but food all the same. 

They hadn't fed his little brother.

No one would've noticed if they hadn't. Or at least, not until it was too late. Damian had been running himself ragged taking care of Jason since he was five years old.  

Hell, it was probably why the kid was in such bad shape right now. A combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and starvation had likely just sent that fever right off the charts, and if they didn't get some nutrients in his system right now, he was probably going to crash again.

And it was then that Jason decided.

Damian wasn't going to stay here. (Jason already knew he wasn't.)

Bruce had already lost that privilege.

So had Ra's and the entire League of Assassins, for that matter. 

Yeah. Bruce had saved them. But how had that turned out? Damian on the verge of death and completely unwilling to ask for help. Unwilling to ask for FOOD.  

Bruce had clearly never known how to be a father, and Ra's had done nothing but use Damian like a tool. Talia just let it happen. Dick and Alfred were too emotionally compromised to be good caretakers. Tim was…Jason didn’t even want to think about that replacement.  

Well, not anymore. No. Jason wasn't going to stand by and let another father-figure destroy him this kid. 

Jason carefully carded his fingers through Damian’s hair—watching as the kid ate with quiet but deliberate movements, still too weak to do much else. "We’re leaving," he murmured suddenly—voice low but firm enough that it wasn’t a question or suggestion, just a fact.  

Because there was no way in hell Jason was letting Damian stay here where they didn't even notice he hadn't eaten in days. While all they cared about was their own guilt and redemption arcs over him and Bruce fucking Wayne got to play house like none of this had happened under his damn watch for years.  

No.  

Fuck that. 

And if Damian wanted to argue? Too bad. Jason would throw him over his shoulder kicking and screaming if he had to.

But the second Jason had said it?

Damian just nodded. As if he had expected that. He leaned back on one hand as he held a spoonful of oatmeal aloft with the other. "Father did not make me take a loyalty potion. A mistake on his end, as now I am only loyal to one." He glanced at Jason absently as he took the bite. 

"You."

Jason’s breath caught in his throat—heart lurching painfully at the way Damian said that like it was just fact. Like it had never even been a question. And maybe it hadn’t been. Maybe from the moment they’d started seeing each other as Brother, Damian had already made his choice—had already decided where he belonged.

Jason exhaled roughly before pulling him closer—careful not to jostle him too much as he pressed a kiss to the top of his head (because screw Ra’s and Bruce and their emotionally stunted bullshit; Jason wasn't afraid to show affection to his kid).  

"Damn right," he muttered against his hair before pulling back enough to meet Damian’s eyes again with a smirk, something painfully soft lingering underneath. "You're stuck with me now, brat."

And Damian had leaned into it--as he had learned over the years. Only from Jason did affection feel correct. He hadn't enjoyed that hug with Father on the rooftop like this. But this? This felt like home. 

"Though I am unsure where we will go," the younger added, already in planning mode as he finished the last of his food. "I do not know this territory. I suppose you do."

"Pffft, please," Jason scoffed before ruffling Damian's hair affectionately—his earlier irritation over the Waynes' carelessness starting to fade into a determination. "Of course I do. I've got an idea. But the first step is for you to rest, princeling. No arguments. And I mean it this time!" He pointed an accusing finger at Damian as the latter opened his mouth to protest—already gearing up with his stubborn expression that Jason knew all too well. "Zip it. I mean it. You're in no condition to start planning right now."

Damian narrowed his eyes. "I am the one who freed us from Grandfather. I am fine to plan," he mumbled.

"I can literally feel your fever," Jason deadpanned, rolling his eyes, "and you look like you're going to keel over if you so much as think of walking right now."

He reached out to tap Damian on the brow—gentler than usual, but still stern. "So, either you can take it easy for like 20 minutes and let me do the planning, or I'm going to go get Alfred to tie you down until you're not running a 102-degree fever. Your choice, brat."

A silence. 

And finally, Damian laid down with a huff. "It would be against our plan to alert the butler. I doubt he would wish us to leave."

Okay fine. I'll rest.

Jason smirked—victorious. "Smart choice." He reached over to tug the blanket up around Damian's shoulders before standing. "Good thing I don't need much," he added casually as he stretched, already mentally mapping out Gotham’s rooftops in his head. "I know this city like the back of my hand."  

Because while Jason hated Bruce?  

Gotham was still his. And no one—not even the Bat himself—knew its streets and shadows better than Jason Todd did. Even after clawing his way back from hell just to spite them all.  

Which meant getting Damian out unnoticed? Would be child’s play for them both (figuratively and literally).

And so, as Damian dozed...

Jason planned. 

He'd been given a phone, after all, and free roam of the Batcave. 

What else could he need?

And by the time Damian was waking again? Jason was already done—having sent several texts to a few lowkey old contacts, and finished packing an extra set of clothes in one of the many spare backpacks lying around the cave (because, of course, Bruce was that paranoid).  

When Damian’s eyes opened again? he was greeted with a set of sweat pants, hoodie, and socks on the side of his bed. Jason leaned in the door, arms crossed as he watched with an amused smirk.  

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Get dressed. We're going on a trip."

Chapter Text

They'd stolen Dick's bike. 

Of course, it was covered in trackers. So it only made it as far as the tunnel exits, before they were moving on foot instead.

Damian was sulking as Jason, who was already mostly healed thanks to the Lazarus, carried him on his shoulders. "This is undignified. And you are still injured."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, kid," Jason snorted—because he was going to laugh at those protests (and that sulking) every. single. time. "Like you weigh anything more than a fly." He ruffled Damian's hair affectionately as they passed a series of billboards advertising the upcoming annual Wayne Enterprises galas for the new season (ugh, thank god Jason didn't have to go to those anymore)—the lights reflecting across Damian's sulking face as Jason smirked at him. "Besides, I'd rather carry you than risk you falling and busting your little ass on the sidewalk."

Damian crossed his arms tighter, surveying their surroundings. "I would not fall," he muttered. 

A pause, and then: 

"But it is tall up here."

Jason couldn't hold back a snort at that—fighting back a fond, exasperated smile as he glanced back down at the sulking demon prodigy on his shoulders again. "Yeah, that's kinda the point, princeling," he teased, adjusting his grip as they continued walking. "Besides, you should be grateful. Not many people get to ride around on my shoulders, you know."

And yeah—Jason wasn't going to mention how he liked it too. How after all those years of being forced apart in the League, having Damian close like this felt...right. Like something they should've been allowed all along, without swords or blood between them.

"I do not think I have seen any do so..." Damian agreed in slow reluctance. "Is this a brotherly practice then?"

Jason flinched minutely as images of Dick carrying him on his shoulders, on patrol, or through the manor, or even just in public, flooded his head. No. He didn’t need fondness. Not towards him. He’d betrayed him.

After a moment, to dull the Pit and the tightness in his throat, he replied. “Yeah. It is.”

Damian looked back down at him, the scowl slowly turning to neutrality. 

As close to joy as the kid got.

"...It is still ridiculous. But I will allow it for the tactical advantage," he muttered as he glanced around.

Jason barked out a laugh at that, his tension fading—"tactical advantage," like they were on some high-stakes infiltration mission instead of just wandering through Gotham's alleyways.  

"Oh yeah, totally tactical," he agreed with mock seriousness before playfully bouncing Damian slightly higher on his shoulders—just enough to make the kid grip his head tighter (because hah, so much for pretending not to enjoy this). "Best recon spot in the city. And hey, if anyone tries to mess with us? You get first dibs on drop-kicking them from up here."  

He grinned up at him. "Diplomatic immunity, baby."

Damian rolled his eyes. "That is the incorrect usage of that term. Diplomatic immunity refers to--"

"Yeah yeah, I know what it means," Jason cut in with a playful eye roll before tapping Damian’s ankle lightly. "But when has either of us ever cared about technicalities, huh?"  

He smirked as they turned down another alley—avoiding the main streets where Bat-patrols would be thickest at this hour. "Point is, nobody messes with us and gets away with it. Diplomatic immunity or not."  

A pause—then he shot Damian a look over his shoulder (or as much as he could from this angle). "Especially when you've got an older brother willing to burn the whole damn city down for you."

Damian didn't respond outwardly. He stared down at Jason before looking forward again. "...The entire continent, if you so asked," he agreed, tightening his grip on Jason's hair in a firm, yet gentle show of affection.

That had Jason's breath catching in his throat all over again—a rush of emotions he'd forgotten he was even capable of. He reached up, carefully taking hold of one of Damian's ankles and giving it another light squeeze in response. "Noted, brat," he managed gruffly as he cleared his throat. "Now stop being a smart-ass and start paying attention to the rooftops. We'll be in the warehouse district soon."

Damian scoffed. "As if I were not already. We are not being tailed. I would have noticed." He sent another glare at the rooftops, before glancing down at Jason again. "Where are we going?"

Jason grinned—sharp and unrepentant as he shifted his grip under Damian’s legs, picking up the pace just a little. "Safehouse," he answered simply. "Mine. No trackers, no League loyalists, no Bats breathing down our necks." He shot Damian another smirk over his shoulder. "And before you ask—no, Bruce doesn’t know it exists."  

Jason had boltholes even the World's Greatest Detective couldn't find (take that, old man). Robin had been busy, especially towards the end. He adjusted Damian slightly higher again as they turned down a darker alley—already hearing the distant hum of traffic from Gotham’s docks nearby. "Now stop complaining and enjoy the ride, princeling."

They arrived soon enough. Settled in Tricorner yard, right up against the coast, was the safehouse. Made years ago, back when Jason and Bruce had been originally fighting, not many knew about it--only Jason's closest of allies.

(Ones who only just learned he was even alive. Jason would have preferred less...knowing. But a JL storm of Nanda Parbat left his identity out in the open.)

The place was:

A perfectly nondescript brick building sandwiched between two warehouses—blending into Gotham’s industrial district like just another forgotten property. It was small, but it had all the essentials. There was a small kitchen on the main floor—with a couch and a worn-out recliner, some canned food, and a makeshift bed. There was also a small bathroom with a working shower.  

Jason carefully set Damian down on the couch before cracking his neck—glancing around with a satisfied hum at how familiar the warehouse already seemed to be. 

Familiar, and...dusty. Really dusty. 

"Well, it might not be the lap of luxury, but at least this place is a hell of a lot better than the League, huh?"

Damian eyed the pile of dust bunnies he'd been set in distastefully. "...We need to clean," he said, tracking a finger on the leather couch that left an inch of grime surrounding it. 

He looked around after. 

"But it has potential, I suppose."

Jason let out a bark of laughter—both at Damian's disgusted expression and the immediate "we need to clean" declaration (the kid was a neat freak despite Ra’s making him mop entire temple floors as punishment).  

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed, ruffling his hair again before tossing him an old (but clean) hoodie from one of the cupboards. "After you get some more rest and food in you. Which reminds me..."  

He ducked into the small kitchen area—rifling through cabinets until he found some non-perishable snacks that hadn't expired yet (mostly) and tossed them toward Damian with another smirk. "Eat all of that. Or I swear I'm carrying you everywhere for a week."

Damian eyed the can dubiously. Vegetable soup. Jason was already figuring out how he was going to cater to Damian's vegetarianism while keeping his diet properly nutritional. He'd stolen some cash from Bruce, but. It wouldn't last forever.

Jason watched him for a second—heart doing that weird lurch thing again at the sight of his stubborn little brother eating cold soup straight from the can like some feral alley cat (which, okay, fair).  

But then his mind started working overtime—because no way in hell was he letting Damian live off canned beans and stolen cash. Not when Jason had spent years making sure the kid ate properly in Nanda Parbat, even under Ra’s watchful eye.  

"...Alright," Jason muttered after a beat, rolling his shoulders before moving to dig through one of the cabinets near the door—pulling out an old burner phone and powering it on with practiced ease after popping in new batteries. (That new cellphone had gone screen first into a ditch). "First things first—you’re gonna rest while I sort out our next move." He shot Damian a look over his shoulder as he started typing rapidly into said phone (already plotting which Gotham contacts were still active enough to help them without alerting certain Bats). "And second? We’re getting you real food."

Damian watched as Jason texted with one hand, and un-dusted a sleeping bag with the other. He stood when asked--eating the soup and eyeing Jason cleaning the couch off. 

"Who are you contacting? Are they trustworthy?"

Jason snorted again—because, right, the kid never did learn how to shut up and just let someone else take care of him. "I don't contact people who aren't trustworthy, smart-ass. Relax. I'm just making arrangements. Weaponry, informants, locations. You get some sleep, and we'll talk business after."  He eyed Damian with a firm look. "Understand? You're no good to either of us if you’re too run down to see straight. So take the sleeping bag and lie down. That's an order."

Damian shifted a bit, but, reluctantly, he went to crawl into the sleeping bag (after triple checking it for spiders). "Fine. But awake me if I am needed. I can help."

"Yeah, yeah," Jason scoffed with a shake of his head as he watched the kid curl up in the sleeping bag (which, okay, was kind of adorable if he was being honest. Not that he would ever tell the little demon brat that). He ruffled that familiar, spiky black hair again before standing up. "I'll wake you if the Bats show up, but we aren't expecting any company. Now relax. Seriously—you look like hell."

Damian grumbled, but rolled over on the (mostly) clean couch and started to doze off. 

Now Jason just had to get his contacts in order.

He wasn't doing this like the old man. No. They'd be less than legal about things. (The kid didn't even have an identity, civilian wise. He'd have to home school.)

But Jason--no. Red Hood? He'd get vengeance. He'd get justice. 

Better than Batman ever could.

As soon as he heard Damian's breathing even out into slumber, Jason got to work.  

He still had connections from his days as a low-level hood. Gangs, mob bosses, petty criminals, informants. He could still call in favors. He could still get things done.  

And as he worked the phone, his eyes were cold—already making plans for their next steps.  

No more League of Shadows.  

No more Bat-bullshit.  

Nobody was touching this kid.

Jason and Damian were missing. 

Bruce had gotten a security alert when they'd stolen the bike, but he had been too slow--Jason had taken off. And by the time Bruce was geared up and followed? 

The bike was dumped, and Jason was using his knowledge of Gotham to avoid even Barbara's eyes all over the city. He knew every blindspot. 

And he'd taken Damian with him. His son he hadn't even known he'd had until under forty eight hours ago. 

Jason, his dead, come back to life son, his miracle, his greatest failure, his greatest second chance.

Standing in the Batcave—hands clenched into fists at his sides—as he stared blankly at the empty spot where Jason and Damian should’ve been.  

His son. His sons.  

Both gone. Because of him.  

Because he failed them.

Bruce didn’t speak, his jaw working as Alfred stepped up beside him, expression tight with unspoken disapproval (and something worse: disappointment). But what was there to say? That he hadn't noticed Damian was starving? That Jason had spent years under Ra’s thumb and Bruce had no idea until it was too late? That Damian hunted him down just to save his brother while Bruce sat here, ignorant of them both until they were forced right under his nose? 

There weren't words for that kind of failure. Only silence.

He spent patrol on a rooftop in the pouring Gotham rain, staring blankly at the city below—the cowl pulled back just enough to let the cold water streak down his face.  

Because Jason was gone again. After everything—after clawing his way out of death, after surviving Ra's and Talia and whatever horrors they’d put him through—he had taken Damian and vanished.  

And Bruce? He had no right to stop him. Not after failing both of them so spectacularly already.  

He didn’t move for hours that night. Just stood there, letting the rain wash over him like some kind of twisted penance he didn’t deserve. Let Dick take Tim on the search, since Dick couldn't look him in the eye right now.

He didn't blame him.

(Somewhere deep down? He hoped Jason was keeping Damian safe.)

(Because God knew Bruce hadn't.)

Chapter Text

"Hey--hey, man. Woah. Woah. I ain't lookin' for no trouble here. Boss ain't pay me enough to deal with...what are you, a new Bat?" the man asked, kicking his gun aside and holding up his hands.

Jason had approached a small biker's bar nearby. The bouncer outside had taken one look at him--red hood and a muzzle like mask with a domino--and surrendered. 

It was a small gang. 'The Metal'. Falling apart, from what Jason understood. Poor leadership, poor wages. (Bad name.)

But he wasn't here to dismantle it. Not really.

No. 

He was here to hire.

Jason stepped forward—slow, deliberate, boots heavy against the pavement as he kept his hands loose at his sides.  

Not a threat. Not yet.  

The bouncer was already sweating under Jason’s stare (just some poor schmuck who barely made rent). Jason didn't even look at the weapon. Instead? He pulled out a wad of bills and tossed it onto the ground between them—just enough to cover rent for months.  

"Not here to fight," he rumbled, voice distorted behind that mask (cold and mechanical; inhuman). "Hiring. Got work for anyone smart enough not to ask questions."

The hood felt...right. A mockery of Bruce. A mockery of the Joker. Of Gotham's underground, and it's systems. 

The hood was red. Blood and anger and justice. 

The real kind. 

Because Jason wasn't planning on being a villain. But he didn't fit 'hero' either. 

Crime lord for good, was his working title. The current plan was as follows:

-Get some muscle with their limited money (it was enough to start with. He hadn't gone easy on Bruce's pocket book.)

-Start his own gang. One that had rules, regulations, and wiped out the competition. Violent systematic reform, of sorts. Except instead of unions and walk outs, he was going to shoot down anyone who deserved it. 

-Profit. He already had a few ideas in mind. Getting a hold of the drug trade, for one. Jason hated drugs. But, if he was going to control their output? First, he needed in the game to begin with. 

There were more plans in the works. But right now? It benched on if he could get good men to work for him.

Or any men.

"...What's the catch?" the goon asked, frowning down at the stack of cash and not approaching.

Jason didn't move—just tilted his head slightly, letting the silence stretch for a beat too long before answering. "No catch." His voice was flat—final. "You follow my rules, you get paid. You break them?" He tapped the holster at his hip—slow, deliberate. "We have problems."  

A pause as he scanned the bar through the window behind the bouncer—already counting how many were inside who might be desperate enough to take this deal (or stupid enough to test him). Then back to him. "Your choice."

No pressure.

Just money.

And violence if they got greedy later.

(Simple.)