Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wakes with the boom of thunder. 

His cold fingers twitch. He slowly opens his eyes, blinking a few times to rid himself of the dryness. Around him, Damian registers low murmurs, and the shifting of feet. Yet, the main focus of his attention lies in the deep blue irises above him, staring into his mossy green with a gentle gaze. 

Damian's senses prod at his brain in a routine of communication. Damian didn't know why, but he was being held. He felt hands carrying him, cradling him, like a precious bundle. Damian felt he was much too big to be held in this way, but he does nothing to verbally prove this fact. His concentration primarily lies in understanding what is happening to him. 

He was in a room, this he understood. It had miniscule lighting. His peripheral vision caught the flicker of candle flames, but aside from that, he was surrounded by darkness. The darkness formed an eerie atmosphere. It was chilling. Damian feels much like the emptiness it presents. He is cold. He feels the chill wrap around his bones. He wants to relieve the feeling, but he doesn't know how to do it. He's being held by someone, and he's lacking in understanding for his current situation. 

Blue, Damian distantly recalls, is a cold color. 

Yet, when he looks up in the older man's eyes, all he can see is infinite warmth. 

Damian's fingers twitch again. He blinks up at the stranger, and then tries to speak. It takes him a few tries, what with the dryness of his mouth, but eventually he manages to rasp a question. 

"Who are you?" 

He hears a stifled gasp in the distance. He's not sure who did it, but he knows it belongs to a woman. 

The stranger's warm eyes don't change, but something knowing crosses them. He seems to understand what's happening. 

"I'm your father," he replies gently.

"F-ather," Damian repeats clumsily. He knows what the word means, but he can't associate it with an experience. Now that he thinks about it, he has zero experiences to draw from. His mind is an empty void. He does not know who he is, aside from his name, and he does not know what he is supposed to do. 

"That's right," his father hums in agreement. "I'm your father, you're my son, and now you're home." 

"Home," Damian says. 

His father gives him a blooming smile. Damian is stunned by the sight. It feels so… so important and precious. 

"Bruce," Damian heard another voice ring. "You didn't. " 

'Bruce' does not answer the voice. He gazes down at Damian lovingly, and then he asks an important question. "Are you hungry, son?" 

Damian tries to think about the question seriously. Hungry. He knows what it means. It means eating. It means food. So, to answer, mostly to please, he says, "I think so." 

"Bruce, this is sick," he hears a stronger voice say this time, blanketed in an ill tone. 

Bruce, once again, ignores the voices. He moves past bodies, and then steps out into the bright hallway. Damian only manages to catch the few appearances of their company. They all look different, with varying bodies and sizes, but one thing stayed the same. 

Each of them wore the same horrified expression. 

Damian family were a silent bunch. He'd been living in the manor for about three days now, and he'd yet to have an actual conversation with any of them. Damian didn't really understand why, but they seemed to have somewhat of an aversion for him. 

It was contradicting. His father had no issues talking to him. In fact, Damian would often find himself in his father's company, listening to stories about himself. According to his father, Damian was once a skilled martial artist, proficient in the art of swordsmanship. His father would show off items, and explain the significance to him. His katana, for instance, was apparently a favored weapon of his. Damian didn't know why he would be good at using the katana, but he didn't bother to ask. 

It wasn't good to ask questions. 

His father had a habit of shutting down when Damian brought up something. When he'd ask, "Why did I learn swordsmanship?" His father would emotionally withdraw, and cease their companionship for a few hours. Damian was quick to catch on that he should not ask questions like that. His father didn't seem to do well with them. 

Regardless, back to the subject at hand, Damian's father was the only one willing to interact with him. His siblings didn't want to be in the same room as him.

Damian didn't quite understand it, but he didn't bother dwelling on it. He was too busy relearning things he'd apparently forgotten. 

For example, supposedly, he was an artist. 

His father had shown him his art supplies. He'd encouraged Damian to sit down on a stool, and to brush colors across a blank canvas. Damian had done so to make him happy, but his hands had been shaky. He couldn't make straight strokes, not without faltering, and ruining the colors altogether. In fact, the colors themselves didn't seem to be complimentary, always looking wrong in some way or another. 

To this, his father simply laid a hand on his shoulder, and offered him a small smile. "You will catch the hang of it when you recover."

Damian hadn't known he was injured. 

"How can he-" 

"I can't believe Bruce-" 

Damian's siblings couldn't look at him. Damian would sit at the dining table, just like the rest of his family, and try to fill his stomach. Everytime he looked up, his siblings would look away into distant corners, or dart their eyes back to their plates. It wasn't any better in passing. Damian might walk past one of his siblings in the hallway, but they would just look straight over him. They would do everything within their power to pretend he doesn't exist.

Damian was beginning to feel he was unwanted. 

"Damian," Bruce often engaged over the table, "Were you able to recover your memories?"

"No," Damian would answer. 

His father asked the question multiple times throughout the days. On the third time, Damian noted his brother Jason's snort, and tried to understand the meaning behind it.

Jason's behavior confused him. Everyone's behavior, except for that of his father's, confused him. Damian wasn't sure what was going on, but there was something happening that he wasn't aware of. His suspicions only cemented into a surety when, in the process of going to the bathroom, he bumped into Tim. 

Damian remembered the contents in Tim's arms pouring out. He remembered bending down to assist him, narrowly brushing fingers against Tim's, and then having his hand slapped away. 

Damian had looked up into Tim's startled eyes. Tim seemed surprised with his actions, just as Damian had. 

"Um, sorry," Tim quickly apologized, gathering the office supplies off of the floor, "I- um- shouldn't have done that."

Damian had let his hand fall back to his side. He could still feel the sting on his skin. 

But, despite this, his brother had talked to him. So, Damian decided he ought to reward Tim, and he smiled. 

"It's okay." 

Tim seemed further astonished by his reply. He stood, stock still in the hallway, frozen in time. 

It took Tim a moment (it seemed like an eternity), but he snapped out of it. Quickly, he made haste, eager to leave. Damian watched his retreating back with a never-ending outpour of curiosity. 

"This is your mother," his father hums. 

Damian leans over his father's arm, and examines the photo album in his lap. The ball of his palms dig into the leather couch cushions, supporting nearly his entire weight as his eyes trace his mother's face. She was a beautiful woman. She had straight brown hair running down her shoulders like waterfalls, and she had sharp emerald eyes.

Damian likes her smile the most, though, and tries to imagine seeing it in person. 

In the photo, Damian's mother hooks her arm around his father's, and looks directly in the camera. Damian spots a sparkling, foaming,  beach behind them.

"She's beautiful," Damian comments. Her clothing made her look both classy and picturesque. She wore a high-end green dress, outlined by gold. 

"She is," his father agrees. "She passed away some time ago, but I know that if she could see you now, she'd-" 

His father's breath hitches. Damian glances upward at him. He is not surprised to see his father return the attention. 

Damian blinks up at his father for a silent moment. Then, without much prompting, his father allows the photo album to fall limp in his lap. He cups Damian's cheek with one hand, and then uses the other to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Once the strand is returned to its place, out of Damian's eyes, Bruce joins his other hand on Damian's cheeks. 

"Damian," his father says, voice wobbling, "You know you're good enough, right? You're perfect."

Damian isn't sure what provoked the subject change but-

"I'm perfect, father? Is that true?" 

His father's thumbs run up and down his cheeks. 

"You've always been perfect," his father says. "I'm sorry it took me this long to tell you."

Damian's mind draws back to his art. He thinks about how he can't make a good stroke. He thinks about the conflicting colors, and the katana hanging on his wall. He'd tried to replicate what his father had claimed he'd once done, but he'd been unable to do anything. 

Perfect, he was called, but deep down, Damian knows something is off. 

"If I'm perfect," Damian begins, "Why do I not feel that way?" 

His father gives him a calm smile. He almost seems amused by the question. "Sometimes, we're hard on ourselves, and that can make us feel like we're inadequate. That doesn't mean we are inadequate. It just means we need to work on ourselves, refine ourselves, to achieve a higher-level of perfection."

Damian pinches his brows. He didn't quite understand what his father was telling him. It didn't make a whole lot of sense. 

His father finds it funny. He raises a hand to crease the wrinkles between his brows. "None of that, now," he chuckles. "You're only ten. You shouldn't be giving yourself wrinkles. Do you want to end up looking like me?"

Damian digests his father's appearance. He remembers when he'd first woken up in that dark room, and how warm his father's eyes had been. 

"I don't think I would mind," Damian confesses honestly. 

At this, his father adopts some surprise, but it does not last long. His surprise fades back into a big smile. 

"You rascal," he laughs. 

Damian can't resonate with the boy he sees in the photo gallery on his phone. 

There's something wrong with him. He doesn't smile in any of the pictures, and he looks stubbornly grumpy. It didn't matter who he was with. Damian saw him standing next to multiple people with the same expression. 

He hadn't been one to express emotions, it seemed. 

It must be disconcerting for the rest of his family. Damian can get why they would avoid him. He was acting like a completely different person.

Damian stares at one particular photo in which he is standing side by side by a brown-haired boy. The boy is dressed in a blue shirt, and a scratched pair of jeans. He was beaming happily, arm strung around Damian's shoulder tightly, squinting at the camera with eyes that smiled. 

Damian has a sense of recognition. He knew the smiling boy in the photo. He'd seen him before in his list of contacts. 

Without further thought, he exits out of his gallery, and scrolls through his contacts. He brings up the profile picture of a similar looking boy, showing off a cheerful peace sign. 

Damian's lips tug downward as he opens up their shared text messages. He is instantly bombarded by hundreds of unread messages he'd yet to check. 

12/1/XX

Jon: I can't believe Christmas is almost here. I don't know what to say. I'm supposed to be feeling good, and I'm supposed to be up-beat. I can't manage to do it, though, not since you've disappeared. 

12/12/XX

Jon: Your dad came to visit. He started asking my dad a couple of things. Pretty spooky conversation. It was hard not to listen in. I think he's grieving you pretty hard. We all are. 

12/13/XX

Jon: Why'd you leave me alone? I don't have anyone else, Damian. I just had you and- who's going to be my best friend now? Who am I going to argue with just for the sake of arguing? 

12/14/XX

Jon: Three days in a row. I've made a new record. I haven't texted this number in ages, and yet here I am coping in the most traumatizing way possible. Wish you could answer me. I almost called you to ask for your opinion, but then I remembered that you were gone and… yeah. That was a whole mess. You should've seen the barn. Stared a hole into the wall. Literally. 

12/15/XX

Jon: Could you just give me a hint? A sign? Anything? You're watching us from heaven, right? You've got to communicate with me in some way, I know it's possible, whatwith the crap that happens in this world. Magic... demons... Angels aren't unimaginable. (I had a hard time spelling that) 

Jon: I didn't want to think that you're dead, but I can't hear your heartbeat anymore. It can only mean one thing. You're not here anymore. Dad kept telling me that I've been in denial, and now I'm beginning to think he's right. 

Damian's phone slides out of his hands. 

He feels like he'd just found out something he wasn't supposed to know.

Chapter Text

"You don't want to have your thumbs like this-" 

Damian curiously keeps an eye on his father's fists. His father, set in a wide-legged stance, demonstrates how to properly tuck his thumbs. 

"You don't want to let your thumb hang loose. You also don't want to bury it in your fingers. It's best to fold it like this. See?" 

Damian observes his father's enclosed fists, and then raises his own hand to mimic the shape. Damian slowly curls his fingers, and then folds his thumb carefully. With a frown, Damian thinks about how unnatural it feels. Maybe he is wrong in a way. Otherwise, his father would not feel prompted to come over, and he would not take Damian's hand into his own. 

Damian glances up at his father. 

"Like this," his father hums. Damian looks back down at his fist, and watches as his father guides his hand. "See?" 

"Yeah…" Damian draws out in fascination. He squeezes his fist, flexes the muscles in his fingers, and wonders why none of it is familiar to him. He supposed the memory loss had something to do with it, but shouldn't his body subconsciously recall these sensations? Damian wasn't too sure. He didn't know a lot about memory loss, amnesia, and the likes. He wasn't sure how powerful muscle memory could be. 

Damian's father pats Damian's hand with a smile. Damian briefly registers the roughness of his father's skin. Damian can feel his father's tough fingertips, and his scarred palms smooth over his hand. He knew that such hands were only created through disciplined practice. His father must have been a martial artist for a long time. Yet, despite claiming Damian to be skilled in martial arts, Damian completely lacks these features. He doesn't have tough skin. His palms are baby-soft, like he'd just come out of the womb, or slathered them in lotion on a consistent basis. 

Damian looks up at his father. His father doesn't hold back the smile on his lips, and Damian feels compelled to return the gesture. It gives his father's lips reason to tug wider, like he was rather pleased, and Damian feels his heart warm. 

He just wants his father to be happy. 

The moment is interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. Damian looks past his father to spot one of his older brothers, Dick Grayson, standing awkwardly in the doorway. When Damian makes eye-contact with him, it is Damian who looks away this time. It mostly had something to do with the strange wrongness he felt when he was in the presence of one of his siblings. Still, the broken contact does not last for long, because Damian tentatively looks up at his brother again. Consumed with an endless amount of curiosity. 

Dick catches his eye one more time.  He offers Damian a very strained smile. It's completely fabricated. Damian doesn't feel so warm anymore. He feels like he's somehow a mistake. 

Dick's smile falls as soon as it comes. He couldn't manage to keep it up, as much as he might have wanted to (did he want to?). He clears his throat. "Bruce. Could we talk for a moment?" 

Bruce retrieves his hands from Damian's. 

"Yes, of course," he agrees. He gives Damian one last look. "Why don't you try practicing how to form a fist while I go talk to your older brother?" 

Damian nods obediently. Bruce offers him another smile, something that is not entirely rare in the time they spend together. Then, after a pat on his head, and a ruffle of his hair, his father withdraws. He exits into the hallway to have a private conversation with his oldest son. Dick lets Bruce pass him through the doorway, but he doesn't follow after him immediately. He gives Damian one last look-over. 

Damian tilts his head. 

Dick clears his throat again. He leaves the gym in favor of his original purpose. Damian is left standing alone on a training mat. Fingers uncurling and curling. 

Damian looks down at his hand. He flexes his fingers. He tries to make them form a fist again. He has a perfect memory of his father's instructions. The image of his father's demonstration is framed vividly in his mind. Damian relies on it to make a pleasing shape for his hand.

His hearing strains for something to latch onto. It was deathly quiet in the gym, and the muted voices in the hallway were the only thing he could pick up. 

"You can't seriously be teaching him-" 

"He needs this, Dick." 

"He's not the same, Bruce!" 

"I know."

Damian tries not to be rude. He tries to tune the voices out. 

"He'll never be able to-" 

"He can if he practices-" 

"What? So you're going to put him through League training?"

"No. Of course not. That's out of the question." 

Damian gives up on trying to form a fist, crouches down on the ground, and then covers his ears with his palms. 

Damian tries to sleep without thinking about all of the strange things he was learning. His mind was trying to put together dots, but Damian didn't want those dots to be put together. He wanted to make his father happy. He wanted to keep his family pleased. He didn't want to find something out that might shatter his world view. He wanted to be comfortable. 

Yet, the mystery draws him, and Damian dreams. 

Damian doesn't dream often, but when he does, he's in an entirely different place. He sees the vast expanses of different environments. It ranges to jungles, deserts, and grassy plains. Sometimes, he looks down at his hands, and he sees a mess of scars on them. He runs them through blades of grass, and registers how little his nerves react. 

Tonight, he dreams of a desert. 

He can't see himself, not beyond his hands, but he can feel things. He can feel himself tighten the fabric around his neck. He knows he ought to keep the sand out of his face, and that he needs to protect his body's temperature. 

This is not his first time walking through a desert. It is one of many. 

Damian looks down at his belt. He sees a katana. 

His katana, he thinks, except there are a few differences. It's bigger, for one, and it's heavier. 

Odachi, his mind properly supplies, that is what it is called. 

Damian rests a hand on the hilt. 

He is calm. He takes several controlled breaths. He closes his eyes in anticipation. He hears the heated breeze whisp past his protected ears, but that is not what he is focusing on. He can feel the sun's rays beat at his exposed skin, but again, that is not his main concern. 

Damian abruptly opens his eyes, draws his Odachi, and spins. 

His eyes lay on a stranger standing in white. He is a thin looking thing, but looks can be deceiving. Damian knows he is not to be underestimated. Underneath his armor hides muscle. 

Damian stares at the stranger's exposed eyes. He, just like Damian, wore a cloth to cover his head. He had a majority of his face concealed, except for that of his blue piercing eyes. 

He looks like a dusty traveler. His clothes are torn as if they were his only set, and for all Damian knew, they were. 

Still, despite having somewhat of a ragged appearance, there was something noble about the stranger. He held himself in such a way to suggest confidence. He wasn't scared.

Damian, on the other hand, was antsy. He refused to let it show on his face. He would not lower himself. 

Damian opens his mouth. His lips form words, Damian can hear himself speak, but the meaning immediately slips from his memory. Damian can't recall what he'd spoken, or what he was trying to communicate. 

The dream abruptly ends before he can investigate the strange scene further. 

Damian wakes up to the pressing of a cat's paws in his stomach. Staring up at the ceiling, Damian tries to understand what he'd just seen, paralyzed as Alfred curls into a weighted ball on his body. 

Damian doesn't linger in his room for long after he wakes. It was in the middle of the night, and he was not able to go back to sleep. So, with some apologies to his furry companion, he gently removes himself from bed. 

He feels better when he moves at night. Damian leaves his room, walks down the hallway, and heads down into the ballroom. No one goes to the ballroom. Damian had a few awkward run-ins with a couple of his siblings at night, and they never seemed to be comfortable with his presence. So, Damian decides it is best for everyone if he finds a permanent place of solace. The ballroom is always vacant. It is Damian's favorite place to think. 

Damian's feet hit cold tile. Alfred trots behind him, following with a swishing tail. Damian is thankful for his company. 

Damian approaches the tarped piano. He lifts the corner, waits for Alfred to enter, and then follows behind his animal friend. 

Damian finds comfort in the dark, secluded, space underneath the piano. It's not quite accommodated for someone of his size, but Damian didn't mind it too much. He brings his knees up to his chest, and wraps his arms around his legs. 

"Here, I am free to think," Damian murmurs to Alfred. The cat rubs up against his legs, and then rests his fuzzy body on Damian's feet. Damian welcomes the warmth. 

Damian allows himself the privilege of getting lost in his thoughts. He thinks about the multiple things he was not proficient at. He couldn't paint, he couldn't sketch, and he couldn't fight. He also couldn't wield the katana. 

But, in his dreams, he had no problem doing it. Damian wonders why that might be. He wonders if he can replicate it in real life. If he can become better through the knowledge of dreams alone. 

It would certainly please his father. But, if Dick's conversation was to be learned from, the rest of his siblings would not be too happy about it.

Damian wasn't sure if he cared about what they thought though.

They'd done nothing to deserve his love. They might be family in name, but they rarely interacted with him. Damian might yearn for a connection with them, but that didn't mean he owed them anything. The only one who'd been trying to bond with him was his father, and at times, Alfred. 

Although, in Alfred's case, Damian fears the old man is forced to interact with him. 

Damian sighs. 

Who was he fooling?

He was an outcast. 

He doubts he'd actually had a good relationship with his siblings to begin with. He bets that they'd treated him like this all the time, and it might have something to do with his dreams. Maybe he'd never been around to do anything with them. Maybe he'd been a traveler. That meant he would have sparse time to actually form a relationship with any of them. 

Damian is not sure he should give his dreams merit, though, considering the fact that they were conjurations of the mind.

Damian groggily blinks when light invades his hiding place. 

That's strange. Had he fallen asleep? He doesn't recall-

He hears a heavy sigh of relief. "Damian." 

Damian meets his father's eyes. Damian blinks at him. Alfred picks himself up off of Damian's feet, and then arches his back in a stretch. 

"What are you doing here?" His father asks. You nearly gave me a heart attack, goes the unsaid.

Damian can't find the will to answer. How was he to tell his father, the only one who showed him any affection, that he was trying to escape the unseen pressure of his family? That would most certainly cause problems. Damian didn't want to cause problems. He just wanted his father to be pleased with him, and to stay pleased with him. It's Damian's only purpose. It's the only thing he can manage to do. He just dreads eventually failing, at some point, because of his own inadequacy. 

He needs to learn how to paint. He needs to learn how to fight. He needs to do it for his father. 

"Could you please get out of there?" 

Damian takes a moment to register the request. After it clicks in his mind, he takes to crawling, bruising his knees on hard tile. He's about halfway out before his father physically lifts him up in the air

Damian's eyes widen in surprise. He had just teleported from the ground, and appeared in his father's arms. It'd happened so swiftly that he was doubting the laws of reality. 

How could his father carry him as if he weighed like nothing?

His father doesn't say anything further. He cradles Damian's head in the crook of his neck, and supports his legs with a firm grip. Damian can feel his father's pacing heart slowly settle into a steady beat. 

Damian feels his father's weight shift with each step he takes. They were leaving the ballroom now, and Damian peeks up past his father's shoulder to watch the room retreat. 

"Don't do that again, please," his father requests. "I was worried that I lost you."

"I'm sorry," Damian says. 

His father passes the lone form of one of his children. Tim stands at the side of the hallway with an interesting set of features. His eyes meet Damian's. He watches Damian with a calculative look, like he'd figured something out, or that he'd just discovered something strange. 

Damian doesn't know what to make of it. Tim continues to stare at him even as the distance between them increases. 

Damian sticks out his tongue. 

Tim raises an eyebrow. It's the last thing Damian sees on Tim's face before his father carries him around the corner.

Chapter Text

Damian is not surprised when his 'art' turns into a sad mix of colors. He's not sure what he was even going for. If he'd been trying to do an abstract piece, maybe then he could call it a success, but he hadn't. He'd been trying to paint the hands from his dreams. He's not too happy to see the results. He'd just wasted a bunch of paints, a perfectly good canvas, and now he was beginning to doubt himself. 

Damian knew that if he practiced enough that he'd probably get the hang of it. That's how learning worked. Damian hadn't thought he'd become a master painter after picking up the brush one time (he certainly wouldn't mind if that had happened though) He was to keep at it. He was to try his best until things were comprehensible. 

But Damian has a big, big problem. 

He doesn't have the heart for painting. 

His father recently bought him a reference book filled with beautiful paintings. They ranged from portraits, scenery, and still life. Whilst Damian agreed the paintings were pleasing to the eye, he had no passion to replicate them. He didn't feel a draw to them. He couldn't make out the little details. He didn't have the mind to dissect the possible symbolism or the technique. 

Damian isn't, as they say, 'all in.' 

It's frustrating. Damian wants to please his father. He wants to show him a perfect art piece - if only to bring a smile to his face. His father seemed to expect perfection from him, too, which only added to Damian's dilemma. 

Yet, as he strokes the brush against canvas, Damian feels (for lack of a better word) bored. 

He is bored, frustrated, and angry. 

He's angry at himself. He's angry that he can't get the hang of this. He's upset that he doesn't feel anything when he looks at the reference book. It's wrong. He's supposed to like this. He'd apparently liked it before. What's different now? 

Damian slams his brush into a jar, drops his color palette on tarp, and then tears off his apron. 

He pulls himself off of his stool. He throws himself on a bed, not unlike a toddler in the midst of a tantrum, and pulls the covers over his body violently. He reaches for his charging phone, tugs it off the cord with one aggressive pull, and then turns it on. He buries both himself and the phone underneath the covers. Though there might be a little bit of light beaming through his window, illuminating his entire room, Damian settles for the darkness of his covers. His phone's brightness strains his eyes, but that doesn't stop him from swiping through his applications. 

Damian opens YouTube. 

His recommended feed is filled with art tutorials. He'd been sucked into them in an attempt to learn. At first, they'd been intriguing, but now Damian's attention span for them has shortened. He can't get past twenty seconds without daydreaming. 

Damian forces himself to watch a video about shading. 

Damian's angry spirit mellows out into a deflated balloon. He feels the fight, the energy, leave him. He watches the video creator craft out their form, and thinks about his own pathetic attempts. 

Damian's mind is empty. He hears a voice explaining something, but Damian is a million miles away. 

It's a twenty minute video. Damian closes his eyes to release the pressure he'd put on himself, but in doing so, he is totally unprepared for the burst of music. 

Damian startles. He quickly turns down the volume. He is surprised to find that he is still on the same video, except there's an ad playing, and in the center of the screens stands a noble man. He puffs out his chest, raises his hands, and waves them in strange motions. 

Damian watches the man gesture to certain points of his surroundings. It is then that Damian realizes he is surrounded by instruments. People. 

"Listen to the Gotham Symphony, April 7th, 20XX, at 7:30 PM. Grab your tickets today!" 

Damian turns off his phone. 

Dinner isn't as awkward as it had been in Damian's first sitting. Dick was missing, for one, and so was Jason. They didn't seem to make it a habit to frequent the dining table all that often, and Damian didn't mind it all too much. Regardless, there still wasn't a whole lot of conversation, and Damian's father still did most of the talking. He asked questions to prompt participation. 

"How is painting?" 

"Have you regained your memories?" 

"Do you need anything? Materials? Paints? Brushes?" 

Damian is quick to catch on that his father only talks about things that Damian was known to do. He talks about painting, animals, and martial arts. Sometimes, he talks about different languages, and adds in a suggestion or two. 

"I think we should bring in a tutor for you soon. It would just be to catch you up with academics. You were such a smart boy. I know it won't take you long to catch up with your peers. In fact, with your aptitude for basic education, I wouldn't be surprised to see you pass them up."

Damian's answer was, as it was for many questions: " If it would please you, father." 

Because here's the truth. 

Damian doesn't know what he wants to do. 

He has no goals, no plans, and no aspirations. He's clay to be molded. He's iron to be smithed. He can't be anything else. He doesn't know anything else. He just knows…  this. Awkward dinners. A father who wants what is best for him. Talk of who he once was, and who he should be. 

Needless to say, his father is content with his answer, and dinner ends with a delighted parent. 

Damian lingers behind as Alfred picks up after their mess. Damian looks down at his empty plate, feels a rumble in his stomach, and then looks up at Alfred. 

He was still hungry but-

He'd had enough. He'd had what was given to him. He was supposed to be happy with what was given to him. So, sitting still in his chair, he allows Alfred the opportunity to retrieve his plate. 

"Thank you," Damian expresses. 

Alfred has a hard time speaking to him. In fact, he doesn't answer him, and Damian lets it go. 

"Listen to the Gotham Symphony, April 7th, 20XX, at 7:30 PM. Grab your tickets today!" 

Damian stares at his phone screen as the ad plays again. He'd been trying to learn how light position affected shading, but then the composer pops up again with flamboyant hands. 

Damian watches the whole ad through. Then, without putting thought into it, he types in the orchestra's name in the search bar. Once the results come up, he taps the first video. 

There's no preparation for the music. The video gets straight into the performance with no warning. Damian listens to the vibrant strings, the gentle horns, and the thrumming drums. He watches as the camera pans in on several orchestra members. He narrows his vision on skilled fingers. Each individual seemed entirely invested in their performance. Some of the violinists even risk closing their eyes, opening them only to brief a glance at the composer, or at their music sheets. 

"Listen to the Gotham Symphony, April 7th, 20XX!"

He hears the words repeat over in his mind. 

"Listen to the Gotham Symphony-!" 

"Listen to the Gotham-"

"Listen to the-" 

"What are you doing?" 

Damian bends his head backwards to spot his father hovering over him. His father places a hand on the top of the library's couch. It roots his presence. His body shadows over Damian's with interest. 

"I-" Damian looks back down. "I was listening to music. In fact, if it were at all possible, I thought that maybe we could listen to this orchestra live."

His father adopts a contemplative look. "You'd like to watch a performance?" 

Damian bites his bottom lip. "Is that wrong?" 

His father stares at Damian's lips. "No- it isn't- but-" His father abruptly changes the subject, "Don't chew on your lip." 

Damian instantly stops. 

"Do you know when they're performing?" His father questions. 

"April 7th," Damian repeats from memory. 

He has a good memory. 

"I think we could make it," his father says. "In fact, knowing your history in music, I think this might just be the kick your memory needs."

Damian doesn't know why, but he feels his countenance fall. 

"You used to play the violin," his father continues. "You were quite good at it. I should find it. Bring it out for you to fiddle around with." 

Damian stares a hole into his phone's screen. 

"I'll look into it," his father promises. Damian feels his father ruffle his hair, but this time, Damian doesn't feel warm. "This'll be a good experience for you. I think I'll invite the rest of the family, too, just to get them together. They've been acting too stiff lately."

"Okay," Damian agrees submissively.

He later erases his search history. 

Damian picks up his brush and tries again. 

He has a new blank canvas. It'd been replaced by Alfred. Damian had minimal contact with the butler. He seemed…  grieved… as if Damian's presence caused him physical pain. 

Damian tries to ignore his situation. He tries to immerse himself in the colors again, like he'd been born in them, like they were a part of him. 

They didn't feel that way. 

He keeps up as much as he can until he's an hour in. Once his hand starts cramping up, he gently deposits his brush in a jar, and stares at his unfinished painting. 

Damian sits on his stool for a long five minutes. His eyes don't leave the canvas. 

Damian forces himself to look away. He tears his eyes away, and stands up from his stool. He heads for his desk chair, and slumps onto that instead. He sinks down into the cushioned surface, and gives up on attempting a straight spine. 

Damian stares straight at the wall. He's empty-minded. He can't think of anything. He just stares, stares, and stares. 

Damian snaps himself out of his abyssal stupor. He moves his finger over the knob of one of the desk's drawers, and slowly pulls it out for entertainment. 

He sees a couple of pens, pencils, and rubber shavings. It's nothing amazing to look at. Damian had hoped he'd remember something when he accomplished the motion, or that he'd find a sense of familiarity with the sight. 

But no. Damian is all wrong. His head is wrong.

He's wrong. 

Why? 

Chapter Text

Damian breathes fogs in the air as he exhales through his nose. His hands are red, and numb, but that doesn't stop him from finishing up his campfire. He roughly sparks flint against steel, holding it over a teepee of sticks. He was patiently waiting for the wood to catch fire. Damian goes at it for longer than he'd like. His hands were numb. His fingers were stiff. It was hard to move when it felt like there was zero circulation in his hands. 

Damian exhales a cloud of fog once the sparks catch on the dried grass cushioned on the bottom. He drops his flint and steel. Immediately, he shoots out his hands, and hovers them as close to the fire as possible. 

The warmth stings. 

Damian glances upward. Sitting across from him, snug on the frosted ground, sat an interesting personage. She was a veiled woman, like that of a blushing bride, wearing a long white robe. Adorning her head was a crown of silver spikes. 

She's talking to him. Damian knows this, and yet he can't pick up the words. 

Oh, he realizes, this is a dream. 

It's not his first strange dream. He often finds himself in odd places, with odd people, holding conversations beyond his comprehension. Damian tries to hear what they're saying, tries to make out the details, but for some reason he was incapable of understanding. He could only passively observe.

Damian watches as the woman shifts her position. She shifts from a cross-legged arrangement to a respectful form on her knees. She bows politely with her head hung low. Damian can see the silver on her spiked crown glint. 

Damian feels words abruptly press into his mind. It didn't take the shape of a voice. It was a thought. It didn't feel like his own. It felt like someone had implanted it there. It leaves a distinct impression upon his mind. 

One day, you may return. 

Damian wakes with that thought in mind.

It's early in the morning when he gets out of bed. Damian hastens a trip to the bathroom. He didn't want to interact with anyone if necessary. Not when he considered their dislike for him. So, he tries to stay out of their way, and attempts to take care of his hygiene as early as manageable. 

Damian starts off by washing his face. He dips his hands in a sink full of water, and splashes it on his cheeks. He grabs a tube of face-wash, the kind that his father claimed he often used, and gently squeezes the cream out onto his palm. He gently dabs the cream on his face, and then carefully circles it into his skin. 

He stares at himself in the mirror. 

Damian has always thought it a little strange. 

Jon's text had been the first clue.

Damian wasn't sure how he was supposed to interpret information of possible death , but what he does know is that things are matching up. He might not want things to match up, but his mind was naturally drawing conclusions. It wasn't just Jon's text that was giving him some serious wrong vibes. It was his entire photo gallery. It was the fact that he had multiple pictures in which his eyes were green. 

Damian's are not green. 

Damian's eyes are a vibrant, glowing, gold. 

Damian didn't think it was too abnormal until he realized that none of his family members shared the same trait. Most of his family had blue eyes. Damian, on the other hand, had the most outlandish color. 

His iris' color was not the only oddity. If Damian leaned in close to the mirror, and peered into his eyes, he could see strange movement. It was as if something was living in his irises. It rippled like a curtain caught in the wind. 

So, considering Jon's text, and the mutation in his eyes... Damian knew something had happened to him. Something that had most likely been bad. 

Damian finishes up washing his face. He rinses off of his face, dries it off, and then lotions up. 

Damian hears pawing on the door knob. He reluctantly leaves the mirror, if only for a moment, to allow Alfred free reign in the bathroom. 

He opens the door. Alfred slinks in through the crack. Damian is about to close the door again until he sees a face. 

Damian is immediately apologetic. He'd been trying to avoid confrontation, but it seemed he hadn't done good enough. Standing in the hallway, not too far away from the door, stood an elusive figure Damian rarely caught sight of. Her name was Cassandra Cain. According to his Father, she was Damian's only sister. 

"I'm sorry," Damian says. "I'm almost done with the bathroom. I won't be long."

Cass observes him passively. 

Once Damian realizes he's not going to get any verbal acknowledgment, he inclines his head respectfully, and then closes the door. 

Awkward. 

"Damian."

Damian gasps on the floor. He was panting for air. Trying to get the air back into his lungs. He's not sure how his Father managed to keep up so much stamina, but Damian envied it immensely. He couldn't keep up with his father's training. It was difficult to go two minute without losing his breath. Without feeling weak. Without wanting to collapse. 

"Damian, we've been over this several times, I thought your reflexes would improve somewhat by now." 

Damian wipes the sweat off of his brow. 

"I'm sorry, Father," Damian croaks. 

He looks up to meet his father's eyes. There were multiple emotions crossing his father's face. He looked a little apprehensive at first, but then his face fell, and now he looked like someone punched him in the gut. Damian didn't know his bad performance could provoke such emotion. He felt responsible and guilty. 

Crouching down, Bruce matches his eye-level with Damian's. 

"No. I-" He swallows. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'm being a good teacher. Otherwise, it would've clicked by now, and you'd probably already have the hang of this."

Damian looks down. "You're not a bad teacher, Father. I-I'm just having a hard time keeping up. That's all. I'm sorry if my own inadequacy made you feel that way." 

"You're not inadequate, Damian," Bruce returns . "I'm the one who has failed you. I didn't stop to think that maybe I've been rushing things. It's just hard to look at you and to- to remember what you used to do- and it's just… I shouldn't be comparing." 

Used to be, Damian repeats in his head. 

I used to be a lot of things. 

Now? 

"You miss the old me," Damian blurts out. "I'm sorry that I can't amount to that." 

I'm nothing. 

Damian watches as a very pained expression crosses his father's face. 

"I'm sorry that I'm not what I used to be. That I can't remember. And that I'm not good." 

"You are good," Bruce insists. "You're- You're my son. You can't possibly be anything but good." 

Damian shuts his eyes, and squeezes them until he can feel his head hurt. 

It's the first time he doesn't believe his Father. 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes again to see his Father's face. It was much closer than before. "We'll figure this out, Damian, and we'll make it work. No matter what it takes. You'll be able to catch up eventually, even if it takes a while." 

"Right," Damian whispers skeptically. 

Damian wanders the hallways after his training session. He keeps an ice pack to his arm where a blossoming bruise sat. It'd been an accident. Damian had slammed himself into the wall. He'd then tripped over his feet. His arm paid the price for it.

Alfred had brought Damian an ice pack at his Father's request. Damian had minimal contact with his Father's butler. It'd been a strictly professional exchange. 

Alfred was just like the rest of them. He had some kind of issue with Damian. Damian could sense it in him just like he could sense it in the rest of his siblings. Damian's not sure what he's doing wrong, but it was beginning to get to him. He thought he didn't care about what his family thought, that he was just fine with only his Father's attention, but things were shifting in his life. Damian was beginning to see his father in a…  new light. 

Something was off about him. 

He was so insistent that Damian work on his skills. He was constantly on Damian about improving his art, his martial arts, swordsmanship, and education. Damian was beginning to feel a pressure he hadn't felt before. He felt burdened with an impossible amount of tasks. 

Because that's what Damian thought they were. 

Most of his skills have something to do with hobbies, but they didn't feel like hobbies. They felt like homework. They felt like a full-time job. Draining, stressful, and time-consuming. Damian knew he needed to improve his work performance. Yet, despite the time he poured into the development of his skills, Damian still felt like he wasn't doing enough. His results weren't the kind of results his father wanted. 

Damian pauses in his thoughts when he hears the muted thrum of piano keys. Damian halts in the hallway. He adjusts the ice pack against his arm, and then attempts to strengthen his hearing. He strains it to the best of his abilities.

Damian follows the thrum to the neighboring wall. He leans against the wall, and then presses his ear against white paint. 

Damian could hear the piano keys better this way. He imagines the player sitting upon a bench, reading the notes off of a music sheet, occasionally glancing down at their fingers. 

Damian closes his eyes as he listens. There was something alluring about music. Damian couldn't point his finger on it but-

"Pretty," he whispers. 

"Yeah."

Damian nods to himself in agreement until he realizes that the responding voice did not belong to him. He recoils away from the wall, and lands his eyes on his sister. Damian didn't know when she'd arrived, but somehow she'd ended up right next to him. She, too, had been pressing her ear against the wall. Damian's not sure if it'd been because of his own example, or if it'd been because Cass had wanted to find the origin of noise. Regardless, he hadn't sensed her at all. It was jarring. 

Cass pushes herself off the wall. 

"You like music?" She asks. 

Damian considers her warily. He's never interacted with his siblings. Not to the extent of holding a two-sided conversation. He wasn't sure what to expect. 

"Yes…" Damian hesitates. "It's interesting." 

(That's how he's supposed to answer, right?) 

"Hm," Cass hums. "Want to see something?"

Damian presses his lips together. It doesn't go unnoticed. Cass searches his body language with intrigue. Like he's something to be examined. 

"You wouldn't mind?" Damian asks. 

Cass shakes her head. Then, without warning, she grabs Damian's wrist. 

"C'mon," she says.

Damian's eyes widen comically as Cass tugs him through the hallway. His eyes glue to their joined limbs. Cass' hand was different compared to their father's. Cass' fingers were smaller, slimmer, and softer. The tips of her fingers were toughened, and certain parts of her palm were calloused, but Damian didn't mind it too much. He found the overall experience pleasant. 

Cass guides Damian to an empty room. Damian notices the mirror spanning the entire wall, and the rack of costumes tucked in the corner. He's fascinated by the sight. He had no idea what the room was used for but it certainly stood out. 

Cass let's go of Damian's wrist. She jogs over to an interesting stand. It had some kind of box perched on the top. She pops it open carefully. Once she sets it up, she pulls out a drawer, and then retrieves a flat looking object. 

"You're going to like this," she promises. 

Damian watches her curiously as she draws out a big circular disc. It was completely black, with lots of lines, and a hole carved out in the middle. 

Damian watches her pop the object onto the box. She raises some kind of stick thing, and once the disc is settled, she places it back down. 

"Listen," Cass says. 

She takes a step back, plops on the floor, and pats the spot next to her. Damian feels as if he were hypnotized. He thoughtlessly accepts her nonverbal invitation, and lowers himself to the ground.

The box was playing something. Damian's ears were bombarded with a flourish of instruments and singing. 

"Jazz," Cass supplies. 

Damian does not give her any sort of acknowledgment. He was blown away with the chaotic, yet gorgeous, mix of popping brass. Everything was so different, but it matched, and it was energetic. 

Cass rocks side to side with a small smile on her face. She was into the music, that was clear, but Damian couldn't follow her example. He was entrapped in a different world he hadn't known existed. Trying to make out different instruments with what little he knew of them. 

"Woah," is all he can manage. 

Chapter Text

Damian can't get off of his phone. 

YouTube was addicting. He knew he should be painting. Yet, his eyes were glued to his screen, and painting was not an appealing dissuasion.

Damian wanted to watch every street performance in his recommended feed. He was fascinated with the energy associated with them. He'd seen fearless individuals pound away at piano keys. He watched solos played on saxophones in trains. He listened to singers who howled their notes in public. 

Damian feels something bright in his heart when he watches the videos. He can't help his imagination. It runs wild. What once had envisioned art galleries was now envisioning public jazz sessions. Damian could see himself thrumming away on a stand-up bass, blowing into a growling clarinet, or sliding a trombone. He could see himself getting lost in the music just like Cass had. Throwing himself into a new world. 

Music was ten times more interesting than painting. Damian wasn't sure if he wanted to relearn the violin again, but that didn't mean his interest in music had diminished. Damian had tried to rid himself of the desire, but Cass had thwarted his efforts unknowingly. 

Damian walks down the hallway with his eyes on his phone. He treads the familiar path down into the kitchen. He knows he's there when his bare feet hit the cold tile. Damian doesn't look up as his phone blasts a cover of House of the Rising Sun. He blindly reaches out his hand to feel around for the fruit bowl (on the counter), and then he grabs hold of a red apple. Bringing it up to his lips, he takes a big chomp out of it, glancing upward temporarily to eye his prize.

His eyes look past the apple, and land on the breakfast counter. 

Damian freezes. He stares at Tim Drake. His brother was sitting on a stool. In front of him sat a bowl of cereal. His spoon was dipped in milk and his fingers were still wrapped around the handle. It seemed he had no intentions of taking another bite. He was stunned. Just like Damian. 

They both stare at each other for an awkward moment. Damian remembers he still has a piece of apple in his mouth. He bows his head in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't-" He swallows. "I didn't mean to bother you. I'll just leave." 

Damian makes a quick path to the exit. He's not eager to stick around. He knew how things would turn out anyways, so he was just doing Tim a favor. He was removing himself from the equation entirely. 

"Hold on," Tim calls out. 

Damian pauses. He briefs a reluctant glance over his shoulder.

Tim removes his grip from his spoon. He gestures to the phone in Damian's hand. "Um, that, you-" Tim tries to find the words. "You like it? Jazz?" 

Damian nods. Slowly, he states, "Yeah… I do." 

Tim rubs at his lips. He goes quiet again. Damian sticks around because he's not sure if it'd be rude to leave. Tim wasn't saying anything else. It'd be the prime opportunity to make his escape. 

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

Damian turns his body slightly for the purpose of relieving the muscles in his neck. "I don't see why not." 

Tim lowers his hand. He rests it on the counter. 

"Bruce. He keeps asking you about the painting and- other things. Do you…  Do you like that? Do you enjoy painting?"

Damian can't answer straight. He didn't want to speak against his father's desires for him. So, in response, he says, "I think it is a worthy pursuit."

"Yeah but…  are you just doing it because Bruce told you to do it?" 

Damian presses his lips together. "Father plays a large role in it, yes, although I do not see why it would matter to you."

Tim weaves his fingers together. "But- you like music?"

"Yes?"

Tim squints his eyes. He stares at Damian real hard to the point that it makes him uncomfortable. Damian averts his gaze submissively. "I apologize if that has somehow offended you." 

"It's not offensive," Tim promises. "It's just…  I didn't really think of you as someone who'd like music. Didn't think you'd really like anything at all." 

Damian furrows his brows. "What does that mean?"

Tim looks down at his cereal bowl. He seems contemplative about Damian's question, but he doesn't give him a straight answer. "It doesn't matter." 

Damian gives Tim his attention again as their conversation goes mute. Damian tries to read what he can. Tim wasn't looking at him, which wasn't unusual, and he also seemed to be deep in thought. He was resting his chin on interwoven fingers. Staring down at his cereal like it was a philosophical subject to be studied. 

Damian realizes that their conversation would not be progressing past the point Tim had left it on. Damian decides this is his moment to silently remove himself. It is afterwards that he realizes his phone had still been blasting jazz the entire exchange. 

Damian feels his chest compress with tension, but his heart feels a tad lighter with the vibrancy of music. It was relieving in a way. Maybe that's why he liked it so much. It was a dream to bounce around so much, careless, and passionate.

Damian gets himself in trouble only five minutes later. 

He heads for his room with slow steps. He wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings. His eyes were drawn back to his phone again, and his head hung low as he watched a ten minute video. He couldn't see what was in front of him, and that was his first mistake. Damian gets whipped away from his video with a clash. He bumps hard into another person. 

"Oh, sorry," Damian starts. He looks upward to see who he'd bumped into. When he sees who it is, he abruptly shuts his mouth, and swallows down the rest of his words. 

Dick Grayson, who Damian hadn't seen for a couple of days, stares down at him with a reserved expression. Damian couldn't tell what he was feeling. His face looked tight. 

Damian glances down at the carpeted floor. He sees numerous papers flat on the ground. It seemed Damian hadn't been the only one distracted. That didn't mean Damian didn't feel somewhat responsible. When Dick squats to start collecting papers, Damian bends down, too. He brushes across Dick's fingers accidentally.

He shouldn't have. 

Damian stumbles backward when Dick slaps his hand away. He stares wide-eyed at his oldest brother. Dick, likewise, stares wide-eyed in return. He seemed shocked with his own actions. 

Damian looks at his red stinging hand. He then glances back at Dick with a constricted feeling in his chest. It felt like a giant python was coiling around his heart, squeezing it mercilessly. He'd just meant to help. He hadn't meant to become a bother, or to end up triggering Dick. Damian didn't even know what he'd done wrong. 

"I repulse you," Damian blurts out in observation. 

Damian flexes his fingers. 

"You don't like me. No one seems to like me. Why?" 

Dick frantically starts collecting his papers again. He piles them all up in his arms, and then lifts them up in a stack. 

"Do you…" Dick begins, eyes hardening, "Do you even remember what you are?" 

"I don't remember anything." 

Dick laughs bitterly. Damian stands dumbfounded. 

"I honestly don't know how Bruce can look at you, and think that you're his son." 

Damian feels as if he'd just been slapped. Again. 

"Don't you think it's strange that he keeps trying to groom you into being something that you're not?" 

"He-" Damian stutters. "What?"

"And he doesn't listen to us. He never has. He'll keep the act up past the point of you measuring up to his fantasies." 

Dick readjusts the paper load in his arms, and then he brushes past Damian wordlessly. Damian twists to watch Dick's retreating back, wondering how he was supposed to interpret his words. Wondering what it all meant, and how he was supposed to proceed. 

Damian looks down at his phone. His fingers are limp around the phone cover. He didn't have the strength to keep the device in his grip. It seemed like too much energy. What energy he did have, what delight he might have acquired, was now gone. Depleted in the conversation he just had with Dick. 

Damian lifelessly watches as a woman puffs into her tuba. Eyes smiling with peace and relaxation. 

He turns off his phone.

Damian might have turned off his phone, but it ends up flicking to life under his blankets. Damian huddles underneath a mound of them as he scrolls through his texts. Finally, when he sees the individual he wants, he taps on the conversation. 

Damian stares at the screen for a while. He isn't sure how he's supposed to go about what he wants to do next, not when he's certain something might go wrong with it, but he needs answers. He can't just keep this 'family' thing up when they all despise him. They also made absolutely no sense when they spoke to him. They weren't giving him the straight answers that he needed. 

That's why he resorts to Jon. 

Damian starts texting out what he thinks might be appropriate. 

Hi Jon - I know it's been a while but - 

Hi Jon - I'm really confused and I thought that maybe-

Jon - this is Damian - and-

It all feels wrong. 

Damian types out one word. 

Hi.

He sends it before he can think about it. His whole body was tense with anticipation. He could barely breathe, could barely think, in his newly-founded phone anxiety. He wasn't sure how Jon would react to him texting him. He wasn't sure if it was even the right thing to do. Damian felt like he was going behind his father's back. Doing something that he shouldn't. 

Damian waits for about two minutes. 

Jon: Damian!? Is that you!? 

Damian thinks about his gold eyes. He thinks about how people are treating him. He thinks about previous comments. His lack of affinity with certain hobbies. 

Reluctantly, he begins typing.

I don't think I'm 'Damian.' 

Chapter Text

Damian stares speechlessly at his screen. 

Likewise, Jon stares back, equally lacking in words.

Damian had been nervous about accepting a face-chat with him, but his curiosity had surpassed his anxiety. He wanted to know who Jon was, and he also wanted answers to his situation. He thought that maybe Jon might know a little bit about what was going on. By the way Jon was looking at him, maybe he'd already figured something out. Damian hoped that was the case. 

"Yeah. I don't think you're Damian either," Jon finally says. A slight breeze runs through his hair, and his blue eyes squint in observation. "You're too pale. Damian doesn't have gold eyes. He also isn't as polite." 

"Do you know what I am?" Damian finds himself asking. "No one will tell me." 

Jon gives him a thoughtful frown. "My guess is that you're some kind of clone, but if that's the case, I don't know how you have Damian's phone." 

"Father gave it to me," Damian says. 

Jon rewards Damian's confession with a pair of knitted brows. "He gave you Damian's phone?" Jon gives him a hard stare. "Hold on. You need to start at the beginning."

Damian pulls at the blanket draped over his shoulders. 

"Beginning… okay. I'll try. Here's what I remember. My first memory is waking up in Father's arms. We were in some kind of…  dark room. He called me Damian. He told me that I liked painting and animals. Amongst other things. I didn't think he was wrong until recently." Damian sighs in reflection. "My siblings are avoiding me. They're not very happy with me."

Jon rubs the back of his neck. "I can see where they're coming from. I'd probably feel the same in their shoes, but I guess I' m different since my brother is a clone. "

"You have a clone for a brother?"

"Yeah. His name is Conner." Jon adjusts the phone in his hand. His surroundings shift with it. Damian catches sight of a long field of grass. White hens busy themselves in the distance. "He's a clone of my dad and this weirdo named Luthor."

"How did that happen?"

Jon shrugs. "I don't know. No one has told me."

Damian takes a good look at Jon. Now that he thinks about it, Jon didn't look ' Damian's' age. He also looked nothing like the little boy in his photo gallery. 

"How old are you?" Damian blurts out. "You don't look like the photos." 

Jon drops his jaw. "Photos? You have photos of me?"

"Yeah. In my-" Damian pauses. He corrects himself, "In Damian's phone." 

Damian. 

He wasn't Damian. 

So what was he supposed to call himself? His father would continue to call him Damian. He was supposed to answer to that name. 

"I knew he cared," Jon says with a cheesy grin. "I'm seventeen. It's a whole story I don't want to get into. I'm more interested in what's going on with you." 

Damian (not Damian) feels a bubble of frustration form in his chest. 

"I don't know what's going on with me. I-" Damian thinks about Dick's reaction. He thinks about his family avoiding him. He thinks about his father's love, and how it was only reserved for somebody he wasn't. Somebody he was supposed to pretend to be. "I don't know what I am, or who I am, and my entire life up to this point has been a bucket of lies. I'm-" alone. "I'm just here."

Damian presses his lips together. 

"Damian Wayne," he recites. "What happened to him?" 

Jon's face falls. 

"I-" Jon's phone falters in his hand, and so does the camera. It takes Jon a moment to steady it. "I don't know what to tell you. He was killed. Assassinated is more like it." 

"You seemed pretty optimistic that he wasn't dead in the texts." 

"I was just in denial. He has a coffin and everything. He- well-" Jon pauses. "Wait a second. Now that I think about it… his coffin was stolen! His dad- your dad- had this huge fight over him. I never heard about what happened afterwards." Jon frowns sadly, features sagging in a haggard way. "I hope your dad found him."

Damian closes his eyes sorrowfully. 

"I don't think he did. Otherwise I-" Damian takes in a deep breath. "I wouldn't exist."

He needs something new to call himself. 

He tries to think about it as he practices with his father. He goes through the motions. He tries his best to measure up to his father's expectations, and tries not to get too frustrated over his slow progress. Likewise, it seemed his father was having the same trouble. He was most likely biting back his true opinion on the matter. 

Sylvester? 

Damian gets a full-body shiver. 

No. 

Damian narrowly dodges a fist by turning to the right. 

Horace? 

Damian ducks into a squat. 

No. Where am I even getting these names? They don't sound common. Not that I'd know. 

Keith? 

Damian steps to his left this time. He feels his father's fist cut over his shirt. Barely scraping the fabric. 

Jesse? 

Damian side-steps, ducks, and then pops up behind his father. 

Alex? 

Alex Wayne? Jasper Wayne? Hunter Wayne? Kyle Wayne?  

Blake. 

Blake straightens himself on his feet. His father had abruptly halted the training session. Why? Had he failed? Had he done something to disappoint him? His face was unreadable. He was just staring. It left Blake to his imagination. 

Thanks for letting me borrow your name, Damian, but I can no longer dishonor it. 

"Damian. Where did you learn those moves?" 

Blake blinks rapidly. "Father?"

His father keeps up the staring contest. "How did you do that? You were dodging my punches left and right." 

Blake raises his brows. He didn't remember doing that. He'd just been busy thinking about getting himself a new name. He hadn't been putting much of his conscious into training. 

"I don't know," Blake realizes. 

His father folds his arms in thought. He makes a low humming sound. Blake can't quite wrap his mind around recent events. How had he been able to dodge his father's punches? Had he been going easy on him?

That couldn't be right. He seemed just as surprised as Blake. 

"Why don't we try this again?" His father suggests. 

Blake instantly falls into a defensive stance. "Okay," he says. He might not admit it, but he was eager to replicate his moves. It was the most interesting thing that had happened to him, aside from finding out he was most likely a clone, all week. 

Blake is prepared for his father's punch. It's always the same left hook, and Blake is fairly certain it's on purpose. Regardless, he manages to dodge it , but what comes next is the typical surprise maneuver. His father cuts his right fist through the air, and then abruptly slows it down to tap Blake's exposed side. 

"This punch could have killed you if it hit hard enough" he says. 

"But it didn't," Blake states.

"You didn't dodge it. You had no trouble evading this move earlier. You were faster."

"I…  I suppose." 

"What were you thinking when you were dodging?"

Blake doesn't want to tell his father that he was thinking of a new name. So, he shrugs, "I don't know. Things." He starts nibbling on his bottom lip. "I know I should have been focusing on the spar but-"

"Don't chew on your bottom lip," his father interjects in displeasure. 

Blake corrects his behavior. He didn't know why it seemed to bother his father, but Blake wouldn't dare disobey. 

"I think that you're a natural fighter," his father begins again. "You put too much thought into what you should be doing. Which, in a way, isn't necessarily wrong. It's important to use proper form. But, clearly, it seems you have a penchant for operating on instinct." 

Blake makes a strangled sound. That didn't make any sense to him. Judging by his father's frown, it mustn't be a good thing, either. 

"Maybe we can change that and balance it out," his father mumbles to himself. 

Blake can still hear it. 

Except, his brain adds a little detail. 

Maybe we can change that so that you're more like Damian.

Blake leaves the training session sweating and exhausted. He drags his feet down the hallway. He heads towards his room to get a new change of clothes.His father had told him to hit the shower. Blake thought that was a great idea. He felt gross. He felt like he was made out of salty sludge. It was not a fun feeling. 

Blake doesn't get too far. 

He passes the 'room.' 

He takes a couple of steps past the door, but then he's jolted to a stop. Blake looks over his shoulder to see the familiar face belonging to his sister. She had a hand wrapped around his wrist again, and she was trying to tug him in the opposite direction. 

"Hey- wait-" Blake startles as he is dragged towards the mirror room.

He's tossed in. Cass shuts the door behind them to communicate a clear message. Don't leave. 

Cass wordlessly walks over to the record player (Blake had learned the name through YouTube), and then she starts shuffling through records. Blake watches her cluelessly. 

"Ah," she sounds when she finds the right one. She carefully removes it from the covering, and then slots it into place. Blake looks at the smile curving on her lips, and then picks up the record's stuttering music. It takes the record a few tries, but eventually it communicates a clear sound. 

Cass rocks on her heels cheerfully. She then spins, walks in Blake's direction, and grabs both of his wrists. She pulls him playfully to the center of the room. 

"Hold on-" 

Cass gives him a melodic laugh. "Relax."

She guides Blake's hands into the proper position. Blake had no idea what was going on. Not until Cass starts to guide him in a strange dance. 

"Wait a second. I'm really sweaty," Blake complains. It's his main concern. Cass shouldn't want to be doing this with him. 

"It's okay," Cass says. She hunches over a little to dance with him. "You'll just have to wash it off afterwards." 

"What are we even doing?" Blake questions as he stumbles over his feet. Cass was trying to show him how to do the dance, but she wasn't doing so verbally. Blake felt that he might have an easier time if she walked him through it before throwing him into the motions. Unfortunately, he was left to fend for himself, which meant there was a lot of tripping involved. 

"Swing," Cass says with a twinkle in her eye. 

"Swing," Blake repeats. Now that he listens to the music, it's up-beat, and fast-paced. There's something different about it. It uses many of the same instruments that Jazz uses. It's equally foot-tapping. Blake could find himself mistaking the two as the same thing. Except, Jazz is a little more soulful, and swing is a little less. 

"I thought you could use a break," Cass hums. She picks Blake up abruptly, and Blake yelps in surprise. Cass was strong. He's even more shocked when she pops him up in the air. When he lands in her arms, he grabs hold of her shoulders for his dear life, staring down at her with wide eyes. 

Cass gives him a bubbly smile. "You don't have to worry. I'll always have you."

Blake feels himself flush. He's beyond embarrassed. 

"Why are you doing this? Is it because of pity?" He questions as she releases him. "You're not like the rest of them. They all avoid me." Damian lands on his feet.

Cass hums again. "They don't know what it's like." 

She twirls Blake around. He stumbles. She catches him. Just like she promised. 

"They don't what?" Blake asks breathlessly. 

"They're not like us," Cass says.

Blake feels like he was getting the hang of it now. Now that he's focused on Cass' words, instead of his feet, he's beginning to understand the pattern. 

"How are you like me?" 

Blake stares up at her with unbound curiosity. The kind that's been driving him mad the last few weeks. 

"I was born to be something that I wasn't," she explains. "Taught to hurt. That's all I knew but-" she gives Blake a moment to breathe. "They were wrong about me."

She rests a slender hand on his head. 

"They're wrong about you."

Chapter Text

Blake wearily looks downward at the sand beneath his feet. He takes an exhausted step. He not only sees his bandaged feet dig into the sand, but he feels them sink under his weight. His eyes are drawn to the sight until he hears the sound of grains rubbing against metal. Lazily, he looks up, and then glances over his shoulder. He eyes the tip of his Odachi pulling through the ground, tracing lines. 

This isn't how you treat a sword, Blake thinks to himself, although he's not quite sure how he knows that. 

Blake turns his head again. He momentarily pauses to stretch out a scarred hand. He flexes his fingers. 

Blake doesn't have hands quite as scarred as these . He'd noticed it the first couple of times, but, now that he thought about it, there were other noticeable differences. His hands were bigger than he remembered them being. It looked like they'd either mutated, or he'd somehow grown older. They were also darker. Alive. Blake's hands were pale. Like death. 

Blake looks up again. Aside from the rolling ocean at his side, he could make out the tinkling of feet. There was a figure walking towards him. He recognized her. He'd seen her before. She'd been the one sitting across Blake near the campfire, robed in white, with a spiked silver crown. She still had a long flowing veil covering her entire face, but this time, Blake realizes she has no shoes. Her feet are smooth, unblemished, and perfect. Wrapped around her ankles are multiple metal bangles. Clinking together with each step. 

She holds her hands out in front of her in invitation. 

Blake feels a surge of anger. He opens his mouth to hiss. 

"You're the reason I'm here." 

Something serene answers. It is feminine, wistful, and mysterious. It sounds from Damian's front, and from his back at the same time. 

"Someday, you may return, but that day is not today." 

"You would keep me here until I age away," he comments snidely. "You call yourselves Sanctuary, but I feel it is anything but." 

"You have not yet finished the trials. If it takes you until you are old, wrinkled, and weary? Then so be it." 

Blake feels a hand plop down onto his shoulder. He turns sharply to face a familiar white-clothed man. Dressed in the same tattered robes. His blue eyes swim in deep waters. They swirl in determination. 

"Become our prophet, Damian," the woman says. 

Blake's eyes pop open.

Blake can't stop thinking about his disturbing dream for the majority of the week. He goes through routine as is expected of him. He trains, paints, and learns basic education. He rarely gets a break, the kind that Cass had roped him into, but Blake notices somewhat of a change in his life. 

Dinners are still an awkward affair, but Cass shoots him smiles across the table. She also occasionally pulls him over in the hallway to exchange small talk, and Blake will sometimes find himself searching for her around the mirror room.

He wanted to hear swing again. He wanted to replicate the feelings it provoked. He wanted to bounce on his feet, and spin until his head got dizzy. Inwardly, he yearned for Cass to pull him away from his troubles, and to introduce more music to him. 

He has to make due with YouTube when Cass isn't around to set up the record player. Blake learns that there are many different kinds of 'swing' genres there. He listens to a couple of songs from the 40s, like I Got Rhythm by Teddy Wilson Sextet, where the percussion keeps a steady bouncing beat. He listens to something called electro swing which is not quite as simple, but just as charming in an endearing way. 

Jazz is not all that different. Blake learns that there are multiple forms of Jazz . There's the kind of jazz that'll relax everything in your body, and then there's the kind of jazz that speaks to your soul. The kind that makes your heart pound with the drums. That sends you into a different dimension. 

Then, there's swing, which Blake learns is a style of jazz. 

He hadn't known that. 

Blake's innard desire to hang out with Cass again is soon answered on a sunny day. Cass finds him painting in his room. She invites him out into the hallway with a quiet voice. Blake deserts everything to do as she says, excited for what she might have in store for him, and excited to get along with someone other than his father. 

"Look!" Cass shows him outside his door. She holds up a pair of roller skates. "I found these. They were in the coat closet. Let's try them out!"

Blake didn't know what Cass meant by 'trying them out,' but he was eager to please her. He nods in agreement. Once he does, Cass leans down to grab another pair of skates she'd left on the floor, and lugs it upward in the air. It was a smaller pair. Blake automatically assumes it is for him. 

Blake follows Cass through the hallway, down the staircase, and out the front door. Cass insists that they test the roller skates out on the driveway. Blake easily agrees. 

Cass has no trouble pulling on her skates. Blake tries to replicate her movements, but maybe he's thinking too hard about it. He ends up encountering difficulty. 

"Here," Cass says. She'd been on the ground right next to him. Sitting on hard concrete. "Let me help you."

Cass twists her body and leans forward. Blake withdraws his hands as Cass starts working at the complicated, tangled, laces. She frowns in concentration as she attempts to pull them out of a jumbled knot. Seeing her have trouble with what he'd been having trouble with makes Blake feel better about the whole thing. It makes him feel like he wasn't as inadequate or dumb as originally decided. 

It takes Cass about five minutes to get his shoe laces in working order. She ends up tying the laces for him, occasionally glancing upward to ask the question, "Is it too tight?" 

"It's perfect." 

Cass somehow manages to pull herself up to her feet. She holds a hand out for Blake to grab. 

Blake tentatively accepts her invitation. His eyes stay on her face as she helps lift him off of the ground. He watches the breeze sift through her short, black hair. He thinks about just how beautiful his sister really is. How picture-perfect of a face she has. 

Blake wobbles on his feet. His heart adopts an anxious beat. 

His other hand grabs at Cass' arm. He holds onto her for his dear life. He was certain he'd fall if he didn't cling to her. He thought he would lose his balance in just a second, and then he'd somehow hit the back of his head. 

"Relax," Cass laughs. It gives Blake a wave of deja vu. "You're thinking too hard." 

Blake chews on his bottom lip. "I-" He presses his teeth hard into his skin. "I don't know not how to think." 

"Focus on your surroundings," Cass suggests.

Blake releases the pressure on his lip. He watches Cass' hair wave in the wind again, and then he traces her pleasantly puffy cheeks with his eyes. 

"How?" Blake wobbles again.

"What do you hear?" Cass questions. She prompts him forward with a pull of her arm. Blake's grip on her tightens.

"I hear-" Blake tries to concentrate. "I-" 

"Close your eyes," she says. 

Blake looks at her with a great amount of reluctance. 

"I have you," she promises. 

Blake hesitates a few seconds longer, but remembers how Cass had kept her word previously. So, Blake decides to place his trust in her, and then squeezes his eyes shut. 

"Relax." She makes a melodic laugh. 

Blake forces his eyelids to release unnecessary pressure. 

"Okay, now, listen." 

Blake tries to hear what's around him. He tries to pick up what sounds that he can. First, he notices his pounding heart, and his harsh breaths. He branches out into the less noticeable things. He can hear the slightest rustle of leaves, and wheels scratching against concrete. 

"Now, feel," Cass says. 

She gently pries his fingers off of her arm. Blake concentrates on the warmth of her hand, the constricting of his lungs, and the tight binding around his ankles. He feels the ground slide underneath him. He pulls his balance up into his abs. 

Blake feels the wind go through his own hair. He feels it caress his face with encouragement. It was as if nature itself was rooting for him. As if it had some sort of conscious. 

And maybe it did. 

"You didn't even need me," Cass teases playfully. Blake frowns because that was completely wrong. Cass had been detrimental in- in…

Blake pops his eyes open. 

"What-" 

His eyes widen as he looks down at his feet. 

"I-" 

He's doing it. He's doing it!

"I-!" He looks up at Cass with blown eyes. "I'm doing it. I'm-!" 

His heart drops into his stomach when he starts over-thinking it. His feet wobble again. How was he doing it? This didn't make any sense. 

Cass catches him before he can smack his face into the concrete. 

Blake looks up at her with a twisted expression. 

"I thought-" 

"Too much thought," Cass interrupts. 

They stare at each other for a long moment. Cass gives him a reassuring smile, and Blake feels one curve on his own lips. It isn't long before they're laughing together. Cass is letting out a breathy chuckle, and Blake is making an embarrassing wheeze. 

The moment cracks at the sound of an engine. 

Cass helps Blake straighten on his feet. He's still holding onto her as a vehicle pulls up into the driveway. He eyes the roaring motorcycle, and then the person on top of it. He couldn't see their face, but he had a good idea as to who it was. No one could match Jason's figure in their family. Or his leather jacket. 

Jason hops off the motorcycle. He pulls his helmet over his head, and then sits it down on the seat. 

His eyes meet theirs. 

Blake dreads it. 

Jason gives Blake some kind of look, the kind he'd been on the receiving end of for the past couple of weeks. Jason then looks up at Cass with disbelief. 

"Cass," his rough voice releases through a tight throat. "You can't be serious. How-"

Blake feels his free heart bind up with invisible flaxen cord. It wraps, wraps, and wraps. It's almost as bad as the dread that washes down his spine. 

"Jason," Cass warns. 

Jason doesn't hear the warning in her voice, or at least he pretends that he can't. "You know what he is, right? You know what he did. How can you- How can you entertain this? It's a freak show! Bruce was bad enough, but don't tell me you-"

"Jason," Cass warns louder. 

Blake's mind shoots him back to Dick. He remembers the angry slap. The avoidance. The upsetting conversation. 

"Bruce is sick," Jason grounds out. "You can't seriously think playing house is going to make this situation any better. He's not Damian, Cass, and you know this."

Blake remembers Alfred's behavior. Remembers how he tried to have as minimal contact as possible. 

"It's psychotic!" 

Blake feels the crushing weight of his current situation rest on his shoulders again. He feels something in his eyes. Blurring up his vision like a fogged dream. Blake wishes that's all that this was, some kind of horrific dream. Something he'd soon wake up from if only to relieve his heart's aches. 

Cass rests a hand on Blake's shoulder. She squeezes it. 

Maybe that's why Blake feels his heart break. He doesn't deserve her affection. Not if she really is trying to treat him like Damian. He fears she was living her fantasies through him. He fears that she didn't see him for what he was. 

Blake scrubs furiously at his eyes. His whole body shakes with a resounding sob. It jolts him in a way he's never felt before. 

Jason goes quiet. Cass doesn't say anything. They just listen to Blake make a pathetic sight of himself. 

Blake tears himself away from Cass. He frantically squats down to remove the skates from his feet. It takes longer than he'd like, but he gets the job done.

He leaves Cass behind. He runs away from her, leaving a large distance to avoid Jason's location, and busts into the manor. 

"What-" 

Blake nearly bumps into Dick, but he narrowly dodges him (he didn't want to repeat that mistake again). He wipes furiously at his eyes as he frantically climbs the stairs. He doesn't look back when he runs through the hallway. He dives into his room as soon as he is able, and then tucks himself inside his closet. 

He cries. 

Chapter Text

"Damian?" 

Blake buries his face in his arms. 

There was only one person in the manor that would willingly seek him out, and it happened to be the man who called himself Damian's Father. Blake might have eagerly responded to his call, once upon a time, but now all he feels is endless dread. What did his father want with him this time? Did he want to train? Did he want to check up on Blake's poorly painted portraits? How many ways could Blake disappoint him for not being what he wanted Blake to be? 

Blake rubs at his eyes. It's a different kind of hurt when he realizes he has no time to cry. He'd been in his closet for about ten minutes. It hadn't been enough time to process his emotions. 

Blake was beginning to understand that he's an invalid. What he feels doesn't matter. It can't matter. Not with how people treated him. His father didn't care about how he felt about certain things, and neither did any of his toxic siblings. Cass might have tried to bring Blake out of his 'shell,' but all that taught him was that nothing would change. It didn't matter if he acted outside of the box. People would still hate him. Blake could try to be his own person, or he could try to be Damian. Either way, he wouldn't be accepted, and he'd forever be shunned. 

Blake feels heavy as he stands up in his closet. He pushes through hanging articles of clothes, and emerges out into his expansive room. He feels like a bucket of bones by the time he reaches his door. He wants to turn into dust before he can turn the door knob, but nothing of the like happens to him. He ends up opening the door, despite his desires not to, and he reveals the towering form of his father. Waiting. 

"Damian," he says with a warm smile. 

Blake. I'm Blake. 

No. 

I'm Damian. 

Damian can't be the perfect son but-

Maybe he can find some sort of purpose fulfilling his father's wishes. Maybe he should just try harder. Put away the things that were distracting him like Jazz, street performances, and YouTube. He should slave away with the brush, katana, and violin. He should do what his Father asked of him. He should continue to please him. Maybe then he'd be worth something. 

Damian feels like a black hole. He used to be full of life, full of water, but someone had ripped a hole in his bucket. It's gone now. Cass had tried to refill his spirit a little, but it'd all poured right out of the bottom. It was fruitless. Pointless. Sucked into a place without return. Vacuumed into the abyss. 

"Father," Damian answers, empty, and dull. 

His Father gets straight to the point. "I wanted to show you something." 

Damian nods shortly. His father gives him another smile, like he really means it, but Damian doesn't feel anything when he looks at it. 

Damian follows after his father obediently. He exits his room, walks down the hallway, and then makes a few turns. Damian ignores everything on the way. He finds no interest in the antique vases, portraits, or finely-sewn curtains. His eyes are rooted on his father's muscled back. 

"I've been wanting to introduce you to this for some time," his father says, "but I wasn't sure when the right opportunity might present itself. I thought that now would be as good a time as any, seeing as how the sun is setting." 

Damian doesn't answer. He has nothing of value to add. 

"I didn't want to overwhelm you." 

Damian feels something bitter bubble up in his chest. 

"But now that you've improved a little with your martial arts-" 

Improvement - he says - as if it were true. 

"I think that you're ready to learn what lies beneath the manor." 

His father stops in front of a grandfather clock in the library. He turns to give Damian a reassuring smile, but it doesn't reassure Damian all that much. In fact, he feels a tinkle of dread wash down his spine, as if he should be wary of what was going to happen next. He had reason to be wary, he supposed, considering his father's history of introducing a plethora of responsibilities. Damian might as well be running on fumes now. 

Not that it mattered. 

Nothing mattered. 

"I think you're going to like this. It's the fun part." 

Damian watches as the grandfather clock shifts. 

Okay. Interesting but- why were there two fireman poles? 

"Do you remember how to slide down?" 

Damian doesn't get to answer because his father hooks himself on the fireman's pole. He then disappears with a kooky grin, slipping down like a professional. Damian finds himself peering inside the space with wide eyes, because as dull as he might feel, he didn't want to watch someone die. 

His father does not die. He lands softly on a metal platform beneath. 

"Come on, Son!"

Damian looks at the fireman pole, and then gauges the height.

He swallows thickly in fear. His vision wobbles. 

"O-Okay…" Damian shakily grabs hold of the pole. He's got some clue as to why his hands are shaking, but his whole surroundings were shaking, too. Damian's not sure what to make of that. "H-Here I…  I come." 

Damian chokes down a scream when he steps off the carpet. 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he slides down. His hands burn. His heart races like a galloping horse. His lungs join in with frantic breath. Ruining Damian in a chaotic stampede. 

Damian feels a tear run down his cheek when he hits the ground. 

It'd only been a few seconds, but it'd been the worst few seconds of his life. He's not eager to repeat the experience. He doesn't want to throw himself onto the pole again, and slide all the way down with nothing to stop him. His only relief had been a painful collision with the ground. 

Damian tries to straighten himself up. He understandably wobbles. Before he can get his balance back, he feels a thumb rub away the tear on his cheek. Damian cracks his eyes open to see his father standing near. Frowning. Staring at the tear on his thumb as if we're an upsetting sight. 

"Must've been the wind caused by your momentum," he reasons away. "I know you're a tough boy." 

Tough. Tough. Okay. Add that to the list. Damian is tough. Damian doesn't cry when he slides down poles. Damian isn't afraid of heights. Damian isn't afraid of high-speeds. He's not afraid of anything. 

Damian manages to get a hold of himself by the time his father sweeps his hands open. He gestures to the space around them. "This-" he says in grand introduction, "is the Batcave." 

Damian gives himself the permission to tentatively look around. He was… supposed to feel amazed…  right? He doesn't. He feels apathetic. His little adventure on the fireman's pole had been more of a shock than a huge clubhouse underneath the manor. 

"This is where it all started," his father continues. "I fell down here when I was a little boy. I used to be terrified by bats but-" he sighs in a nostalgic manner, "now they're what I am." 

Damian stares at his father with growing concern. There was something off in the air around him. He was acting whimsical, like a performer.  Putting on a show for an invisible audience. 

Damian's dread thrives within the thick atmosphere.

"And you-" 

His father spins on his heels. He closes the distance between them, and slaps his hands on Damian's shoulders.

"You were my little boy. My little Robin."

Damian stares up into crazed eyes. His father's fingers squeeze into his shoulders. 

"And you loved to fly." 

Chapter Text

Damian stands atop a Gotham ledge with the confidence of a trained martial artist. He's not afraid of the foreboding atmosphere, or the long drop into the alleyway beneath him. He's not afraid of his father's strange behavior, or of the costume he'd decided to wear. Damian was in his element. He knew how to deal with this. He knew- He-

Blake stands atop a Gotham ledge absolutely terrified. His knees shake when he looks downward into the long drop below him. He's afraid of the foreboding atmosphere. His father's costumed persona gave him reason to worry. Blake might not know a lot about vigilantes, considering the fact that he hadn't even know they were a thing until now, but what he does know is that this isn't natural. It's concerning. It's-

Damian knows what he's in for. He isn't afraid. The strange costume he'd been forced to wear doesn't make him feel like a clown. He doesn't feel out of place. He doesn't feel like he might fall off the ledge. He's attentive when his father explains the usage of a grappling hook, and he knows that he's familiar with this object. His father had said he'd once used it to fly.

His father is never wrong about Damian. He knows everything there is to know about Damian. 

But Blake is afraid. His costume doesn't feel right. It literally rubs him in the wrong way. It's tight. It makes him feel trapped. His domino mask makes surrounding skin itch. He's not attentive when his father explains the usage of the grappling gun. All he sees is his father point at the opposing building, demonstrate how to use the device, and then his imagination does the rest. Blake can come up with hundreds of different ways about how this might go wrong. He might lose his grip on the gun. He might fall to his death. He might miss the ledge. 

He might disappoint his father. 

"This one is yours." 

His father pushes the device into Blake's hands. Blake might be wearing gloves, but he can feel how cold the metal is through the fabric. It doesn't fit right in his hand. It has sharp edges that Blake doesn't know how to navigate around. 

"Why don't you try it out?"

Damian knows what a grappling gun is, and he knows that he needs to get this over with. It's a milestone in his life. It's something that'll help him feel normal again. Help him regain what memories he used to have. It might just spark something important. It might help him settle into a routine he used to do. 

But Blake's hands are shaking. 

"I-I don't know if-" Blake stumbles out like an inarticulate fool, despite having once been told he was a generally well-spoken boy, "I don't think I can-" 

"Nonsense," his father says. "You're a natural at this."

Blake adjusts the gun in his hands. He slowly raises it to aim at the opposing ledge. 

"I-" 

Blake's knees wobble. 

Damian can do this. Damian isn't afraid of anything. 

Blake feels his heart pounding against his chest like it was trying to bust out of his ribcage. His bones were restrictive cell bars, and his heart was attempting a prison escape. First, it was the pole, and now it's this. Blake hadn't even done well in the car ride to his current location. His father pressed on the gas until they were hitting dangerous speeds. Blake remembers holding tightly onto his seat belt as if it'd protect him from an unfortunate fate. 

"I can't do this - I- " Blake verbally vomits, "I'm not prepared for this. There's so much that can go wrong." 

He turns to look at his father. "I'm sorry but-" 

"Maybe you just need a little push." 

Blake's eyes go wide when he feels a flat palm nudge him off the edge. 

"Fa-" 

Blake's heart stops beating altogether. Blake is falling now. He's so shocked that he doesn't know what to do. It'll take him only a few seconds to hit the ground, and he was already wasting time. His brain was frustratingly void. It takes him a few to start breathing again, but it takes longer to recognize the danger that he's in.

"Father!" Blake screams at the top of his lungs. He can see his father peering over the edge in expectation, but at the same time, his father is utterly frozen. He wasn't going to help Blake. 

Blake scrambles for the grappling gun, even though he knows it's most likely too late, and aims it up at the sky. 

Blake was about to die. He was about to die without having even lived. 

Blake struggles to pull the trigger. His finger is too weak to apply the necessary pressure, and Blake sobs out in a blinded panic. 

Blake can't be Damian. He could try. He could try his hardest, but he'd fail every time. He would never be able to fill Damian's shoes. 

"I've got you." 

Blake has the wind knocked out of him as a body collides with his. Blake wheezes out a final lungful of air as arms wrap around him. He's not falling fast to the ground anymore, but he is swinging towards the side of the building. He nearly gets squished into the wall like a pancake, if only to compensate for the rough catch. 

Blake hears them land on metal. It's an emergency staircase bolted into brick. Made for quick escapes in the case of catastrophe. He may be surrounded by railings, trapped with someone who'd been majorly avoidant, but at least he's not falling anymore.  

Blake's grappling gun slips out of his hands. 

Blake stares up into a red domino mask. Tim looks down at him with a pair of pressed lips, stressed together into a thin line. 

Tim slowly deposits Blake back on his feet. Blake can't tell what he's feeling, but he finds that he doesn't really care. His air comes back to him in a sudden squeeze, and Blake's resounding sob fills the silence. Blake throws his arms around Tim's waist in the shock of the moment. He buries his face into a lean, but toned, chest. His eyes leak endless fat tears. The kind that burns in the chill of Gotham's night. 

Blake clings onto Tim like he's his lifeline. Tim stands frozen, not unlike their father, with hovering hands that don't do anything. 

Blake doesn't have the time to think about how this might be inappropriate, or how Tim might not like Blake holding onto him. 

Maybe it's a good thing. Tim's hands gently press into Blake's back, cautiously, until the tension bleeds out of them. 

"You're just a kid," Tim whispers with dread. 

Blake doesn't know what he means by that, but that doesn't stop him from hanging on. Tim probably realizes that Blake isn't going to let go anytime soon. That's why he, despite having just put Blake down, decides he ought to pick him up again. He hoists Blake up into his arms. He doesn't need to show Blake what to do after. Blake automatically wraps his arms around Tim's neck. 

"Keep your eyes closed," he warns. 

Blake does exactly that when Tim leaps off the staircase. 

He feels them ascend upward at cutting speeds. Blake sobs out again when he recognizes the feeling. They were in the air again. 

Suddenly, there's a jolt that rumbles through both of their bodies, and Tim's feet hit concrete. 

"-makes you think you can keep doing this? We told you this was a bad idea, but did you take the damn time to listen? No! It was bad enough that you used Court technology to resurrect Damian's assassin, but then you put him in Robin colors like we'd just stand aside? Just spit on Damian's grave, why don't you? Rub dirt in his corpses' face! "

Blake takes in a trembling breath. 

"You've gone absolutely mental, B! You think this is what he would've wanted? You think that pretending he's back is going to make the grief go away?" 

Blake is being lowered to the ground again. He grasps Tim's cape hard when he's on his feet. He's still pressed close to Tim, Tim still has a hand on his back, but now Blake can see what's happening on the roof. Jason is in Bruce's face. He's holding onto the flexible fabric over his collarbone. Pulling at it so Bruce can't get away. 

Blake doesn't miss the knuckle mark on his father's exposed jaw. 

"You think I would've liked it if you'd gone and made the Joker some sick version of me? Because that's essentially what you're doing now!" 

Dick stands to the side with his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Cass stands next to him. Reserved in a defeated sort of way. 

"And-" Jason turns to look at Blake. He scowls. "How could you ever look into that murderer's face, and think that he's the same son that you lost?" 

Dick moves. He grabs hold of Jason's arms, and forcefully tugs him away from their father. 

Cass looks at Jason with a sad contemplative frown. 

"I just-" Bruce whispers, looking up at Dick with vulnerability Blake's never seen before, "He's gone." 

Dick doesn't move, utterly wordless, as his father leans his forehead against Dick's shoulder. 

"He's gone," Bruce whispers defeatedly. "He's gone."

It takes Dick a moment. When the moment comes, he doesn't hold back. Dick wraps his arms around Bruce with a death-grip. He uses every individual muscle to hug him. 

Jason takes one more look in Blake's direction, and spits with venom, "What are you looking at?"

Tim steps in front of Blake. "Stop, Hood. He's just a kid."

"He killed Damian!" 

"He doesn't remember," Tim puts out calmly. "He's literally regressed." 

"Does it look like I give a damn? He's still the same person!"

Cass steps in front of Jason with a mean look. 

"Stop it," she says, jabbing a finger in his chest, "Even if he did remember, he was a victim of circumstance. He was taught his whole life that he only had one purpose, just like me, and that was to please his family with results." 

Jason opens his mouth. 

"He's nothing like Joker, who hurts people just for the fun of it, so stop projecting." 

Jason returns Cass' glare with one of his own. 

Blake stands broken in his place, clinging to Tim's cape, and surrounded by a shattered family. He can register the faint (quiet) sobs of his mentally unstable father, and the staring battle between opposed siblings. It's nothing if not tense. 

Blake sees his life split into a million pieces in front of his eyes but-

It was nice.

It was nice when Tim sweeps his cape over Blake as if to hide him from his troubles. 

Chapter Text

Blake sits on the edge of his bed with a blank face. 

He stares off at the katana hanging on his wall. It was a beautiful weapon. Blake had picked it up a few times before. He’d weighed it in his hands. Slid it out of the scabbard. Thought about how it belonged to him at one point. 

But it’s not his. Blake doesn’t own anything in the room he’s sitting in. In fact, Blake had come to the horrific understanding that, at some point, the actual Damian had lived in this room. He’d probably once sat in the same spot Blake sat in. 

He’d probably used the same brushes. 

Blake knows that a violin case leans against his bed stand. He thinks about how a different boy had once played it. He thinks about how he’d touched someone else’s instrument just to- to- pretend to be him.

Blake can almost see a figure standing in the corner of his room. He imagines the shadow of a form. Right on the edge of  his peripheral vision. He hears phantom strings. He listens to them vibrate in a sigh of melancholy. He thinks about the ghost of Damian Wayne. He thinks about how he’d been the one who had somehow caused it. Who’d made Damian a ghost. Who took Damian’s room. 

Blake knows what it’s like to enjoy things. He might not enjoy painting, sword-fighting, or playing the violin. Yet, there had once been a kid who had enjoyed those things, and Blake had been the one to take those things away from him. It was only deserving that Blake, to balance the scales, refrained from his own interests. 

He hadn’t touched his phone for several hours. Music was the last thing on his mind. 

He hadn’t left Damian’s room since the incident. He was scared. Blake didn’t want to have to deal with his ‘family.’ He didn’t want to be reminded about his situation. He didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. His presence had already messed everything up. He’d screwed up his family’s lives, Damian’s family, and then took Damian’s place. He’d ruined everything. He didn’t even have the memories to own up to it. It was impossible to make things right.

How could you right killing someone?

Blake hunches over with a shivering frame. He’d thought he was done crying, but tears silently rolled down his cheeks in a familiar pattern of agony. He hadn't had a single sip of water in several hours. He was feeling light-headed. He knew crying wouldn’t help his condition, but he couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

Why are you even feeling sorry for yourself?

Blake wipes at his cheeks angrily.

This is all your fault. You deserve to be unhappy. You deserve to suffer. Look what you’ve done.

He was such a piece of trash. What right did he have to cry? He was a horrible human being. That much had been made obvious by the Wayne’s reactions. They had a right to treat him with contempt. He’d ruined everything for them. He’d taken someone away from them, and he’d driven their family apart. 

He’d taken away someone’s life before they had the chance to live. 

Blake’s thoughts cease momentarily when he hears a knock on the door. He doesn’t answer. He can’t find it in himself to speak. Can’t find it in himself to say anything. 

Someone clears their throat. “Young Master?”

Blake looks towards the window instead of the door.

“I’m coming in,” Alfred warns.

Blake still doesn’t deign to give him a response as the old man invites himself in. He sits on the edge of Damian’s bed, and hugs himself as tightly as he can. Providing himself with the comfort that no one else was capable of. 

Alfred doesn’t say much as he makes noise around Blake. Blake catches onto something that sounded like metal resting against wood. Scraping slightly with a tender push. 

“Da- Um- Kid?”

Blake warily glances in the direction of the doorway. He spots Tim standing in the doorway. His features were stressed into something complex. Blake can’t even hope to understand what Tim was feeling.

“You should eat,” Tim suggests gently. “We missed you for breakfast. Didn’t see you at lunch, either.”

Blake can’t possibly imagine himself eating with his so-called father who didn’t even see him as an individual. He couldn’t distinguish Blake from his real son. Blake dreaded talking to him again. He’d once been so eager to please, but now…? Now he’s just- tired. 

When Blake doesn’t give Tim an affirmative answer, Tim takes a step into the room. He heads for Damian’s desk. He quietly pulls out the desk chair. He then sits himself down on the black cushion. 

“I’ll make you a deal.”

Blake’s interest temporarily spikes.

“If you eat something, and drink a full glass of water, I’ll answer whatever questions you have. I’m sure you have a couple. Who wouldn’t?”

Blake looks up in time to see an offered glass of water. Held by Alfred of all people. Someone who’d done everything to make as little physical contact as possible.

Blake thinks over Tim’s proposition. His choice is an obvious one. He takes the glass from Alfred’s hands, and gulps the entire thing down. 

When he’s done, he lowers the glass, and gathers the courage to look Tim in the eye.

“What happened to Damian? I know that he died- I know that I- that I killed him- probably- but… I-”

How could Tim even be willing to talk to him? How could he stand being in the same room as a murderer? Blake feels like he’s involving Tim in some kind of cruel punishment. Forcing a victim’s family member to have a conversation with him.

“What happened after that?” Blake croaks.

Tim gives himself a moment to collect his thoughts. Blake waits patiently for an answer, but he doesn’t enjoy the wait. Alfred handing him a plate of food doesn’t make it any better. 

Blake accepts a fork without offering his thanks, unlike the other times he’d done when taken care of by Alfred, and then looks down at his plate. He sees a small stack of warm pancakes. Probably leftovers from breakfast. 

“Bruce couldn’t handle Damian’s death,” Tim begins as Blake sticks his fork into a pancake. He doesn’t bother with the side of syrup. Or butter. He’ll just take it plain. Because he doesn’t deserve anything nice. “He was obsessed over finding a way to resurrect him. At some point, Damian’s coffin was stolen, and Bruce did everything to get it back. He went to a distant planet called Apokalips-”

Of course he went to a different planet. If Blake was a clone, then why wouldn’t it be possible for humans to walk around on alien planets?

“There was a big fight. Long story short, Bruce got Damian’s coffin back, and he had something called the chaos shard with him. It’s known for granting wishes and- well- Bruce stabbed it into Damian’s coffin. He thought it would bring him back.”

Tim grips the arm’s of Damian’s chair.

“It did something, alright. We were all blinded by a strange light. One minute, Bruce was hovering over Damian’s coffin, but in the next? He’d disappeared. His coffin was gone again, and so was the chaos shard. Bruce didn’t take it well.”

Blake can’t imagine he did. 

“He spent a long time searching for Damian. He spent years, Blake. Four to be exact. We tried to convince him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen to us. I guess we should have tried harder. Maybe force him to sit back. He drove himself mad over the grief and-” Tim gestures to Blake with his hand. “I guess he just couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted Damian back in his life. Bruce had been so close to reviving him, and having that ripped from him started something. It broke his mind. That’s where you come in.”

Tim rubs his hand over his face. 

“You died a long time ago, too, but you never received a proper burial. Bruce literally found pieces of you, put you back together, and then revived you using Court technology. There’s a lot of cryotechnics involved, but ultimately, it keeps dead people alive. It also makes them nearly invulnerable and-” Tim winces. “Stops them from aging.”

Blake stops eating his pancake.

“We were all disturbed. We didn’t want him to go down this route, and we even set several safety measures to stop it from happening. We kept watch on him at all hours of the day, but Bruce is too smart for his own good. He figured out how to get around me when I was on watch, and then he… he revived you and… I know this is a lot.”

Blake swallows dryly. He rests his plate on his lap. He was only vaguely aware that Alfred hadn’t left the room.

‘i’m…” Blake lowers his head. “I’m sorry.”

Tim gives Blake a small, sad, smile.

“You are, aren’t you? I’ll be honest. I didn’t think this was a good idea. I was never on Bruce’s side from the beginning. Watching you walk around, acting like you were Damian, made me uncomfortable. But-” Tim leans forward in the chair. “I started to notice something interesting. You… You had a personality.”

Blake wasn’t sure if he had much of a personality.

“You hid from Bruce even though, prior to that point, you’d trip over your feet to make him happy.”

Blake doesn’t remember hiding from Bruce. But, despite that, he had a pretty good idea as to what Tim was talking about. He was most likely referring to the piano incident. 

“You also listened to music. You did it without an incentive to do so. You’d just done it because- because you could- and I guess that was when I started to realize that… maybe I was going about this in the wrong way. I began to understand that you were a real person, with real traits, and that you were as much a victim in this as the rest of us.”

Blake wanted to retort. He’s not a victim. He’s the problem. He’s the instigator.

“Likewise,” Alfred’s voice startles Blake, “I’m afraid I misjudged the situation. I was grieved over… Master Bruce’s circumstances… and seeing you look so much like the Young Master… I didn’t treat you correctly.”

You don’t have to treat a murderer with respect!! Blake wants to scream. All that comes out is a noise in his throat. Tight.

“I don’t think so,” Blake interjects. “You had every right to keep your distance from me. I hurt you. I hurt all of you. I don’t know how you can look at me, and think that there’s any good in me.”

“You know,” Tim says. “Damian had the exact same problem."

“I’m not Damian,” Blake says.

“I know,” Tim replies. “I’m just using him as an example. Damian didn’t have the best background. He did a lot of bad things in his childhood, but it’d all been because he’d been taught nothing else.” 

Tim leans back in Damian’s chair.

“You were the same way.”

Chapter Text

Tim’s words echo in Blake’s mind.

It doesn’t make him feel better.

It doesn’t take away the sin. It doesn’t make him think his situation can possibly improve. And, even if it could improve, it’d only happen in Blake’s absence. 

Healing can’t happen with Blake dwelling in the manor. It can’t happen when people look at him, and think that he’s a Damian copy-cat. His father won’t be able to improve when he sees Blake for meals. His siblings won’t relax with all of the stress Blake brings. It would be better if he removed himself from the equation. 

That’s why Blake packs a bag.

His heart aches when he crams in a change of clothes. It’s not even his. It belongs to someone else. It belongs to a dead kid. 

Blake envies him.

It was clear Damian had a loving family. His father had gone mad with grief over him. His siblings were fiercely protective over preserving his memory. He’d been good at painting, playing the violin, and martial arts. He’d had everything going from him. He had talents, skill, and a family. He had people who thought about him on the daily. Who remembered him fondly.

Blake doesn’t have any of those things. Nobody remembers him fondly. He’s not worth remembering. Not in a positive way.

Blake knows he needs to leave.

Yet, deep down, he yearns to stay. He wants something to work. He wants what Damian had. He wants love, praise, and adoration. He wants to be valued. Cherished. Protected. 

Blake’s desires didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve anything that had once belonged to Damian. Not when he’d just stolen it. 

Blake slings the bag over his shoulder. He glances towards the window, well aware it was close to midnight. He was ready to leave. Nobody was in the manor. Blake had checked multiple times for signs of life, but he was pretty sure everyone was out. Most likely participating in their father’s capework. Blake knows an opportunity when he sees one.

That’s why he’d been so quick to pack his bag. That’s why he’s quick to look away from his window, and to sneak out into the hallway. Slinking around corners like a snake. 

Blake finds the coat closet. He makes sure to grab the roller skates Cass had tucked away, but he doesn’t put them on until he’s near the back door. 

Don’t think about it. Just do, Blake reminds himself. 

Blake doesn’t have a car. He doesn’t have a bike, either, but he needs to get out of the mansion quick. Roller skates would have to do. Blake knows he’s capable of using them. He just needs to focus on other things. It’d be in his best interest if he didn’t put too much thought into what he was doing. He did better that way.

Diving into a deep instinctual level seemed to work for him. 

Blake pulls on the roller skates. They're colorful, with four wheels, two on each side of the sole,  bright in yellow paint.

He doesn’t think he’d do all that well with the kind Cass had worn. She’d donned roller blades. That meant she had four wheels in a straight row, each light blue, just like her gentle soul. Blake would be sad to leave her when he didn’t know that much about her. She’d been the first to reach out to him. To give him a taste of what fun felt like.

She’d been deluded. Just like their father. Blake feels bad that she’d reached out for nothing.

Blake hits concrete. He has a hard time keeping his balance. He tries to focus on tightening his core. He also thinks about the sensation of rippling concrete. His skates roll over rough cement, and send vibrations throughout his entire body. He can hear the scrape the plastic wheels make. Blake isn’t a fan of the sound.

Blake shivers in the cold nightly breeze. He probably should have brought a jacket, but he didn’t want to back-track. He continues to roll down the driveway. He picks up speed on a downhill slide. He’s anxious at the thought of being caught. It only makes him skate faster. It adds a sense of desperation to his escape.

Who’d want to keep you around anyway? Blake thinks to himself. It’s not like they’ll stand in your way. They’d be happy to watch you leave.

Blake feels tears prick at his eyes.

He feels guilty for wanting to turn back, for wanting to have a family, even if they might have treated him like he wasn’t wanted. It’d been the reason why he had tried so hard in the first place. He’d just wanted to please his father. He had wanted to feel that warmth he’d felt when he had been held in his father’s arms. It’d been a memory he clung to. It’d shown him what a family could be like. 

It wasn’t a moment meant for him. Blake wishes he’d forgotten what it was like. He wishes he really did have amnesia.

Blake makes his way out the front gates. He’d opened one side manually with freezing fingers. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience, but Blake was willing to endure the discomfort. Now that he’d closed it up, however, he wasn’t planning on repeating the event. He was ready to leave without turning back. He was ready to say goodbye for good.

Blake skates down the main road. He sticks to the side where he can dive into the bushes if need be.

Blake, unfortunately, can’t help but slow down when he feels something pierce his skull.

It’s a bad headache, that much he can tell, but it’s blinding. He feels like he’s being stabbed by hundreds of needles. He grits his teeth in agony as his head pounds with pressure. It was as if his brain was swelling within his head. It was trying to bust out for relief.

“Everyone has something that binds them to their world. Do you know of anything that might root you down, and play an anchor for your person?”

Blake sees an image of a fair-looking woman in his mind. Her face blurs over like static. Making it hard to decipher certain features. She looks nothing like the veiled woman plaguing his dreams. She has hair, for one, that’s shining white. Mystical and glowing. 

“You would pick the boy?”

She moves her lips within Blake’s mind. 

“I see.”

She reaches out a hand. 

“Go to him.”

Blake screams when his head feels like it’s about to explode. He squeezes his eyes shut in extreme pain.

Then, in a pop, it abruptly ceases.

Blake’s eyes flutter open. He looks forward, blankly.

In front of him, as if looking at a mirror image, stood a familiar looking boy. Blake stops thinking. His brain stops computing information outside of his body.

“Heretic,” the boy, taller, and older, greets, “I’m going to faint.”

Blake blinks when the older boy falls to the side. He scrambles to catch him. It doesn’t do much. Blake ends up falling with him.

Blake tries to get a good look at his face. He might be on the ground, but now he has a better view. He turns the stranger onto his back. He peers at his features. Astonished.

“Damian Wayne?”

Chapter Text

Blake drags Damian off the side of the road.

He can’t see him too well without the assistance of street lamps. Blake is forced to resort to his phone. To Damian’s phone. He pulls it out of his pocket, and then he activates the flashlight. He directs it straight into Damian’s face.

Damian is different. 

Blake was using a phone that had hundreds of photos of Damian’s face in its gallery. Each one had a kid, Blake’s age, who was about ten years old. He had baby fat in his cheeks, a round button nose, and short shoulders. His arms, while muscled, had been thin. Yet, here Damian is, with noticeable differences in his features. His face might be filling out with, but he still retained a youthful air about him. Blake could only guess he was somewhere in his teenage years. He was too young to be Tim’s age, but he was too old to be Blake’s age. 

His round face was no longer round. Blake notices his squaring jaw, and the shape of strong cheekbones. His eyes were no longer round either. They were slanted, just slightly, stretched out to fit his exhausted appearance. 

His previously thin arms were padded with muscle. His shoulders were broader. Blake makes the startling observation that, in just a few years, he, too, would resemble this appearance.

“How are you alive?” Blake whispers. He lowers his phone to look at Damian’s clothing. His choice of attire was strange. He wore a spotless, white, tunic. It was tucked into a equally-white pair of pants, matched with the clean bandages wrapped around his feet.

Blake had reason to be confused.

Tim had told him that Damian had died. He’d just given him that information a day ago, and he had suggested that Damian had been dead for at least four years. How could it be that Blake was staring right at him?

He could be like me, Blake thinks to himself, but then he notices the slightest of differences in skin pigmentation. Blake’s skin is cream-colored. Damian’s skin is naturally darker just like-

Blake pauses. His eyes trail down to Damian’s hands. He aims the flashlight downward to check the evidence.

Blake reaches out his left hand to grab Damian’s. He feels as if he is invading the teenager’s privacy, but that doesn’t stop him from inspection. He turns Damian’s hand until he sees his palm. His eyes trace scars he’d only seen in dreams.

“How can this be?” Blake whispers, lowering Damian’s hand.

His eyes naturally draw to the sword that’d been clipped from Damian’s sash. 

Blake reaches for it.

“Odachi,” he recalls.

It is the only thing that wasn’t white. It's charcoal black. Blake bets that the blade is silver, unlike the hilt, or the scabbard. 

Blake slumps on his knees. Stunned.

What was he supposed to do from this point?

It’d probably be a good idea to drag Damian back to the manor. Blake knows everyone will accept Damian with open arms, and it’ll play into fixing Blake’s mistakes. He’d be able to start the repentance process before exiling himself.

Blake bites his bottom lip.

He could bring Damian back, sure, but was his father ready for it? Now that Blake thinks about it, his family might not be spiritually prepared for such a reveal. Not after the tragic drama that’d occured between the lot of them. Wouldn’t they need time to recuperate? To heal? To open their hearts to impossible possibilities? 

“I was told that I killed you,” Blake says to no one. “Yet, here you are, alive”

Blake looks at Damian’s phone.

Maybe Damian’s family wasn’t ready to see him yet, but there was one person who hadn’t been inscripted into recent events. One person who hadn’t freaked out on Blake for being a clone. 

So, with this thought in mind, Blake says a silent prayer. He scrolls through Damian’s contacts, taps a familiar name, and then raises the phone up in the air. He watches as the camera flicks on. It has a hard time picking up his face in the dark, but Blake doesn’t care too much about his own image. 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Blake whispers.

His heart lifts when he hears a voice.

“Um,” Jon yawns. Blake watches him rub his eyes on the screen. “Is something wrong? Why are you calling me this late?”

“Okay,” Blake breathes, collecting himself, “I think I need your help.”

“Yeah?’ Jon says, propping himself up on his elbows.

“I know this may sound… far-fetched… but-” Blake shifts. “I was trying to get away from the manor when- when suddenly I got this piercing headache- and-”

Blake taps a button on the phone screen. His camera’s view switches to the exterior lens. Blake stutters, as he films a knocked-out Damian, “Da-Damian. He appeared. He appeared out of thin air. I thought- I- I don’t think the manor is a good place for him right now and-”

Jon is mute. Blake has a front-row seat to his frozen features. Jon’s face is perfectly neutral. He isn’t shocked, at least he didn’t look like he was, and his lips are in a thin line. 

Blake, thinking he might have made the wrong decision, hesitates. “I don’t mean to bother you-”

“I’ll be right there,” Jon cuts off. Blake watches as Jon’s phone drops to the floor. Blake fixes his brows in confusion.

“Hold on. I didn’t tell you where we-”

Blake’s air leaves him when a flash of blue booms into existence. He scrambles backward. His heart runs a thousand miles per minute as Jon lifts himself up from the ground. He’d dented the ground beneath him with his rough landing. His fist had slammed into a pile of twigs, now completely shattered. He’d landed on one knee while his other foot braced against the forest floor. 

Blake covers his heart with a hand. He wrinkles the fabric there.

Blake was speechless. What he’d just seen was unheard of. It was unnatural. It was terrifying. 

Jon walks for Damian’s prone form. He kneels down with a supposedly impassive face, but the longer he looks at Damian, the more it twists.

“Damian,” Jon chokes in realization.

Blake stares at Jon. Wide-eyed.

Jon looks up at Blake. He must have noticed Blake’s frightened trembling. His eyes soften. He holds his hands out placating. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to surprise you. You said that the manor probably wouldn’t be a good place for Damian right now?”

Blake nods dumbly.

“Okay,” Jon says. He looks down. “Okay,” he exhales. “We can work with this. I’ll take him back to the farmhouse. Mom might be able to do something and-” Jon looks up again. “Why’d you call me about this to begin with?”

Blake swallows nervously. “You-You’re Damian’s friend.”

He can’t get anything past that out.

“Yeah. I am,” Jon says. He lifts Damian up into his arms.

Blake’s eyes dart down to Damain’s odachi. He processes the sight for a tic. Then, without further ado, he’s reaching forward to hug the odachi to his chest. 

“Could you take me with you?” Blake asks. 

Jon adjusts Damian’s unconscious form in his arms. Damian’s limbs dangle bonelessly. 

“I think I could arrange that,” Jon says. 

Blake doesn’t get any warning before Jon jumps in a shockwave. His hair frizzes wildly. His eyes are wide, dry, and frozen. He stares at the spot Jon had just been in.

Blake staggers up to his feet. 

He risks a look around the forest. Where had Jon gone? What had he just done to- to make a shockwave like that? It wasn’t human. It was surreal. Sure, being a clone was strange, but Jon was stranger. Whatever he was, it wasn’t settling in Blake’s heart too well. 

Blake blinks.

Suddenly, he’s being lifted up into a pair of arms, and Blake nearly screams. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Jon apologizes. “Don’t be too frightened. I’m going to make it quick. We’ll be at the farmhouse in five.”

Five? Five? Five minutes or five seconds? 

Blake’s shout, when they blur into a bubble of speed, is cut off abruptly. 

As if there’d been no one present, a breeze floats quietly through the forest, and a pair of headlights slo-wly float in a search.

Chapter Text

Blake keeps a tight grip on the odachi as if it were a safety vest. He eyes Jon’s back warily, keeping an appropriate amount of distance between them, only half-listening as the older boy showed him to the guest room.

Blake had taken off his roller-skates to respect Jon’s wooden floorboards. Blake didn’t want to make him angry by scraping up the wood with worn wheels. Blake understood his position. He could easily be taken away from this place if he misbehaved, and it wouldn’t be all that hard for Jon to carry through with it. He could drop Blake off in the middle of nowhere if he wanted. Blake wouldn’t be able to run away. Not when the older boy had freaky, other-worldly, powers.

It’s this thought that makes Blake think maybe… just maybe… he should’ve chosen to drag Damian back to the manor.

Blake might have had a prior positive experience with Jon, but as he trails after his steps, he realizes that he doesn’t really know this person. Blake had more of a grasp on the personalities of Damian's family than this complete stranger. It only gets worse when Blake accounts for Jon’s powers. Blake had never seen anything like it, and quite frankly, he hadn’t even considered the possibilities of… some kind of… meta person. It’s a tad terrifying. Jon seems like the rest of them. But, if Blake ever made him mad, would he lose control? Would he do something that couldn’t be repaired?

Blake would deserve it if something did happen to him. Maybe it’s a little silly that he’s so frightened by Jon. Why should Blake care about what happened to himself? He didn’t have a purpose. He didn’t have a future. If Jon knew it had been Blake who had killed Damian, would he take action when others had not? 

“He’ll be here for the time being,” Jon explains. Blake is right behind him as Jon steps into the open guest room.

Blake lays his eyes on Damian’s prone form. He was silent, dead asleep, but breathing. It was a surreal sight. Blake, in all of his days of living, had never entertained the idea of seeing Damian alive. He hadn’t considered the fact that, one day, Damian might just be well enough to reclaim his room.

Blake carefully sets Damian’s odachi on the floor. He tucks it underneath Damian’s bed for future grabs. Blake can’t remember a single dream where Damian didn’t have his odachi in reach. Blake shows his respects in this small, small, way. He makes sure the tradition continues. Damian wouldn’t have to travel great distances to make sure his sword was at his side. 

“Jon?”

Blake turns to look over his shoulder. A slender, thin, woman stands in the hallway. She was rubbing her eyes. She looked like she’d just woken up, and Blake wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. Her shirt was hanging off of her shoulder, and her pajama bottoms were loose. 

Upon noticing her company, Blake watches the woman straighten herself up, and tidy her appearance. She smooths down her untamed bed-head. “Jon? Who is this?”

Her eyes look at Blake. Then, they look past Blake, and they land on Damian.

“His name is-” Jon stops himself. 

He looks at Blake with questioning eyes.

“Blake,” he offers. 

It doesn’t feel right. He’s not sure if it ever will feel right. What’s the point in having an identity when he is nothing?

“Blake,” Jon says with a pleasant smile, “and the one on the bed is- don’t freak out- Damian.”

“Jon,” his mother croaks. “It’s too late for this.”

“I’m not making this up,” Jon promises.

Jon’s mother enters the room. Blake steps to the side to give her space. Once she’s at Damian’s bed side, she bends over the mattress, and peers into the boy’s face. 

She takes a moment to run her eyes over Damian’s features. Once she’s done, she pulls herself back up, and then looks back at Jon. “Jon, Baby, Sweetheart, apple of my eye?”

“Yes, ma’am?“

“I’m far too old for this.”

“You're not old, Mom."

Jon’s mother sighs. She rolls her head around her neck, and then she rubs at her shoulder. Digging her fingers into muscle in an impromptu massage. “Well, get the first aid kit, Dear.”

“I’m on it,” Jon says. He’s quick to leave the room, but not nearly as quick as Blake remembers him being. 

Blake stands awkwardly as Jon’s mother crosses the room to drag a desk chair to Damian’s bedside. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. They sit stiff at his side. He waits for something, he’s not sure what, but Jon’s mother eventually clues him in. She shoots him a look from her chair, looking increasingly groggy as she sinks.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” She says.

Blake quickly nods. Eager to obey, eager not to make a scene. He drops to the floor. He sits cross-legged on the ground.

Jon’s mother gives him a strange look. She opens her mouth, something akin to a croak comes out, but then she shuts it. 

“So,” she says, “Blake, is it?”

“Um, yes.” Blake corrects himself, “Yes, ma’am,” 

“Oh,” she sounds noncommittally, waving her hand in dismissal, “don’t bother with that. I don’t know why Jon insists on calling me ma’am, but it’s endearing, in its own little way. It reminds me of his father.”

“Father?”

“Clark.” Lois smiles fondly. “He’s off-world right now.”

“Off-world,” Blake repeats dumbly.

“I know,” Lois sighs. “Can’t keep his feet on Earth. He’s got too much of a golden heart.”

Blake doesn’t know what to say to that. Thankfully, Jon returns, aid kit in hand.

Lois accepts the first aid kit. She asks Jon to bring in a glass of water for Damian in the case that he wakes. 

Jon agrees, but not before looking down, spotting Blake sitting on the floor.

“You know you could ask for a chair, right?”

Blake sticks in the guest room until the morning. 

Blake didn’t know what else to do. His plans of running had technically succeeded, but now that he was far away from the manor (supposedly), he wasn’t sure where to proceed from here. He had meant to exile himself, of course, but he hadn’t thought Damian would show up. He hadn’t thought that he’d have a chance to fix things, to make Damian’s family healthy, and happy again. 

Blake feels something heavy in his heart when he thinks about Damian’s family. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing them again, but maybe he would have to. Just to bring Damian home. 

Maybe there’s a way I can do it without seeing them, Blake thinks as his heart aches, and maybe they’ll finally be able to have some peace.

It was a nice thought. Blake feels both bitterly nauseous and a tad hopeful. He momentarily imagines Damian’s father starting upon a path of healing, making up for lost time, and mending years of pain. Yet, at the same time, he remembers the sensation on his back. He remembers a hand, much larger than his own, tipping him over the edge of a building.

It was well-deserved. 

Blake couldn’t compare to the pain Damian’s family was feeling. It was only right that he got hurt, too, to make up for what they’d gone through. 

“Blake?”

Blake looks up underneath tussed bangs. He didn’t know when Lois had gotten out of her chair, but now she was crouching in front of him. Grabbing his hands. 

Blake stares at their joined hands. His mind goes blank. He’s not sure how someone could just hand out physical touch to complete strangers. 

“Hey, Honeybun, why don’t we get out of here, and get some fresh air? I know the dining chairs aren’t the most comfortable, long-term. I imagine your back must be hurting by now.”

Blake’s back had been hurting, but he hadn’t wanted to mention anything. 

“Damian,” Blake blurts out.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois promises. She squeezes Blake’s hands. “Jon is going to sit by his side. We can take a look at the farm while he’s at it.”

Blake’s eyes float to Damian’s body. They float back to Lois’ compassionate eyes. He didn’t know what warranted the compassion, but it was nice.

“Okay,” Blake answers reluctantly. 

Lois helps him get out of his chair. Her hands slip away from his, and Blake finds himself missing the warmth. It was strange how a solid form of touch could be fleeting. He could still feel the sensation of her fingertips covering his knuckles, and he feels bad for wanting to return to that. 

“We’ll be back, Jon,” Lois promises.

“Sure thing,” Jon yawns. He was slumped forward in his own chair, resting his cheek on an exposed part of Damian’s mattress.

Lois gestures to Blake out of the room. Blake follows after her obediently. He trails her down the stairs, out the back door, and then-

Blake’s face is slapped with a powerful breeze.

“I didn’t think it’d be so windy today,” Lois says with a frown. “It didn’t sound like it was this bad in the guest room.”

Blake says nothing because he has nothing to say. He watches as Lois braces herself against the strong breeze, keeping her ground. She waits out the gust of air until it dies down. 

“Hm,” Lois hums as she steps foot onto dew-covered grass. “I don’t remember the weatherman saying anything about this.”

Blake’s eyes settle past Lois. They glue onto massive rolling fields. Endless. Extended out into the horizon with golden ripples of wheat.

Blake tries his best to keep up with Lois, but his attention stays on the peaceful fields. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t remember who he is. He’s entranced with the song of the Earth. His ears are attuned to shuttering wheat stalks. They softly wave to the sky in a calling duet. 

“-as right. I don’t see anything about a wind advisory,” Lois’ voice filters back in. Blake notices that she had her phone pulled out. She was frowning at an opened app, walking almost blindly towards the barn.

Blake’s moment of peace vanishes. Darkness rolls back in with a thundering presence, and guilt weighs down on Blake’s shoulders. He is burdened by a massive weight. Invisible to the naked eye. 

Lois tucks her phone back into her pajama pants. She guides Blake across a dirt-trodden path, and then works on getting the barn door open. 

Blake can smell the animals before he can see them. 

“Hey, ladies!” Lois calls out. 

Lois gets three calls back. She strides into the barn.

Blake is glued to the front entrance. He’d never seen a cow before, not in real life, and they were much bigger than he had expected. 

“Come over here, Blake,” Lois beckons.

Blake stumbles after her. He watches as three cows poke their heads out of a line of stalls.

“They know what it means when I come around,” Lois laughs. 

“What does it mean?” Blake questions.

“Breakfast,” Lois says. She hooks her hands on her hips, “I’m not in a rush. Why don’t you give one of them a pet while I get the feed out?”

“I couldn’t-” Blake hunches over submissively. Drawing in himself through his body-language. Simultaneously, he chews on his bottom lip, and fiddles with his fingers over his stomach.

“Nonsense, hun, get over here. They don’t bite. They like a good pet or two.”

Blake’s reluctance slightly fades. “Really?” He asks curiously, taking a couple of steps forward, settling at Lois’ side.

“Really,” is Lois’ warm reply. “Here. I’ll show you how to do it.”

Lois holds out her hand. 

Blake considers it with a hop in his heart. He feels childish when he gives her his hand, but all worries fade away when she guides his hand to the closest cow. She gently strokes Blake’s palm over the short, soft, fur of the cow’s face bridge.  

Blake’s new friend flicks her tail. She closes her eyes. Then, to Blake’s utter delight, she leans forward into his hand. 

Blake laughs, ecstatic, shooting Lois an excited smile. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says.

Lois slowly retrieves her hand. She smiles back at him, eyes sparkling. “You think so, too?”

Blake shyly looks away, smile never fading, as he strokes the cow’s fur.

Chapter Text

Blake waits for Lois to feed the cows. After she’s finished, they naturally navigate their way out of the barn, and towards a constructed chicken coop. Lois pushes a basket into Blake’s arms, and then orders him to help her out. According to Lois, his job was to locate the hidden eggs because, apparently, hens were really good at hiding their eggs.

Blake takes her word for it. He finds enjoyment in the challenge. He feels giddy each time he spots an egg. It was satisfying to watch his basket fill up. Lois must have thought so, too, because she abruptly stops to peer into his basket. 

Blake’s natural reaction is to make himself seem smaller. He wouldn’t have done it in the manor, he would’ve tried to put on a front, but everything had changed after he’d left. Blake wasn’t trying to pretend to be Damian. 

Needless to say, Blake’s basket isn’t as full as he’d like, and Lois’ sudden inspection brings him great discomfort. 

He’s afraid she’ll disapprove of him. That she’ll say that he’d done something wrong, and that he should’ve been going about it in a different way. 

Instead, she looks up at him, and smiles like the noon day sun. “That’s a good load, don’t you think?”

At this, Blake feels a tad lighter, even if his mind is angrily pointing out possibilities. 

She doesn’t need to snap at you to be disappointed in you, it tells him. 

Blake didn’t know thoughts could make one so exhausted. He’s tired of the thoughts, even if he thinks they’re true. They’re energy-sapping. Taxing. They suck out the life out of him. Blake is certain Lois is genuinely being nice to him, it’s a solid observation in his mind, but his heart is sick. The knowledge hasn’t settled in that spot, not yet, and Blake’s not sure if it ever will. Because, if it does, then he’d be at a point where he believes that he’s not totally incapable of being loved. 

He's not at that point. 

Even so, Blake finds a small smile stretching on his lips. The thoughts aren’t as strong as they could be. When he’s alone, they rampage in his mind, but now it’s different. His mind is occupied with other things.

Like finding the cute, tiny, brown eggs. 

“There’s so many babies,” Blake whispers, staring into his basket.

Lois gives a startled laugh. “Too many. We wouldn’t be able to take care of them all.”

“What?” Blake questions, eyes darting upward. “What will you do with them?”

“The eggs that we’re picking up are what you call unfertilized. It means that they aren’t capable of nurturing life. So, once we’ve got all these eggs inside, we’ll most likely use them as ingredients for cooking.”

Blake’s mind reels back to a breakfast he had with Damian’s family. He remembers eating what Damian’s father had called eggs, but it had never really clicked until now. He hadn’t really thought about how he could have been eating chicken eggs. It simply hadn’t crossed his mind. He had just thought it a delicious, yellow, fried food. 

“I think I’ll cook some up for you,” Lois says, bending down to swat away a hen pecking at her pants. The hen had been busy trying to pull at a loose string from one of Lois' legs. “There’s nothing that beats the natural stuff. It’s ten times better than buying it at the store. That's because it comes straight from our own backyard.”

“You’d cook them? For me?”

“You can’t leave this house until you’ve had a taste of our hen’s hard work,” Lois insists. She ushers Blake out of the chicken coop with a gentle hand on his back. She wanted to be the last one out, judging by her behavior, and for good reason. She didn’t want any of the hens escaping. “You’ve also got to try our peas. They are so good. I can’t pass the garden patch up without taking a bite.”

Blake watches her close the coop up. 

She turns. Her own basket, which didn’t have as many eggs, dangles on her arm. 

“C’mon,” she says with a stretched smile. “I’ll show you where it’s at.”

Blake is quick to follow her as she takes to the dirt-path. He tries not to jostle the eggs too much when he attempts to keep up with her. 

Eventually, they round the farmhouse, and Blake lays his eyes on a large vegetable patch. He sees numerous rolls of tall green plants. He figures that they must be peas when Lois stops in front of them.

Lois picks a pod. “Get this,” she says, waving it in the air, “These are snap peas. Do you know what that means?”

Blake shakes his head.

Lois holds the snap pea out, as if to toast Blake, and then takes a big bite out of it. She gives him a whimsical look as she chews the pod. Whilst chewing, she explains, “It means you can eat the pod. Why don’t you try a bite?”

Lois picks a juicy look pod for Blake, thicker than its companions. She offers it to him.

Blake takes it. He tentatively brings it up to his lips. He takes a tinsy bite out of it. 

Blake blinks.

“It tastes like-” he takes another bite. “It tastes fresh.”

“Straight from the plant, Kiddo,” she says.

Blake finishes it off, excluding the stem. 

“Just toss it back into the garden,” she says.

Blake does exactly that. He tosses the stem back into the soil, hoping it landed somewhere acceptable, and then he gauges for Lois' reaction. 

He looks up just in time to see something past Lois’ head. In the sky.

“Um.”

Blake can’t form any words. The wind was picking up, badly, and there was a giant obstruction in the sky. Blake had no idea what he was looking at. All he knew was that it was big, and that it was coming in fast. Burning up in the atmosphere.

Lois follows his gaze. When she spots what Blake was watching, she kicks into action. She grabs Blake, tucks him close, and then bends over his body. Her basket clatters to the ground. Blake makes the startled realization that she was trying to protect him.

Blake hides his face in Lois’ stomach. He squeezes his eyes shut. Judging by Lois’ reaction, he suspected that whatever was in the sky wasn’t good, and thus he was bracing himself for impact. Lois must have been doing the same thing. She tightens her arms around him as if it’d give him extra armor.

Blake and Lois stay huddled together for a tic. They wait. They wait, wait, and wait. Finally, upon realizing that nothing was happening, Blake peeks up anxiously. 

He’s not sure how to compute the sight of Jon pushing against the object. 

Lois looks over her shoulder. Her eyes drift up to see the same sight.

Blake watches as something red bursts in the sky. It’s some kind of energy that comes from Jon, and it bores a hole straight through the sky’s obstruction.

It splits into a million pieces. Jon turns his head just in time for Blake to see red spill out of his eyes. It explodes smaller pieces into even smaller pieces. 

The small formations of rock disintegrate as they burn up in skyfall. Jon floats down. He doesn’t touch the ground, but he does settle in front of his mother. His face was grave.

“I don’t know where that asteroid came from,” he admits, “but I didn’t hear it until just seconds after it entered the atmosphere.”

Lois frees a hand from Blake’s form, and then throws said hand over her son’s shoulder. She pulls him in for a hug.

“I wasn’t willing to re-enact mass extinction,” Lois confesses in his ear.

He laughs light-heartedly, as if the Earth hadn’t just been in danger, and then he’s wrapping his arms around her for a brief side-hug.

Lois is the first one to pull away. “That was… incredibly odd. I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day.”

“Yeah,” Jon says, featuring twisting, “I honestly don’t know where it came from. Usually, I can spot things before they enter the Earth's atmosphere, but I swear it just appeared out of thin air.”

“Maybe you were just distracted.”

Jon didn’t seem entirely convinced.

“I’m Superman, Mom. It’s my job to keep an eye on the atmosphere.”

“It’s also your job to be a growing boy,” Lois huffs. 

Lois turns back to Blake. She draws her hand away from his person, and then gives him a little pat on the shoulder.

“Well, at least we still have one basket of eggs left,” she comments, eyes drifting to the basket hanging on Blake’s arm, and then to the splattered mess on the ground.

Blake's not sure how she is able to brush off what had just happened mere seconds ago. 

Jon takes one look down. He sputters.

“M-Mom. Where are your shoes?”

“I live on the wild side, Jon.”

“Why does Blake have socks on?”

Lois looks down at Blake’s covered feet with horror.

“I- I hadn’t even thought about that,” she gasps.

Blake, feeling like a major failure, flushes a light pink.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“No, no no. It was my fault,” Lois says. “I should’ve said something earlier.”

How was this Lois’ fault? Blake couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He’d been the one who’d decided to walk around outside with only socks on his feet. He hadn’t made any suggestions to put on any shoes.

That’s because you were afraid of upsetting her, his thoughts remind him.

Blake tries to pretend they don’t exist.

Chapter Text

Blake peers into a cup of red fruit punch.

The bright, blue, plastic is smooth against his fingertips. Ice floats leisurely inside. Blake tilts his hand to watch the ice drift. 

“-was a nightmare when he started teething-”

Lois’ fork clinks against her plate. Blake looks up just in time to see her wipe syrup from her lips.

“He chewed through his crib. We had to get some sturdier stuff from Clark’s, um, fortress.”

Jon, who sits across from Lois, shoots Blake an apologetic look. “Dad has a place he goes to for hero things. Kinda like the batcave. Except, colder, and, yeah.”

“Never been to the batcave,” Lois comments off-handedly. She gets right back to her rambling, “Anyways, as you can see, Jon has all of his teeth. Could bite through solid rock if he wanted to. It’s not the only thing he can do. I’m sure you know based on the, uh, incident earlier.”

“Mom,” Jon groans with pink-tinted cheeks.

“Look at those pearly whites,” Lois chirps.

Blake does get a flash of Jon’s blindingly white teeth, right before Jon locks his jaw self-consciously. 

Blake takes pity on Jon. He puts his cup down. Lois rambles on about embarrassing baby stories, and Blake spends about one minute gathering up courage. His words spill out.

“Ms. Lois,” Blake interjects nervously. “You - You’re married to a… a superhero?”

Lois cuts herself off mid-sentence. She munches on a pancake thoughtfully. After swallowing it, she gives Blake an inquisitive look. “Well, yes. You didn’t know?”

“Sorry,” Blake whispers. Lowering his head.

“No! It’s fine!” Lois immediately remedies. “I didn’t expect you to know everything . I just assumed you knew... since you’re related to Bruce. Usually, everyone in his family knows who Clark is.”

Blake rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I didn’t go out a lot.”

“What?” Lois questions, slicing a knife into her next pancake, “You mean in the vigilante business?”

“Oh, well, that too. I was just saying I didn’t leave the manor in general. Maybe I would've heard of him if I had."

Jon’s face softens. Blake makes eye contact with him briefly. He’s too shy to hold it for long. He averts his gaze to his untouched plate. 

“Bruce probably didn’t want whatever happened to Damian to happen to you,” Lois says. “I can see why he might want to keep you indoors.”

Blake wishes that were the case. He wishes that was all it was.

He’s not sure if he should mention his family’s drama. It feels wrong to gossip about them. They were all going through a hard time. What was the point of painting them in a bad light? It was the last thing they needed. Healing and recovery could be set back by external forces. Right? Blake doesn’t know for certain. He’s never gone through anything like this before. 

Regardless, it’s hard to change when the people around you remember you as someone else, and Blake knows that first-hand. He doesn’t want that to happen to anyone.

His heart reaches out to his not-father. Despite the things he did to him. 

Besides, when it comes down to it, Blake deserved to have bad things happen to him. 

“But, out of all places to be, this is probably one of the safest,”  Lois insists. She reaches over her plate to gesture towards Jon. “We’ve got our own certified kryptonian.”

“You’ll be safe here, Blake,” Jon promises. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Mom, or Damian.”

“Kryptonian?” Blake questions. 

Jon grabs the syrup. He turns the bottle upside down, squeezes it, and then watches it slowly pour out. “Kryptonians are people who come from a destroyed planet called Krypton. My dad is a kryptonian. He was sent to Earth as a baby.”

Jon stops squeezing. He closes the cap.

“He grew up with super strength, speed, invulnerability, flying, heat vision, x-ray vision, frost breath, and yeah. He’s pretty special but-” Jon shrugs. “I understand wanting to continue the legacy of our people, but I feel more like an earthling than anything else. The only difference between you and me is that I have to use heat vision to cut my hair.”

Blake was fairly certain there were more differences than just that. 

“Syrup?” Jon offers.

Blake looks at it skeptically. “What is it?”

Jon’s jaw drops. 

“You- okay-” he hands Blake the bottle, “You’ve got to try some.”

Blake takes it. “How do I use it?”

“Just pour it on,” Jon says. “I’d just start with a little. Since you’ve never tasted it before.”

Blake nods sagely. He replicates Jon’s movements, turns the bottle over, and unflips the cap. He gives the bottle a little squeeze, and then the syrup is pouring out onto his plate. Blake tries to aim it correctly. 

Blake stops after a teaspoon of syrup settles on his pancake. He puts the syrup down, picks up his fork, and then uses it to take a bite out of his dinner. 

The syrup hits Blake’s taste buds immediately. It’s thick, sticky, but satisfying. Blake knew he wouldn’t be able to eat it by itself, but when it was combined with yummy pancakes? It added much-needed flavour. 

“Wish I had a camera.” Lois leans on the ball of her palm. Her hand cups her cheek, and her elbow digs into the circular table. “Look at that face. I’m guessing you like it?”

“Yes,” Blake nearly tears up. It’s so good. “Where has this been my whole life?”

Lois cackles, “Oh, am I going to have fun with you, Blake. You think syrup is good? Just wait til you try ice-cream.”

“I don’t think anything can get better than this,” Blake says with an eager swallow.

“What? You must’ve eaten something better. I heard Alfred’s a great cook,” Lois says. 

“I- I’m sure he is-” Blake agrees. “I just- I never really liked what he made me- but I guess it could be different for other people?”

“How so?”

Blake hesitates. “I noticed he always made me different dishes. I’d get a lot of vegetables. I’d always have a modified version of what my family was eating.”

Something dawns upon Jon. It’s noticeable on his features. Blake worries about what it might be.

“Damian is a vegetarian," Jon softly states.

Blake blanks.

Oh.

It makes sense now.

Alfred must not have wanted to treat Blake like Damian by making special adjustments to his meals. Bruce must have somehow convinced him otherwise. Whatwith his insistence that Blake take Damian's place, and act as much as Damian as possible. 

Lois goes quiet. She taps a finger on the rim of her cup.

“Blake,” Lois finally says, pushing aside the cup, “I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

Blake’s heart picks up speed. He feels it stutter a couple of times, like he might just keel over, but he never does. 

Blake pushes a pancake into his mouth. He takes a big, anxious, bite. He needs to do something with his hands. He can’t keep still. He’s about to have his ‘situation’ addressed. He’s about to go through a tense conversation again. 

Blake bounces his leg. His heel taps the ground, covered with a brand new sock, courteous of Jon. 

“I have a feeling that I’m not seeing the whole picture here,” Lois says.

Blake stops breathing.

“Blake. There’s a reason you’re here, instead of your home, isn’t there?”

Blake wraps his hands around his neck. His eyes blow wide.

Jon shoots out of his chair. “Blake?”

Blake makes a choked gag. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t swallow either. He hadn’t chewed enough. His body can’t handle it. He was going to die. He was going to die before he could make up for his mistakes. 

Blake is choking on a pancake in one moment, but in the next, Jon is behind him. He pulls Blake out of his chair. Blake feels arms wrap around him. His body jolts as Jon adds an abrupt pressure to Blake’s abdomen.

Blake’s face is turning red out of embarrassment, and because of the lack of air. It does not take Blake long to cough up the pancake, and spit it out on the table in front of him. 

Jon removes his arms. Blake inhales sharply.

“You’re fine,” Jon breathes out in relief. “You’re fine.” His hand pats Blake’s back. It transitions into a rub. “That was scary.”

Blake feels tears form in the corner of his eyes, and gosh, he hates that he’s such a crybaby. He can’t do anything without crying. What kind of boy cries? His not-father might have cried on a Gotham rooftop, but that’d been because he was in mourning. Not because he was embarrassed.

But Blake feels the tears fall out anyways, without his permission, trailing down his cheeks with an upsetting sting.

He couldn’t do anything right. He couldn’t hold conversation correctly, couldn’t make one dinner a normal event, and he couldn’t keep a secret. He’s such a blabbermouth. Why can’t he just zip his lips, lock them up, and then bury the key? 

I’m such a massive failure, Blake thinks with grief. I’ll never be like Damian. I’ll never be good enough. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Lois calls out, voice laced with sympathy. “Jon? Why don’t you take him upstairs? Give him a quiet place to calm down. I’ll take care of the table.”

“Sure thing, Mom,” Jon says. 

Blake lets himself be gently urged forward. He drags his feet, sniffing up snot, and coughing sporadically.

Jon’s hand is on his back the entire time.

Blake barely notices it.

Chapter Text

Blake stares at Damian’s unconscious form.

Blake imagines himself a pathetic sight. He is alone in the guest room, slumped over in a chair, staring at someone who is in deep slumber. He’d just recovered from the choking incident an hour ago, and Blake can’t help but wonder, how would Damian have dealt with it?

Blake imagines Damian wouldn’t have choked to begin with. He was meticulous. He had to be. He was an artist. He would’ve paid attention to the little details, like chewing slowly, and swallowing carefully. He wouldn’t have panicked like Blake did. He would’ve had the confidence to address Lois’ statements. He wouldn’t have flinched under her weighted attention.

Blake hugs himself tightly. 

He stares at Damian’s face for a little while longer, prolonging vain imaginations, before diverting his focus to other things. Blake pulls his phone out of his pocket. He is eager for a distraction. He is ready to forget his woes, sorrows, and embarrassments. From experience, he’d learned that scrolling on his phone made the feelings go away, if only for a moment. He looks to replicate this phenomenon. 

Blake ignores new text notifications that pop up on the screen, and opens up YouTube for a proper distraction. 

He scrolls through his recommended feed. He taps an interesting-looking video, another street performance, and turns the volume down. Damian might be in a strange coma, the kind that’d be good to wake up from, but Blake still didn’t want to disturb him with a fluctuation of noise. He lowered the volume until it was acceptably low.

Blake is glad he’d turned down the volume. His video starts with a blasting trumpet. 

Blake had heard the trumpet a couple of times in previous videos, but this one had shot him up into the atmosphere. Blake could hardly believe his ears. 

Blake completely forgets about what he’d been stressing over. He’s engrossed with the performance’s strong introduction. His vision narrows in on the golden instrument. For a fantastical moment, the performer’s image blurs, and Blake pictures himself on the street. He sees himself holding a trumpet up to his lips. Living free. Blasting his suppressed feelings into an instrument with a powerful presence. Fearing absolutely nothing. 

Blake’s fantasy shatters when something catches his wrist. 

Blake’s phone falls out of his grip and into his lap. His eyes dart to his wrist. Fingers that did not belong to him were pressing into his skin. The strength was strong enough to dig into thin muscle. 

Blake slowly looks upward. His heart stops, and his lungs cease working. His eyes meet with green ones. He feels a jolt of electricity, starting at his wrist, run up his body. 

“You shouldn’t have brought that.”

Blake’s mind races to understand what was being said to him.

Damian releases his hand. He glances at the phone in Blake’s lap, clicks his tongue against his teeth, and then sits himself up against the headboard. 

Damian’s eyes never leave Blake. His green irises are intense. 

Damian lets a moment of silence pass before he voices his observations. “You’re younger than I thought you would be.”

Blake shoots up from his chair. It falls over. 

“You’re awake!”

Damian glances down at the phone that was now on the floor.

“Give that to me,” he is quick to demand.

Blake doesn’t think about saying no. It was Damian’s phone, after all. It didn’t belong to Blake.

He picks up the phone. He hands it over. Damian grabs it, turns it in his hands, and then examines the device closely. 

Blake doesn’t know what Damian is trying to do with the phone, but whatever it is, he wants to know. Damian has his attention. Blake didn’t want to skirt this rare opportunity to make things right. He was willing to do whatever Damian wanted him to do. He had to. It was his responsibility. 

Damian has Blake’s attention for about thirty seconds before Jon bursts into the room.

“Damian!?”

Blake twists to see Jon standing in the doorway. Jon’s lips are stretched into a blinding smile. He body language was open, and vibrant with joy. 

Damian ignores Jon. He inspects the phone for a tic longer. Once he finds whatever he’s looking for, he holds it out in Jon’s direction, and says, “Do me a favor, Jon. Destroy this phone.”

Blake expected maybe a question or two from Jon, but Jon doesn't do anything of the like. He zips across the room, grabs the phone from Damian’s outstretched hand, and then crushes it in his fist. 

Blake watches the sight wide-eyed. 

“Rule number one,” Damian drawls, as if reciting something, “If you want to run away, don’t bring a tracking device with you.”

Blake blinks.

“How did you-” He takes a moment to collect himself. “How did you know that I ran away?”

“Deduction,” Damian admits. “I wouldn’t have thought to wake up here. I suppose with how our family has treated you, it has been a long time coming.”

Blake startles.

Damian taps his own temple. “Don’t be too shocked. I’ve seen enough of your life to know what you’ve been through.” He lowers his hand. “I apologize for my family’s behavior.”

Blake takes a step back. He bumps into Damian’s bedside stand.

“You’ve seen-”

“It was not my intention to invade upon your privacy, but it is not as if you are exempt. I know you had multiple looks into my mind.”

Jon lowers himself onto Damian’s bed. His weight dips into the mattress. “Damian? What are you talking about?”

“We were connected for a time. Heretic and I,” Damian says. “In fact, forgive the past tense, we’re still connected. Heretic is the reason why I’m here in the first place.”

“Heretic? You mean Blake?”

Damian meets Blake’s eyes.

Blake doesn’t say anything. He feels it is not his place to do so. 

Damian pronounces his name as if it were foreign. “Blake.” He lets the name roll off his tongue.

“Fascinating,” Damian decides, turning back to eye Jon. “Long story short. I’ve been trapped in another dimensional plane for the last four years. I could not come back unless there was something rooting me here.”

“What?” Jon’s face morphs in confusion.

“Blake is a perfect replica of me. It made him the perfect candidate. It gave me the opportunity to return.”

Jon frowns. “I’m not understanding any  of this."

Damian rolls his eyes. “As always, you are simple-minded.”

Blake tentatively raises his hand. “Um, I don’t really understand what you’re saying, either.”

For some reason, that gave Damian a bit of surprise, because it shows on his face. 

“You don’t?”

Blake shakes his head.

Damian’s brows furrow. Blake could almost see the gears in his mind turning, trying to make sense of what was going on. It was what was happening in Blake’s mind, too, after all. He was just as puzzled as Jon. 

“Alright,” Damian decides. He straightens his shoulders. “I suppose I shall start at the beginning.”

Chapter Text

“Wait, hold on, give me a moment.”

Jon rests his face in his hands. He pinches his nose  between both sets of fingers, and then hooks his thumbs underneath his chin. Blake can see his mouth through the makeshift triangle. Turned downward in rightful confusion.

“You were abducted by interdimensional beings?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Damian draws a knee up to his chest. He lazily rests his elbow on the tip. “They wanted something that I had. Something called the chaos shard. Apparently, Father used it to revive me, though I can’t seem to recall the event.”

Damian leans his head back against the headboard.

“It’s fused inside of me. Amongst the other pieces, mine is the largest. For that reason, and that reason alone, they tried to inscript me as a prophet.”

“Prophet of what?”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Sanctuary. Interdimensional creatures with wicked motivations. I was to be their messenger. If they had their way, I would be sent off to different dimensions, gathering the other fragments of the chaos crystal.”

A tic of silence passes between the three. 

Jon lowers his hands.

“I have a lot of questions.”

Damian straightens out his legs. He throws them over the edge of the mattress. “I will answer your questions on the way to Metropolis. We cannot stay.”

Damian pulls himself up. It dawns upon Blake that Damian is tall . Jon still towered over the lot of them, but Damian’s height looked nothing like his photos.

His height isn’t the only thing Blake notices. Damian carries a boulder of confidence. His shoulders are relaxed, pulled back, and his core is tight. His back is like that of a wooden beam, unbendable, and properly posed. He holds his chin up, not too high as to boast, but high enough to showcase a lack of fear. 

“Why can’t you stay?” Jon questions. He stands up from Damian’s bed. “You just got back.”

Damian turns towards Jon. Damian considers him thoughtfully. Blake can see the intelligence in Damian’s eyes. He could only assume Damian was pondering over an informative answer.

“Time is of the essence,” Damian settles for, instead. Then, he states, “You’re coming with us.” 

“I’m coming with you? Hold on. You can’t just make decisions for other people, Damian. That’s not how it works.”

“We’ll need to borrow your mother’s car.”

“Damian,” Jon stresses.

Jon had plenty of reasons to be upset with his friend’s pushy behavior. Yet, when Blake looks at Jon’s face, there’s only a fond smile in place. Damian, likewise, has the hint of his own smile. His lips twitch as if he were trying to suppress it. 

Blake feels as if he is imposing. He also feels that he is terribly out of place. He should not be present in a sentimental moment between friends. No matter how brief.

“D-Damian?” Blake questions.

He regrets asking anything, let alone speaking, when two pairs of eyes settle on him. Damian looked ready to leave the room, but here Blake was, keeping him from his objective.

“W-Why-” Blake doesn’t know why he has a stutter now, but there is little he can do about it. “Why do we need to leave?”

Damian’s eyes drift to his odachi. It was sticking out from underneath the bed frame. Crooked against wooden floorboards. 

Damian walks back to the mattress. He bends down. He narrowly brushes Blake’s pants with his arm. “It is only a matter of time before Father uses your phone’s location record to track us down.” A brief pause. “We can’t have that.”

Damian picks up his odachi. He holds it out in the air. Eyes hazed over with strict emotion Blake can’t understand.

“You don’t want to see your family?” Jon questions.

Jon’s eyes follow Damian’s form once he lowers his odachi. Damian stalks for the exit. 

“It is not a matter of wanting. It’d be ideal if they weren’t involved.”

Jon crosses the room to reach Damian. He seemed perplexed with Damian’s answer, and Blake, too, was struggling to understand. He had thought Damian would leap for the opportunity to see his family again. What was the point in avoiding them? He was adored by them. 

Damian exits the room. Jon is at his heels. 

Then, there’s Blake, who is rooted in place. Uncertain.

He stares at the door for a sign. The personification of his sign transforms into Damian, who pops his head back into the room, and gives him a quirked brow.

“Do not dally, Blake.”

Blake is embarrassed at how quick he is to please. 

Blake had never been in a normal car before.

He’d been in the batmobile, once upon a time, but that didn’t count. Lois’ car wasn’t as sleek, polished, or armored. It was an average vehicle with an unimposing appearance. There were four seats instead of two, and the beige leather seemed to be synthetic. 

Blake pulls his seatbelt on, as Damian’s father had taught him not too long ago, and clicks it into the buckle. 

“You know, technically, it’d be legal if I were the one driving,” Jon points out from the passenger’s seat. Damian ignores him in favor of starting up the ignition. Blake listens to the engine start up with a bubbling stutter. 

“You’re much older than I remember you being,” Damian admits. “Even with estimation, you seem to have somehow passed me in age, which doesn’t make any logical sense.”

Damian urges the car forward. It vibrates chaotically as the tires run over uneven gravel. Damian takes it slow. At first. 

“Jon!” 

Damian presses the gas at Lois’ voice. Blake shoots a look out his window. He sinks in his seat when he sees Lois’ standing at the door. She had a broom in her hand, and judging by her white-knuckled grip, she was not happy.

Jon looks sheepish for a moment. He was now painfully aware of his mother’s presence, but he tries his best not to pay attention to it, evident by his next words. “I left Earth for a while.”

“You are in so much trouble, young man!”

Lois’ voice fades the farther they get. Damian swiftly pulls out of the long, extended, driveway. When they hit the road, Blake notices an instant difference, starting with the lack of violent vibrations. 

“But, look, that’s not the point here. You said you were going to answer my questions. I’m holding you to that.”

Damian grunts in acknowledgment. He briefly glances up at the rearview mirror, and Blake flushes when they make eye-contact. He is quick to look away. 

“What is the chaos crystal? That’s what you called it, right?”

“Correct. In layman terms, the chaos crystal is a wish-granting artifact. It originated from a metaphysical dimension titled The Sphere of Gods. It contains unfathomable power depending on the exertion of energy poured into it.”

“And you said you had a… shard… fused inside you?”

“Father supposedly stabbed it into my chest in the effort to resurrect me. He did not account for Sanctuary.”

“Sanctuary.” The word rolls off of Jon’s tongue. “You said that earlier. Does it mean something?”

“Yes. As I said earlier, Sanctuary is a group of interdimensional beings with nefarious purposes. Which, as it so happens, includes merging every dimension into one.”

Jon jolts. His seatbelt snaps him back. “What?!”

“It was why they wanted the chaos crystal. However, despite their many abilities, they do not have the ability to leave their dimensional plane. It is this that contributed to my disappearance. According to them, since I have a chaos shard imbued within my heart, I would have made the perfect shard detector.”

Jon blinks. His eyes lay on the road in front of them. He seems intent on keeping it that way. “I have no idea what to make of this.” He reaches up a hand to wipe his bangs out of his eyes. "You were trapped with these guys for four years?”

“I wouldn’t give them a yes,” Damian confirms. “They would try to force me into accomplishing various ‘challenges’ on their behalf, but even then, I attempted to be as difficult as possible.”

Jon opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can speak a word, he yelps. Damian’s fingers press into the steering wheel’s cover, pushing indents into the fabric, right before he turns the wheel sharply. 

Blake’s heart jumps into his throat. He grabs hold of his seatbelt as they nearly barrel off of the road. It wouldn’t have been a fun experience. From what he’d seen, there was a trench to their right, and falling into that wouldn’t be fun.

“Out of all people to be afraid, you should be the last one, Jon,” Damian remarks dryly. “It is not as if you would’ve been harmed.”

“We almost got hit by a car!”

“I saw.”

“It didn’t have a driver!”

“That is why you’re accompanying us on this trip,” Damian states. “I’m not supposed to be here. Sharlay will do everything within her power to kill me. I am actively opposing her plans.” 

“Sharla- who-the-what-now?”

“Sanctuary’s priestess.”

“She’s trying to kill you?”

“By any means.”

“Damian! You didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

Blake remembers the meteor almost slamming them into the Earth, and then he recalls Jon talking about how it’d seemingly come out of nowhere. It was starting to line up in his mind. The meteor hadn’t been a freak accident. It’d been an assassination attempt. If Jon hadn’t been there, Damian would have been killed, and Blake probably would’ve joined him. 

“It did not come up.” Damian shrugs.

Jon gives him an exasperated look. Blake watches him go through every stage of mental exhaustion. First, he shakes his head, and then he looks away. Next, he adopts a somewhat thoughtful face, followed by a slump of defeat. 

Then, as if he hadn’t had a problem, his lips stretch into a smile.

“Just like old times, huh?” 

Jon punches Damian’s arm playfully. Damian shoots him a half-hearted glare. “Yes. You still have zero manners.”

“Okay, hold up, you’re the one who just jacked my mom’s car.”

“And yet, you stood aside, and watched,” Damian points out with a smirk. He seemed lighter. Despite having just nearly slammed into an oncoming car, his features were relaxed, and his exterior was overall bright.

“Ha -ha-” Jon forces out, sticking out his tongue, “You know I could have stopped you if I wanted to.”

Blake listens to Jon and Damian bicker. It was as if Damian hadn’t been missing for four years.

Blake leans his cheek against the window, and watches wheat fields pass by. It was hard to believe they’d just nearly fallen into a trench. Blake would’ve thought it a conjuration of his panic-prone mind, but the addition of two other people proved the opposite to be true. 

“-kay, Blake?”

Blake keeps his cheek pressed against the window.

“Blake?”

Blake notices Jon twisted in his seat. He had worry etched on his face. Blake doesn’t feel anything when he sees it. He’s hopelessly void. 

“Blake? You good?” 

“Yeah,” Blake barely whispers.

He looks out the window.

“I’m okay.”

“How’d you come back?”

Jon deposits a thick outpour of slush in a styrofoam cup. Damian and Jon both huddle close to the dispensing machine, secretive, and cautious of surrounding listeners. 

Blake finds himself staring at a plastic case holding a variety of sweet treats. His eyes roam over the sprinkled donuts, cinnamon buns, and honey rolls. Each one was packed into a cardboard box, flimsy, and thin. Blake could see what was inside each container through the plastic films on top. 

Blake lingers behind Jon by a couple of feet. He was truly clueless as to what he should be doing. He only left the car because Damian told him to. He would’ve sat in the back-seat if it had been up to him. Gas stations were uncharted territory. Blake didn’t want to mess things up for the people he was accompanying.

It’s strange. 

Blake had been so certain of his plan. He might not have had an extended goal for the future, but he knew he wanted to make up for his mistakes. Now, Blake still retains the goal, but he’s lost control over the means. He was on his way to Metropolis with Damian and Jon. His initial assumption that Damian might benefit from seeing his family was falling flat on its face. Damian, apparently, wanted nothing to do with them.

If Damian wanted nothing to do with his family, how was Blake supposed to repent?

Why was he even accompanying Damian? Damian should want nothing to do with him. His reaction to Blake’s presence was baffling. He’d yet to bring up his unjust death. 

“I said it earlier. It's becuase of Blake. I would not be able to be here without  him.”

Blake glances over his shoulder. Damian was still focused on the slush machine, pouring himself a giant cup’s worth of blue raspberry, but Jon was looking in Blake’s direction. Unaware that his cup was about to overflow until it pours over his hands.

Jon snaps himself out of his daze. He stops pulling the dispensing lever, and flicks his hand into the overflow. 

“How does having a clone root you on Earth?” Jon questions.

“The shard in my chest resonates with his existence. I don’t know how the science of it works. It might have something to do with his precise, identical, genetics. Needless to say, without him, I would not be here, and I would likely suffer an eternity elsewhere.”

“Seriously?” Jon wipes his hand on a napkin. “What do you think about that, Blake?”

Jon’s eyes are on him again.

Blake thinks over his question. He reflects on his creation, his past, and the circumstances that brought him here.

Blake’s eyes drift back over to the sweet treats in their plastic display. Without looking at his companions, he says, “It’s nice to be of use.”

He’s conflicted. His existence was a negative thing, yet, had he not existed, Damian would not be present. Then again, had he simply ceased to be to start off with, Damian would have never been murdered. 

Damian emerges into Blake’s vision. Damian opens the display box, reaches in, and grabs a purple sprinkled donut.

“You wanted this, right?” Damian asks for confirmation. He holds up the small cardboard box. 

It takes a moment for Blake to nod.

“Good,” Damian says. 

Blake isn’t sure how to interpret that reply, and he can’t exactly ask, not when Damian is heading for the counter.

“Jon,” Damian drawls. “Give me your wallet.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t understand how this counts as proper sustenance. Burgers have low nutritional value. We’ve been duped as a society.”

“We can’t just go to the store, pick up some groceries, and then cook over a non-existent fire, Damian. We have to settle for fast food, unless, of course, you want to make our two hour trip longer than it needs to be.”

“Surely, with your speed, you could procure a proper meal.”

“Okay, hold up, being fast doesn’t mean I get to bend the rules of nature. I can’t make a stove hotter without burning a hole through it. I could make it colder, maybe, but even then! I wouldn’t be able to control the time it takes to cook something!”

“We could’ve bought some vegetables instead,” Damian mumbles. “There is nothing but carbs in here.”

Damian rifles through the brown bag on his lap. Once he pulls out his salad, which he wasn’t happy with, he tosses the bag into the back seat. 

Blake catches it. He looks at the remnants of the meal, and realizes that the rest is for him. Jon had ordered him a burger. Blake didn’t know what a burger was, but he was looking forward to finding out. 

“You’re the type of person who likes raw radishes, and thinks that’s enough to eat for the day.”

“It’s flavorful,” Damian says. “I’d say you’re the type of person that would dump a week’s worth of fast food on a homeless shelter, and then wonder why they have high blood sugar at the end of it.”

Jon snorts. He bites into his own burger. “You seem to assume a lot about me despite having been gone for four years.”

“Jon, I could cease all communication with you for several more years, and I still would know more about you than ninety percent of the population. Also, don't speak with your mouth full, it is unbecoming of you.”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Are you going to start driving now?”

“I can’t eat my salad while I’m driving.”

“I could drive.”

“If you want your hands removed from your body, then by all means, be my guest.”

“Damian. I’m starting to think you’ve changed in nothing except for appearance.”

Blake pulls his burger out of his bag. It is small, with happy cartoon characters on the wrapper, winking out little stars from their eyes. Blake carefully removes the wrapper, as if it were precious gift-wrap paper, and then views the small burger within. 

Blake peeks into his meal by lifting the bun up. He sees all kinds of things, like pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, and different kinds of sauces. He didn’t have any cheese. Damian had drawn the line on the ‘paper thin yellow plastic’ that was advertised.

Jon still got cheese, though. It was only Blake who hadn’t gotten any. “It’s not good for you,” Damian had said. He’d said most of it wasn’t good for Blake, but Jon remembered what Blake had said about being forced to eat vegetables. He didn’t want Blake to think he didn’t have a choice. That’s why, unbeknownst to the youngest of them, Jon had fought for Blake’s right to eat a burger.

It wasn’t as big as it could be, judging by the one held in Jon’s hand, but Blake didn’t mind. He thought it was perfect.

Blake takes a big bite. His teeth sink into multiple ingredients, and his body is invaded by numerous tastes. He can make out the combined textures, and the tangy addition of the sauces. 

Blake chews. While the flavor was agreeable, the amount of food in his mouth was not, and, compared to Alfred’s food, it was not quite as expensive tasting. Blake could make out how cheap the ingredients were. He also felt the lack of love. Lois’ brunch had been delicious because of the intent behind it. She’d gone out of her way to make sure Blake enjoyed himself.

Blake thinks that the burger is alright, but he does not think that it is his favorite. There is too much going on with his senses. Blake prefers simple things that do not overwhelm his body, like eggs, and pancakes. 

Blake feels embarrassed when he remembers how he’d choked on a pancake. He chews slower in account for what could happen if he got too lost in his thoughts.

Blake hears the crunch of Damian’s salad. He stabs his plastic fork into the lettuce, and then brings it up to his mouth for a taste. Damian did not seem to enjoy his food. 

Jon, on the other hand, had already finished his food. He’d practically inhaled it. Once he was done wiping up his hands with a napkin, he twists, and then gives Blake a smile.

“What do you think? Like it?”

Blake, ever polite, nods.

Damian glances up at the rearview mirror to see his reaction. He doesn’t say anything. He looks back down at his salad.

Jon ignores him. He reaches out a hand to ruffle Blake’s hair, and Blake stops chewing just to process it. 

“Glad to hear it,” Jon says.

“We’ll be looking for an individual who, in all regards, will not be expecting us. I don’t know who they are, or where they are, but what I do know is that they will call themselves Sanctuary Herald.”

“If you don’t know where they are, or who they are, then why are we going to Metropolis?”

Blake watches as massive steel buildings pass their vehicle. They were surrounded by traffic at the moment, trapped amongst the populace, on some kind of lifted bridge. 

“It was only a matter of time before we were tracked down by Father,” Damian drones, “Though, considering the state of his mind, perhaps we would’ve been traced by someone else. Father has been… rusty. ”

“What’s wrong with your dad?” Jon questions. 

Damian pauses to collect his thoughts. Blake can feel Damian’s eyes on him for a moment. He dares not glance up at the rearview mirror to make a connection. 

“He’s gone senile,” Damian says. “I don’t know how much of Blake’s situation you understand, but after I died, Father revived Blake to take my place.” Damian scowls. “It seems, just like the rest of the family, he was quick to replace me.”

Blake didn’t know what to say, but Damian’s contempt bothered him in two ways. One, his dissatisfaction with his father made sense, but Blake didn’t want it to be that way. He wanted them to get along. He wanted things to go back to how they should’ve been. Second, the moment Blake had finally been waiting for was here, and he was not sure if he was ready to talk about it. 

“That… that doesn’t sound like him,” Jon says.

Blake feels uncomfortable in the back seat. He felt words bubble up in his throat, and before he could reasonably hold himself back, he blurted out, “It isn’t his fault.”

Jon glances over his shoulder. 

“It was my fault,” Blake verbally vomits, “He wouldn’t be like that if it weren’t for me. Damian would’ve still been here and- I would’ve been dead- like it should’ve been- and-”

Blake didn’t have a plan. His words were spilling out like a boiling pot. His lid had popped off under the pressure. 

“It wasn’t his fault,” Blake says, and then he’s begging, “Please don’t blame him - he loves you - he loves you so much."

“I would suspect you to be the last person to defend him, Blake,” Damian says. “You were inscripted into his sick scheme.”

“He was grieving,” Blake says. 

“He could grieve for sixty years, but that still wouldn’t make what he did reasonable, or acceptable.”

“He was looking for you,” Blake continues to pour, “He was looking for you in everything related to you.”

“He ruined your life, Blake.”

“I ruined yours.”

Jon furrows his brows. “Hold on, wait a second, what exactly does that m-”

Jon doesn’t finish his sentence. Before Blake can blink, Jon’s door is blown open, and Blake's seatbelt is being unbuckled. Blake had been sitting in his seat for one moment, and in the next, he was standing on the side of the road. Right next to an impassive Damian, who, apparently was used to such swift changes.

Blake stares at their now-destroyed car, crushed underneath the debris of a neighboring building, and then wonders how exactly Jon had teleported them into a different location. He had somehow moved so fast that Blake’s mind could barely comprehend it. 

People were screaming, horns were blaring, and Damian’s lips were tugging downwards.

“It might be harder to avoid hero detection than I originally anticipated,” he thinks aloud. “One needs to only follow the destruction to know where we are.”

Oh, Blake thinks with a few frantic blinks, that should be a good thing, right? 

He hopes Damian’s family will find him. Blake thinks they all deserve a happy ending. Something that will finally bring the peace they desperately needed.

Jon groans, floating in air, and mysteriously clothed in an entirely different set of clothing. Blake looks up to stare at his new state of attire. He had a red cape, a blue uniform, and a giant logo in the middle of his chest. 

“Mom’s going to kill me,” Jon moans.

Blake endures Damian’s dressing as the older boy decides what Blake ought to wear. Damian plops a baseball cap onto Blake’s head, tells him to shrug on a baggy coat, and then tosses him a pair of sunglasses. Damian wears a similar state of attire with varying colors. 

“We’ll have to take public transportation from here,” Damian says. “Fawcett City should be our next stop. We’ll be exposed if we linger here. I don’t know how many dashcams picked up our incident but-”

“Fawcett City?” Jon gawks. He didn’t look alike in any way to his two companions. He had a long trench coat, a pair of spectacles, and greased back hair. “We just got to Metropolis!”

“It was the closest transportation hub,” Damian says. “We’ll take the metro as far as we can go, and then we’ll have to take the bus for the rest of the way. I wasn’t foolish enough to assume we’d have a smooth ride in your mother’s car.”

“I'd feel better if was my mother’s car than a train filled with hundreds of people.”

“It’s either public transportation, or you fly us there, which will draw attention on its own. It is better if we act covert.”

“Why don’t we just use the zeta beams?” Jon complains.

Damian rests a hand on Blake’s back. He ushers him forward out of the alleyway they’d been hiding in. “That would alert my presence to the whole league, and then we’d be triple-compromised.”

“What’s so wrong about getting them involved? Why don’t you want your family knowing that you’re alive?”

“It’s simple. If they’re around me, they’ll get hurt. Anyone who has been involved with me, has gotten hurt,” Damian says.

When he had said it, his hand lifted off of Blake’s back, as if violently repelled. 

“Why are we bringing Blake along if you’re worried that other people will get hurt?”

Damian pauses to give Jon a look.

“It was either bring him, or leave him in Smallville. Had we left him, he would be sure to encounter my family again. I would not subject him to that.”

Damian raises his hand from his side. He stares at his scarred palm for a moment, and then crushes his fingers into a tight fist. 

“I should’ve been stronger,” he says in such a low voice that Blake nearly misses it. Jon, with his super-hearing, hadn't missed it at all. “Then, no one would have to go through this, and I-”

Damian’s eyes dart in Blake’s direction.

He takes in a deep breath, remembering himself, and the people he was surrounded by. 

"Nevermind," he says, lowering his fist, "All you need to know is that, to prevent unnecessary pain, it is better if we do this on our own."

Jon seemed skeptical with Damian's answer, but Damian did not seem to care. He passes Blake without a word, and takes the lead for the metroline.

Chapter Text

Blake’s experience with public transportation is completely alien. He made sure to stick close to his companions as they checked into the train. They seemed to know what to do, more so than Blake did, and Blake felt generally safer in their proximity.

He wasn’t willing to separate from them by an inch.

Blake was extremely uncomfortable with the amount of people around him. Blake’s imagination ran wild as he envisioned every detail that could go wrong about this. Not only were the people around them wildcards, but they were also possible victims to Damian’s catastrophe magnet. 

Blake endured the train ride for as long as he had to. He tried not to be bothered by the departing, and boarding, passengers. It made him nervous trying to anticipate what a person might think about him, because, despite Damian’s best effort, Blake didn’t think his disguise was very good. Blake might find some benefit in being recognized, considering what might happen if he was, but his desire to please Damian was stronger than reuniting him with his family. He didn’t want to do anything that Damian might not like. Even if it was for the greater good. 

Eventually, their train ride came to a stop, and they all hopped onto a bus. Jon ended up stocking food beforehand, stuffing it all in a big backpack he bought, because apparently they were in it for the long haul. Damian said that it’d take about three hours to get to Fawcett City. Apparently, it was in Indiana, which was an entirely different state. Blake hadn’t even realized they were in Illinois until it was brought up. Jon flew him to Smallville so fast that… well… Blake hadn’t been able to tell that they had traveled past borderlines. 

Regardless, Blake’s bus experience, despite being loads better than a crowded metroline, isn’t all that great. He doesn’t find any comfort in the seating, or with the smell wafting throughout the trip. Blake had gotten up one time for the bathroom, only to be horrified, and decide he ought to wait for another opportunity. He wondered if many of the other passengers felt the same way. People were slow to get up for the bathroom, but they sure were quick to leave when they saw the state of it. 

Blake didn’t comment on his bathroom experience when he got back to his seat. Damian ended up sitting next to him, but Jon was seated elsewhere. It was intentional. Jon didn’t want to be distracted by bickering so he could keep an eye on their surroundings. He didn’t want to be caught by surprise if something bad were to happen. He was their main line of defense.

Blake didn’t have a whole lot to say to Damian during this time nor did Damian have a whole lot to say to him. Most of their journey was spent in relative silence. Damian had his eyes closed for a majority of the trip, and, at first, Blake had assumed he had fallen asleep. Later, he would realize, Damian had been meditating.

Blake didn’t want to disturb Damian’s meditation. When the bus pulled for a stop, Blake did his best to quietly slip from his seat, intent on stretching his legs. It was too stuffy. He was troubled by the sweat, heat, and putrid aroma. He desperately needed a fresh breath of air. 

Blake felt safe when he stepped off the bus. He didn’t have a lot of reason to worry, even with his natural penchant for pessimism, because he wasn’t alone. He hopped off with the bus driver, and a couple of other passengers. 

Blake learns a hard lesson about distraction when the bus leaves without him. Blake didn’t know when everyone had gotten back on, he didn’t remember even hearing them move, but what he did know was that he was outside the bus. He was standing frozen in place as the bus engine rumbled to life. 

“H-Hold on-” Blake’s weak voice calls. He starts to run. “Hold on-!”

Blake’s panicked breathing makes him light-headed as the bus moves forward. He tries to reach the sliding doors, tries to at least smack the metal, but then his shoulder gets clipped by the vehicle. Blake falls over in a dangerous position, on the road, numb. 

Blake is only briefly aware of the sting in his palms. He must’ve scraped them against the asphalt. Regardless, Blake couldn’t believe how quickly he’d been forgotten, and how fast everything had happened. His little desire to get a fresh breath of air only proved one thing. Blake shouldn’t have any desires. He shouldn't want things. He’s not allowed to want things. He should’ve just sucked it up. 

Blake sticks in place for a long, long, moment. 

Numbness fades, Blake chokes on air, and then his heart metaphorically rips out of his chest. It’s an intense feeling. Blake feels so horribly betrayed, and hopeless, and worthless. He twists his shirt in his hands. He ignores the hot asphalt burning through his clothes. 

This is what you get, Blake thinks, you piece of trash.

Blake doesn’t have the strength to get up. He doesn’t care if he’s on the road. He can’t find the will to move.

Blake doesn’t know how long he sits in place. His legs are on fire by the time he manages to pull himself to the side, trading hot clay for asphalt, and his palms are protesting angrily. 

Blake didn’t know how he was going to repent. 

He wanted to make things better for Damian’s family, but maybe he’d never get the opportunity. Maybe, the best thing Blake can do for them is suffer, just so they can take some pleasure in seeing his pain. It might make them feel a little better. It might bring them enough delight to make their lives a little bit better. Maybe if they saw Damian’s murderer in constant pain, and hurt, then they’d finally be able to heal. 

Blake feels traitorous tears run down his cheeks. 

You cry over everything, he thinks, You’re pathetic. 

He didn’t deserve to cry. Crying was for tragedy. Crying was for things that matter. Blake didn’t have someone close to him murdered, not like Damian’s father, so what right did he have to cry?

Blake’s miserable tears turn into something bitter.

Gods, he thinks, I’m so stupid.

Blake wants the numbness to come back. He wants to stop feeling like this.

Blake gets lost in his throbbing heart’s screams before a shadow falls over him.

“Blake.” 

Blake blinks tears out of his eyes. He glances upward.

Jon stands over him with relief etched in his features. He exhales deeply, and then crouches down to eye-level. 

“You’re okay,” Jon breathes.

Blake’s body jolts with a shuddering breath. 

“Jon,” he says. “Jon.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jon says. “I noticed that you didn’t get back on, but it was hard to get the bus driver to turn around. Damian ended up having some words with him and-” Jon glances over his shoulder. Sure enough, the bus sat in the road, as if it’d never left. Damian leans in the doorway with his arms crossed. Blake could only see a hint of the bus driver behind him. He looked haggard. His clothes were ruffled in a mess. He stares at Damian with a load of wariness.

Blake’s tears slowly come to a stuttering halt. Blake didn’t know what to do at this point. He’d thrown his sob-fest, and he’d cried, but now it was over. He had no reason to cry anymore. Jon came back for him.

It doesn’t explain why Blake throws himself into Jon’s arms, and jolts with a body-shaking sob. 

Jon has him the minute Blake moves. He wraps his arms around the younger boy, and folds over him with infinite regret. 

“I’m so stupid,” Blake sobs, coughs, and then inhales sharply. “I shouldn’t have gotten off the bus. I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine, Blake, you’re fine,” Jon says. “You can’t always predict what’s going to happen but-” Jon holds Blake tigheter. “It doesn’t mean it’s your fault if things go wrong. I know you were just trying to take a break from sitting in the bus for so long. You didn’t do anything bad.”

“I did,” Blake insists weakly, “I do everything bad. I’m bad.”

“You’re not bad,” Jon says. 

“You don’t know that. You don’t know me- and-” Blake buries his face in Jon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I talk too much, I shouldn’t be bothering you like this-”

Jon doesn’t say anything as he holds Blake. They must have the whole bus watching them by now, but the moment between them is paused in time. 

Jon’s regret is evident in his voice. “You’re not bothering me. I’m just… sad.”

Jon draws away to look into Blake’s eyes.

Blake apologizes again. He can’t stop himself. “I’m sorry.”

Jon’s hands slide up to Blake’s shoulders. He doesn’t say anything further, perhaps because he understands that words are meaningless, and that Blake won’t be convinced he’s not at fault. Blake’s issues were complicated. Jon wouldn’t dare suppose it would be fixed with sentiment alone.

So, he lets actions speak instead, and brings Blake in for another hug. Blake melts into him in desperate need for physical contact. He doesn’t want Jon to draw away again.

Damian looks away from the private moment, jaw tight, and tense. 

“Sit back down,” he scolds the passengers. “You look like a pack of mongrels.”

Chapter Text

Jon hugs Blake into his side for the rest of the trip. 

Blake feels bad for distracting him, what with Jon's original objective to keep an eye on incoming catastrophe, but Jon's side was comfortable. Blake didn't want to move away. Jon also didn't seem intent on letting Blake return to his original seat. He kept a firm hand on Blake's shoulder. It encouraged Blake to mold himself into Jon's side. It did little to convince Blake to do otherwise.

Blake's eyes root on the seat in front of him. Jon was looking over Blake's form to observe the passing scenery. He hadn't spoken since Blake's breakdown, and now that Blake recounts it, his cheeks warm to a cheery red. His emotional outburst had been embarrassing. He'd been quick to burst into tears, and when Jon showed up, Blake had ended up crying harder. He'd made a spectacle of himself in front of a lot of people, and Blake could only imagine what they must have thought.

He had ended up delaying their estimated arrival time. They couldn't be too happy with him.

Nevertheless, despite his concern for those around him, Blake hides his face in Jon's side. His heart throbs with a sweetness he's never felt before.

He can't recall a time where he'd ever been held so tightly.

It puts Blake’s view of Jon into a new perspective. Blake’s initial impression had been one of fear. He’d seen Jon’s capabilities as something to be scared of. His inhuman powers had been downright frightening. Yet, now that Blake was witnessing Jon’s tenderness, and soft handling, he realized that Jon was not as nearly intimidating as originally perceived

This isn’t the first time he has helped me, Blake thinks, recalling his pancake incident. Jon hadn’t hesitated to save Blake’s life. He’d sprung out of his chair to dislodge the food clogging Blake’s throat. He hadn’t given it a second thought. He’d been determined to help someone he didn’t know. Not extensively. 

Blake now knew why Damian could trust Jon so blindly despite having been separated. Jon was a good person. Blake couldn’t believe he had felt otherwise. His concern, and fear, seemed misplaced.

Blake feels Jon’s arm tighten around his shoulders. He peeks up from Jon’s side only to spot the passenger in front of them. An elderly woman, face worn with age, glances back at him. She gives him a kind smile.

“You should’ve seen your big brothers come to your defense, sweetie. I wish my sons were as protective of each other. It would save me a lot of heartache.”

Blake’s mind goes blank. Big brothers? Is that what people thought?

“That other one there-?” She tilts her head in Damian’s direction. “He tore into that bus driver! He was mighty angry on your behalf, mhm, yes he was!”

Blake adjusts himself to glance over at Damian across the row. Damian was staring out the window. If he heard what was being said, he paid it no attention.

Jon surprises Blake with a soft laugh. 

“He likes to pretend he doesn’t care sometimes, but that’s rarely the case.” Jon pats Blake’s shoulder. “Damian knows a thing or two about being abandoned by people he cares about. He wouldn’t have subjected Blake to that.”

Blake blinks in surprise.

What?

Damian had been abandoned?

Fawcett City isn’t nearly as dark as Gotham nor as bright as Metropolis. It was a fine mixture between the two. Blake finds himself admiring the simplistic architecture before being guided away from the bus station. 

Jon ruffles Blake’s hair before lifting his hand entirely. Blake instantly misses the touch. He would not be mentioning this out loud. 

Damian takes the lead, stone-faced, and stoic. “We’ll need to find a place to stay for the night.”

Blake does his best to keep up with Damian so that he doesn’t hold back Jon. Jon was intent on watching Blake’s back for some reason, and that meant it was Blake’s duty to keep them all together.

Blake stresses over it for about two minutes before Damian slows his stride. Blake stops himself from face-planting Damian’s back.

Jon adjusts the straps on his shoulders. “Let me guess,” he drawls, “I’m going to be paying?”

Damian turns to give Jon a smirk.

Jon is unamused. “You’re aware that we’re not all filthy-rich? I have to break my back just to get a paycheck!”

Damian scoffs. “Ridiculous. You’re in peak physical condition.”

“You know what I mean.”

Damian’s humor fades. His smirk falls into a neutral state. "I’ll pay you back for your generosity. I simply need time. I can’t give away our position by breaking into Father’s bank account. I’d imagine a worse outcome if I tapped into Grandfather’s treasury reserve.”

Jon grimaces. 

“You don’t have to pay me back Damian, especially if you go about it illegally. I’m just letting you know this is putting a strain on my wallet. I’m going to run dry soon. I can’t support three people.”

Damian considers Jon’s words thoughtfully. A breeze passes between them, curling through wafts of hair. Blake feels anxious on Damian’s behalf. He’d heard enough arguments to know when they were on the cusp of one. 

Damian exhales through his nose. “Noted.”

Jon, for the first time since they stepped off the bus, brushes past Blake to slap a hand down on Damian’s shoulder. He gives his friend a smile. “I’ll book a hotel. I didn’t mean to sound like I was complaining. I’m sorry if I sounded that way.”

“You made valid points. I wouldn’t call it complaining. I apologize if it seemed I was not taking you seriously. Your concerns are all well-founded.”

Jon keeps his hand on Damian’s shoulder. He stares at him with a flash of astonishment. Finally, after lifting his hand, Jon realizes aloud, “You’ve changed.”

Damian is quiet for a few seconds, features highlighted by a towering street lamp, before he turns away. Blake watches him stalk for a neighboring bench. “You should get a hold of a place to stay,” Damian says. “I’d rather not hang around outside.”

Jon decides to lighten the atmosphere. “I thought you liked camping,” he teases. He removes his backpack to retrieve his phone. 

Blake stands glued to his spot. Uncertain. He had no idea what to do with himself.

“I like camping in the wilderness,” Damian clarifies, “but I would argue camping in the city is far more dangerous then-” Blake meets Damian’s eyes. “Don’t linger so far from the group, Blake.”

Blake snaps out of his stupor. He obeys by taking a few steps forward until he’s settled at Jon’s side. Jon shoots him a comforting smile before returning his attention to his phone. He scrolls through nearby hotel listings with an eye on their star-ratings.

Blake stands next to him, dumbfounded, because his companions hadn’t erupted into an argument. He’d been so certain they would… it certainly felt tense enough… but it didn’t happen at all.

“Why would you think camping in a city would be more dangerous than camping in the wilderness?” Jon interrupts himself. “Wait, nevermind. Forget I asked. You’re from Gotham.”

Blake’s interest spikes. What did originating from Gotham have to do with camping? He wanted to ask. Unfortunately, he was reluctant to speak. He wasn't sure if anyone would appreciate it if he decided to join in the conversation. He hadn’t been addressed specifically, and, quite frankly, Blake didn’t want to deal with any possible negativity. He’d finally felt something… good… and he didn’t want to lose that. He wanted to retain it by any means. 

He wanted to keep Jon’s acceptance. 

Blake liked feeling cared for. He wouldn’t trade that for anything.

Blake sticks by Jon silently as he searches for their hotel. Blake takes the time to admire Damian’s lone figure on the bench, and wonders why someone so special would ever be abandoned. It seemed alien. Blake had spent nearly his entire existence attempting to imitate Damian. Damian was supposed to be perfect in every way. Why would anyone dare think otherwise? 

Blake suppresses the question just like the other.

Jon picked a hotel within walking distance. 

Blake was suddenly glad for his endurance lessons. Damian’s father would have him run laps around the gym multiple times, and then accomplish several other warm-up exercises. 

‘Walking distance’ didn’t mean their destination was close. To save money on Jon’s behalf, they decided they’d skip calling for a taxi, which meant they’d have to resort to an hour-long walk.

Needless to say, they eventually checked into the hotel, and Jon paid using something called a debit card. To avoid suspicion, Jon claimed they were a trio of brothers, stopping by Fawcett to meet extended family. It wasn’t too hard to deceive the receptionist. They all had strikingly similar features. Blake, in fact, was Damian’s younger identical copy. 

After receiving the key card to their hotel room, Blake would be relieved to find, after his uncomfortable bus trip, that this was a massive upgrade from a cramped seat. He instantly noticed the rattling vents, and the cool air rushing out on full-blast. It was loads better than being squeezed in a bus with numerous sweating individuals.

It had felt like, at the time, that he was being cooked alive in a metal oven on wheels. 

Blake was not looking forward to possibly experiencing that again.

Blake doesn’t have much time to enjoy the cool air before he is being pushed into the bathroom. “Take a shower,” Damian commands. “Don’t come back out until you’re done.”

Blake isn’t opposed to taking a shower. In fact, just being in a clean bathroom was refreshing in itself. Blake hated the bus bathroom with a passion. He’d never seen something so disgusting in his life. He was glad for people like Alfred who made sure things like that stayed clean. It gave Blake an appreciation for the old man even if they didn’t talk much. Alfred might not have been a talkative companion, but he always made sure that Blake was taken care of. Blake would have to thank him one day for looking after the manor.

Blake doesn’t take a long shower. Once he’s finished, he dresses himself quickly, and tusses up his hair with a towel. 

He emerges in the middle of a bickering match. 

“I said I’ll take the floor. I don’t care how stubborn you are.”

“You said you had back problems.”

“I wasn’t being literal! You know that!”

“I’m adjusted to sleeping on the ground. I’ve done so for four years. I won’t be able to sleep comfortably if I take the bed. It’ll keep me up all night.”

“How do I know you’re not just saying that to keep me from sleeping on the ground? You do know that I’m invulnerable, right?”

Damian opens his mouth, ready to speak, before glancing at Blake. He presses his lips together when he sees the state of Blake’s hair. With a frown, he demands, “Get over here.”

Blake feels small as he approaches Damian. He’s incredibly shy to the point that he can’t look Damian in the eye. He keeps his gaze rooted on the ground.

Blake doesn’t look up when Damian tugs the towel out of his hands. 

“You must dry your hair properly.” Damian says. He ruffles Blake’s hair using the white towel. “Going to sleep with your hair wet can lead to problematic issues. You don’t want to put your hair at risk for fungal infections. It can also damage your hair.”

“Oh,” Blake says with a few frantic blinks. 

Jon sounds from the other side of the room, “Damian gave me the same treatment a few years back. I didn’t even know your hair could… mold. Gross, right?”

“Yeah,” Blake agrees for the sake of agreeing. 

He didn’t exactly know what mold was.

But, if Jon says it’s gross, then he must mean it’d be like the bus bathroom. Blake didn’t want his hair resembling that. 

Damian continues to fluff up Blake’s hair until it’s completely dry. Once he’s satisfied, he draws back the towel, and examines the state of Blake’s head. 

“Acceptable,” he decides. 

Jon pats down his bed’s sheets in inspection. He looks for any questionable spots while asking, “So, Damian, I assume you have a plan for tomorrow?”

“We need to reach out to the Sanctuary Herald,” Damian says. He nudges Blake over in the direction towards the unoccupied bed. “It will be difficult to send out a message covertly. Our best line of action is to reach out to a psychic.”

Jon looks up from his task with a raised brow. 

“Psychic? I don’t know of any psychics who aren’t a part of the Justice League.”

“Omen,” Damian recites, "She was once a part of the original Teen Titans . She’s now a trusted member of the Titans.”

“I don’t follow the Titans too closely,” Jon says. “I didn’t even know they had a member named Omen. I guess I should really start getting out of my own bubble.” Jon briefly halts. “Wait, hold on, the Titans are in Jump City. What are we doing on the opposite side of the country?”

Damian walks over to his ground set-up, which consisted of a pillow, and a single sheet stolen from Jon’s bed. He lowers himself to the ground. “Jump City isn’t their only base of operations. They have two other towers in New York, but that is not to say we are headed to New York. No. We’ll be going to Utah to meet up with Omen in several days.”

“Utah? Okay, give me a second, I’m so confused. We’re not heading in the right direction if we’re trying to get to Utah, and, before I forget to mention, how are we supposed to meet up with Omen in Utah to begin with?”

Damian lays himself down. 

“She knows we’re coming. We had a lengthy discussion about it through a medium. I have a plan as to how we’re going to travel. I assure you that Indianna is an important step of that plan.”

“Damian. I feel like there’s a lot you haven’t told us,” Jon says.

“It’s hard to explain everything at once. You’ll have to forgive me. I’ll attempt to summarize. In order to draw the chaos shard out of my blood stream, we need to find the Sanctuary Herald, but the only way to find them is through synchronization with a chaos shard. I connected with Omen through an exile named Stein trapped in an interdimensional rift, and she agreed to help me locate the herald once I was on Earth. We chose Utah, the near-center of the states, as our meeting place.”

Jon was struggling to wrap his mind around what Damian had just explained. “Okay, let me get this straight, you just said Omen knows we’re coming?”

“Affirmative.”

“She knew that you were alive?”

“Yes.”

Jon looked betrayed.

“Why do we need to find this… Sanctuary Herald… again?”

“Sanctuary heralds are the only ones capable of extracting chaos shards in any form. It’s their duty. One exists in each dimension, and, if Sanctuary had their way, I would’ve been working quite close with them to retrieve the rest of the chaos shards.”

“You’re trying to get the chaos shard out of you?”

“I’m not just trying to get it out of me,” Damian says. “I’m trying to destroy it. I can’t destroy it unless it has a physical form. Then, once it’s restored, I can will its destruction through a mere wish. It will put an ultimate end to Sanctuary’s cause, and it will effectively trap them in their dimension. Forever.”

“This is… a lot,” Jon breathes. “How are you going to convince this Sanctuary Herald guy to draw it out of you?”

“They will feel compelled to do it when we meet them. I don’t have the priestess’ blessing. It’s the only thing that would stop them from attempting to extract it.”

“Is it a… good thing that you don’t have the priestess’ blessing? We’re talking about that… um… Shar-lay lady?”

“Yes. Sharlay. If she had her way, I would’ve been given her blessing, and shot throughout multiple dimensions as her agent.”

“Right,” Jon says, laying down flat on his back. He stares up at the ceiling. “I’ve got to admit. I’ve been to different planets before, but what you’re talking about is going way over my head.”

“It’s complicated,” Damian agrees. “I’ll simplify what you need to know now. I will require your assistance tomorrow. I don’t have the strength required to fish Father’s crashed prototype plane from Fawcett’s water canal.”

“Hold on-” Jon shoots up from his bed. “You want me to what now?” Jon stares at Damian with wide eyes. “I thought you said we shouldn’t fly? I think flying in a crashed plane would draw more attention than me carrying you and Blake mid-flight!”

Blake pats his pillow silently. He gently lowers his head on it. 

“Oh, and knowing your father, who’s to say he doesn’t have, like, a billion tracking devices in that thing?”

“It’s a prototype,” Damian says. “I was there when it was being tested. It won’t draw as much attention as you would think. It has a multi-cloaking feature that-”

“Why wouldn’t your father get it out of the water himself when it first crashed? Isn’t it a huge hazard to keep it lying around?”

“It’s invisible. We had a hard time finding it.”

“You-”

“It’s undetectable. So much so, in fact, that we couldn’t find it.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You’re quick. You’ll probably bonk your head against it faster than I would be able to locate it.”

“Okay, sure, let’s say I ‘bonk my head against it.’ What if it sustained damage in the crash? What if it can’t fly?

“It can fly,” Damian insists. “It’s self-sufficient, solar-powered, and-” Damian pulls the sheet over his body. “I doubt it was damaged. Much.”

Jon opens his mouth to say more, but then he hears a soft wheeze. He glances over at Blake’s bed. Blake hadn’t even managed to get a blanket on himself before he was knocked out.

Jon sighs. 

He pulls himself off of his bed, steps over Damian, and pulls the covers over Blake’s body. 

“I'm not trying to be pessimistic,” Jon says, lowering his voice, “I just think that your plan isn’t accounting for everything. I really think it’d be quicker if we just did things my way.”

“It doesn’t matter how fast you are, Jon. You’re detectable. I imagine that, aside from using Blake’s phone to track him, Father would simply need to follow your UFO trail to figure out where Blake went. You’d be surprised how many people manage to capture you on their phones claiming you’re an alien spaceship.”

Jon tucks Blake in. After he’s done, he steps over Damian again, and climbs back up on bed.

Damian’s comments aside, Jon makes a realization, and it had something to do with their earlier conversation.

Jon looks down at Damian with a blank stare.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you somehow tricked me into taking the bed."

Chapter Text

“Damian,” Jon complains, hunching over his phone, “Utah isn’t in the middle of the United States.”

Jon zooms in on a picture of the United States with a frown. 

“I said it was in the near-middle.”

“It’s not even in the near-middle,” Jon says. “It’s close to the coast.”

“It’s not close to the coast.”

“I’m sure you could get to the coast in just a couple of minutes.”

“You can’t measure time by flight distance, Jon.”

Blake listens to them bicker as he rummages through a supply box filled with rusted tools. It’d taken them some time, but Jon had found the plane. He’d nearly dented the nose with his head. Regardless, Damian hadn’t been kidding when he said that his father had crashed an invisible plane in the canal. Blake was now sitting inside of the described prototype plane. 

It was early in the morning. Blake didn’t usually wake up this early, but things took a quick turn when the entire hotel was evacuated. Blake was certain he would have passed away in his sleep (it was a figure of speech, because Blake knew, judging by his strange circumstances, that he was not actually alive) if it hadn't been for the carbon monoxide alarm.

Even Jon, who was more sensitive than the average human, didn't notice the leak. All he knew, and all Blake knew, was that it somehow started in their room. 

It’d been a mess. Blake watched an organization called the Fire Department show up, and then a bunch of cop cars whirled into the parking lot. Blake watched them evacuate people by pounding on their doors. If they didn’t answer, the cops demolished their doors, and dragged the unsuspecting people out of their beds. 

Blake, and his companions, had stuck around until a news van showed up. Damian decided they might as well go ahead with the plan, and avoid plastering their faces over every television screen. “We don’t want to draw attention,” he had said.

It might as well be Damian’s moto.

Needless to say, Damian sent Jon into the water canal, and Jon found the plane. He lifted it out of the canal, heavily confused as to how he should hold it, and gently deposited it on a wide patch of grass.

Blake was interested to notice that the grass didn’t look impacted by the sudden pressure. In fact, the invisible plane adjusted to its surroundings, and perfectly blended in with the environment. It looked as if nothing had changed. 

“Camouflage,” Damian stated.

Now, Blake was rummaging for salvageable tools, because the plane had been flooded. After releasing all of the water, Damian took a look at things, and decided the prototype could be functional with a little tinkering.

“I thought you said it would ‘definitely’ be functional.”

“I said no such thing.”

Blake winces when his hands scrape against a chipped screwdriver. He pulls out his hand, examines his palm, and notices the scrapes he’d accumulated just a day prior. 

“You won’t be able to find them all, Damian, your dad is a freak with his tracking devices!”

“I know all of his tricks. It’s unlikely I won’t dig them all out. Besides, I helped him put some of the devices in place, so I’m not doing this without being prepared.”

Blake hears Damian’s boots shuffle over the puddles formed in the cockpit. Then, without warning, Blake feels his wrist get snatched up. Blake makes a whimper as Damian analyzes his hand. 

“You-” Damian’s eyes train on Blake’s scrapes. Blake’s palm was bright, red, and angry. 

Jon looks up from his phone. Once he sees Blake’s submissive form, and Damian’s aggressive posture, he defends, “You don’t have to be rough. He’s just a kid.”

“I’m not being rough,” Damian insists. His grip relaxes, and his shoulders slacken with purposeful meaning. “I simply-” Damian furrows his brows. “I’m confused as to how Blake is able to get hu-”

Damian gets his words cut off when the plane thrums to life. 

Jon and Damian share a surprised look.

“Um,” Jon says, “is it supposed to do that-”

Without warning, the plane begins to jostle, and Damian is releasing Blake’s wrist. He dives for the soggy pilot’s seat. His fingers fly over the buttons on the control panel, and then he fights a stubborn lever that wouldn’t move. 

“I can’t-” Damian looks bewildered for the first time since the start of their journey. “It won’t move.”

Jon picks himself up. He strides for Damian’s position with concern. “Let me try,” he says. Without further permission, Jon grabs hold of the lever, and then-

Blake winces when he hears the lever snap in half. 

Jon and Damian share another look. Jon looked sheepish. Damian was unimpressed. The moment quickly shatters when the plane slowly lifts off the ground, tilting like a see-saw. Blake gives out a yelp when he slides to his right. He would have slammed into the passenger seats, all lined up against the side of the plane, if Jon didn’t decide to jump in. Jon gathers Blake into his arms protectively, and uses his body to shield Blake from flying debris. Blake feels like he was being hugged by a giant foam mattress. Blake imagined himself only inches away from Jon’s heart. 

Damian holds tight onto his seat. Jon yells over Blake’s head, “What’s going on!?”

Damian squeezes the arms of the pilot’s chair. Water seeps out of the cushioning. “I think that it might be attempting to reach its original destination!”

“We didn’t even turn it on!” Jon cries.

“I know!” Damian says.

“What changed!?”

Damian, panicked, stares straight out the window in front of him. “I don’t know!”

Blake’s mind race. It didn’t make sense. Why was the plane acting like this? It had come to life without anyone activating it. Blake might not be all that adept with technology, but could a crashed plane be capable of suddenly booting up? Coincidentally at the same time Jon pulls it out of the water?

Blake draws the only conclusion he can make. 

Sanctuary.

At this thought, static filters through the plane’s radio, and Damian’s eyes sharpen.

“You - kkrsssh - think you can just - krsssh - disappear without - krrsssh - saying goodbye?”

“Bumbra!” Damian hisses.

“It doesn’t have to - krrssh - be this way - krrssh - elected one.”

Damian doesn’t respond. He shoots out of his seat, wobbles his way to Jon, and then grabs his arm. Staring at him with narrowed eyes, betraying no emotion, Damian demands, “Jon. Get us out of here.”

Jon squats down. 

Damian doesn’t even think twice. As if he’d done this before, he hops onto Jon’s back, and then Blake finds himself sweeped up into Jon’s arms. With a build-up noise, Jon’s eyes glow, and then they erupt with heat.

Jon melts a hole into the plane's metal. Blake’s surprised cry is nearly muted when the air pressure snaps at his body. 

Blake squeezes his eyes shut when Jon shoots out of the plane. 

Wind crashes through his hair, cuts past his ears, and slams into his skin. Blake’s bangs whip viciously on his forehead. It hurt. Blake wasn’t aware his own hair could be used to bring pain. 

“Well,” Jon’s trench coat was flapping violently in the air behind him, “I think that was a dud. What are we going to do now?”

Damian is quiet. Jon slows down in his flight. Blake doesn’t risk opening his eyes. Jon might be slowing down, but the wind was still bad. He was having a hard enough time as it was. 

“Fly us to Utah.” Damian’s arms tighten around Jon’s neck.

“I thought that you wanted you to be discreet? We did this whole thing just to be discreet. We traveled to a different state for this purpose!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Damian’s voice is watery, and angry, and upset. “We wasted precious time. My carefully formulated plan was inadequate. I’m a failure in every regard. I-”

Damian shuts his mouth. 

He clears his throat. Struggling to properly articulate his new words, Damian says, “I… apologize. You were right. We should have just relied on you to get there to begin with. We would have already been there by now and…”

“Hey,” Jon sounds regretful, “I didn’t mean it like that. I thought that you had a pretty good plan.”

“Do not pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you. I meant what I said. Your plan wasn’t bad at all. I might have tried to dissuade you earlier in the hotel, but it wasn’t because I thought you were wrong. I just thought it would be easier.”

“I don’t believe you,” Damian whispers vulnerably. “I messed up. Horribly.”

“You didn’t mess up. It was out of your control. It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” Damian argues.

It confuses Blake. From what he’d seen, it couldn’t have been Damian’s fault, because how would he have known Sanctuary would take over the plane? He couldn’t have predicted that. It wasn’t as if he had prior experience on the matter. Blake couldn’t imagine plane possession was a common occurrence. Sure, the prototype plane had once crashed, but Damian wouldn’t have known it would act up afterwards. He'd been confident it would be fine to pull it out of the canal. 

Blake’s eyes pop open with astonishment.

(“-you were as much a victim as the rest of us-” Tim’s voice echoes)

(“I thought-” Blake begins.

Cass interrupts, “Too much thought.”)

Blake’s eyes widened further.

Is this how people see me from an outside perspective?

Damian was beating himself over something he had no control over. Blake, too, had found himself in such a cycle. He’d been stuck in his head and was unneccessarily mean to himself. It didn’t matter what others said to him. He couldn’t have been convinced to think otherwise. So what if Jon had called him good, or if Cass said that Blake was misunderstood, or if Tim thought Blake was just some misplaced kid? Blake had barricaded them all out in agonizing self-loathing.

He’d let the thoughts overpower him. He’d become so self-consumed, so closed off, that he couldn’t see the value in the positive words of others.

I’m in my own way.

Blake’s dawning revelation pours light into his mind.

I need to forgive myself. 

Easier said than done. 

Chapter Text

Damian twirls his straw, round, and round. 

“I thought you said that you don't drink soda,” Jon says.

Blake’s eyes follow Damian’s lazy spins. After Jon speaks, Damian pauses, and glares into his drink. Blake notices how the sun highlights half of Damian’s face. The second half, the part facing away from the nearby window, was shadowed over. It added depth to his mood. 

Damian ignores Jon’s words by lifting the cup up to his lips. He nearly sips out of the straw until Jon swipes it out of his hands. Damian shoots up from his chair, a cushioned booth that they had picked upon entry, and gives Jon a mean growl.

“Give that back.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Jon says. 

Blake shrinks into his corner as Jon slides out of the booth. Blake watches Jon leave the table, head for the drink fountain, and then pop the lid off. Damian is right on his heels. “Kent. You absolute-”

Unspeakable words fly out of Damian’s mouth. Blake blushes at his use of profanity. It was lunch hour, there were a lot of people surrounding them, and Damian was drawing a lot of attention.

Blake couldn’t believe that Damian, who was supposed to be perfect, could have such a filthy vocabulary. 

Blake roots his eyes on the table in front of him. He had an untouched smoothie resting on the surface. He could see the frosty, blue, mixture through clear plastic. His straw, which had been set to the side, was untouched. Blake didn’t think he could stomach anything when Damian was in a bad mood 

“You’re acting like a child, Damian.”

“You can’t call me a child just because you’ve aged.”

Blake tries to disappear into the booth’s cushions as Jon slips back into his seat. He closes off Blake's only exit (unless he decided it would be better to crawl). Damian slams himself down on the opposing side in fuming annoyance. 

“I was just trying to stop you from doing something you might regret,” Jon says. “I didn’t think you’d get soda when you ordered a fountain drink. I thought you’d choose the vitamin water or the-”

“I don’t understand your concern. It’s pointless.”

“You’re the one who always preaches about artificial sugar, and how you’d never be caught dead drinking soda.”

Provoked, Damian glares in Blake’s direction, and Blake flinches. For a moment, he thinks he’s about to be involved, but then Damian snatches his smoothie away. 

“You can’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” he challenges. Then, to prove this point, he takes a fat sip out of Blake’s smoothie. “I will drink whatever I want with, or without, your approval.”

“You’re acting like you’re five.”

“You’re not much better.”

“You do know that I bought that for Blake, right? You can’t just take people’s things because you’re angry.”

“You threw away my soda.”

“You were going to do something I know you’d regret!”

“You don’t get to make decisions for me. I make my own decisions. You’re not my father, Jon, but you could certainly compete for my grandfather’s position! You’re tyrannical!!”

Jon seemed hurt by Damian’s claim. He physically recoils as if struck. Damian shows the briefest hint of regret, but then his expression reverts to anger. He was too blinded by his ego to rectify his mistake. Instead, it seemed, he would stand by his statement.

Blake didn’t think that was a very good idea. He just wanted Damian to be friends with Jon again. He knew Damian was agitated, probably because of his ‘failure,’ but Blake didn’t think that warranted contention. 

Blake disliked contention. It always made his heart ache.

“Blake has more maturity than you do,” Jon lays out dryly, cold, and distant, “and he’s your clone.”

Blake watches Damian’s face twist up. 

Then, Blake looks back at Jon, and feels utterly betrayed.

You’re going to involve me in this?

Blakes feels his heart ache in the way he didn’t like. It twists, turns, and squeezes like a sponge. He thought Jon had his best interest, but if he did, then why was he comparing Damian to Blake? Blake didn’t like that. He didn’t want to be compared to Damian. How was he supposed to separate himself from his counterpart when people could only see the similarities, and then use the contrasts against each other?

He’s your clone.

Jon’s words repeat in Blake’s head round and round, just like how Damian spun his straw in his soda, speeding up gradually into splashing chaos. 

Blake makes a small request.

“I’m sorry. Could you let me out?”

His small, quiet, voice ceases the noise. Jon gives him a side-look. Blake can feel Damian’s eyes rest on him. He tries his best not to be bothered by it. He keeps his feelings bubbled up in his chest. He just needed to take a step away, breathe, and then it’d be fine. He couldn’t breathe when he was under the pressure of a thick atmosphere. 

It’s okay, Blake tries to convince himself, even if his heart hurts. I don’t think he meant it?

Still, Blake feels a drop of uncertainty, and doubt coils around his body like a chain. It wasn’t too tight, but the pressure was there, and the threat was real. Blake could choose two things. He could entertain his doubt, and tighten the chains, or he could get rid of them all together. 

How do I get rid of them?

Blake inwardly panics when he realizes he has no idea how to get rid of his doubt. Jon’s words become a prevalent issue within his mental space. Blake’s metaphorical chains bind him up. He feels the momentum pick up until he can barely breathe. Again, the betrayal feels sharp, and fresh. His desperation to leave grows the longer he waits for a response.

Jon slowly slides himself out of the booth. Blake jets the moment he’s given enough space. Jon calls out for him, probably because he didn’t expect Blake would run, but Blake ignores him. He pushes himself through the front doors, runs out onto the sidewalk, and then inhales deeply. 

Blake’s eyes trace the vast valley. Utah. 

Slowly, Blake moves himself forward, and then sinks down onto the curb. 

Blake cannot help the trail of thoughts that follow his new-found silence. Aside from the occasional traffic, Blake is met by the sound of nature, and the turmoil of his own thoughts. He wraps his arms tightly around himself, like a self-made hug, and stares off at the mountains. 

Blake’s ugly deprecation rears its taunting head. 

It doesn’t matter where you are. It doesn’t matter who you’re with. You’ll always be inferior. You’ll always be an outcast. You destroy everything that is good. 

Blake understands that, to heal, he needs to forgive himself. He knows that, in some way, he’s not entirely responsible for Jon using his situation against Damian. Yet, even so, that doesn’t stop the irrationality. It doesn’t stop his habit of thought. Blake feels horrible for existing. He feels like he’ll always be used against Damian, and his family, to prevent them from being happy. 

Blake flinches when something cold skims his temple.

His vision is obscured by a fresh smoothie. Blake stares at the sight for a second, and then his eyes trail up the hand. It follows up the owner’s arm, past his shoulder, and then lands on his features.

Damian silently waits for Blake’s decision.

Blake cautiously accepts the offering just in time for a presence to settle on his left. Hesitant, Blake glances to his left, and spots Jon sitting on the curb. 

Damian soon joins him on Blake’s right. He lowers himself down onto the concrete. Then, he sets Jon’s backpack on his lap, and searches through the contents.

Blake didn’t know when Damian had taken Jon’s backpack, but it must have been when he was in the restaurant. 

Blake numbly sips his smoothie. He wasn’t sure how to compute this situation. He’d sought out a moment to be alone, but now he was surrounded by people. He couldn’t think straight when they were next to him.

“Let me see your hand,” Damian says.

Blake trades hands to hold his smoothie. He gives into Damian's request. Damian, in turn, grabs his wrist. He leans forward to inspect Blake’s scraped palm. After he’s satisfied, he pulls out an alcohol pad, and then disinfects Blake’s point of injury.

“I’m sorry, Blake,” Jon says from his left. Blake doesn’t have the will-power to look his way again. He didn’t want to risk potentially making eye-contact. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t trying to pit you against Damian. I just wasn’t thinking straight and… I was getting angry… and yeah. I don’t know how else to say this. I’m sorry.”

“It is no fault of yours,” Damian mumbles. “You were right in saying that I was acting immature.”

“I shouldn’t have snapped.”

“I shouldn’t have antagonized you.”

“You were hurting.”

Damian frowns. “I don’t think that justified my behavior. I lashed out on you. It was inexcusable. Then, to worsen the matter, I took something of Blake’s.”

“You needed it,” Blake blurts out. “I didn’t mind.”

Damian peers up at Blake through dark eyelashes and loose black bangs. His frown deepens. “I didn’t need it. I was just using it to get a rise out of Jon.” He looks back down at Blake’s palm. “I took advantage of your kindness. It was wrong.”

Blake feels something shy poke at his heart.

“You think that I’m… kind?”

“Yes.”

Damian answers so quickly, and confidently, to the point that it left no room for dissection.

“I… but… how? I don’t feel like I’m…” Blake looks down at his hand. “I don’t feel like I’m anything. I don’t have my own personality.”

“You like jazz.”

Blake darts his eyes back up to Damian’s face. 

“You want to be good. You want to make people happy. You’re long-suffering. You’re… forgiving. You care about what others think, not because of what you are, but because of your compassionate nature.”

Damian turns, rummages through Jon’s backpack again, and then pulls out a roll of bandages. Blake doesn’t say anything when Damian starts wrapping his hand. Damian, likewise, stops talking.

It gives Blake time to think.

I have a personality?

Blake thinks about how he’d gotten caught up in his own head, and how leaving the restaurant had barely done anything to fix it. He thinks about all of his doubts, self-impositions, and deep sorrow. 

Blake remembers being vulnerable around others, and subsequently regretting his decision. Yet, here he was now, sitting amongst imperfect people. They hadn’t made him feel good, they’d done something hurtful, but then they had apologized. Blake hadn’t been shamed for walking out on them.

He hadn't been ignored.

Blake comes to two realizations. 

Vulnerability is good… when it’s around the right people. 

Similarly, communicating, and feeling understood, drew Blake out of his own head. It made things simple. He stopped over-complicating things, and returned himself to the path of healing. It didn’t make his past trivial, but it gave him something beautiful.

Peace. 

“You’re good, too,” Blake blurts out. “You’re so smart. I know you blame yourself about the plane, but I really liked your plan, and that Sanctuary person was dumb for taking that away from you.”

Jon pipes in, “You’re not the same person you used to be, Damian. You got angry, sure, but you were the first to apologize. You only have good intentions for the people around you, and you protect animals, and you’re awesome with a sword, and you’re loyal, and-”

“Stop that.” Damian scowls. Nevertheless, the red blush on his cheeks betrayed his expression, and gave away his embarrassment. 

“You’re not immature, Damian,” Jon continues. “I was wrong.”

“I acted like a child.”

“I’m seventeen and I still act like a child. I don’t think you ever grow out of it.”

“You’re just trying to appease me.”

“No, I’m trying to tell my best friend that he’s awesome, and that he’s a punk for deflecting me!”

Damian raises his chin. He opens his mouth as if to retort, but then Jon gets up from the curb, and squeezes himself down between Damian and Blake. He hooks an elbow around Damian’s neck, tucks the younger boy into his side, and then rubs his knuckles against Damian’s head.

“Jon! You-! I demand you cease this nonsense!”

Blake fights a smile on his lips. 

“Jon! You absolute buffoon!”

Blake leans away because Jon was physically invading his space. Jon gives him a sly look. He retrieves his hand from Damian’s head, and then says, “Don’t think you’re getting out of this, either, Blake.”

Blake yelps when Jon hooks an arm around his shoulders. Instead of getting a painful noogie, however, Jon merely pins Blake to his side. 

Blake laughs breathlessly when Jon squeezes him into his side. Damian continues to kick up a fuss on the opposing one.

Jon makes a goofy smile. “We’re all in this together because we’re a family. According to that bus lady, anyways."  He gives both Damian, and Blake, a loving squeeze. Then, he says, "I guess that makes Damian the old cranky grandpa.”

“You’re the geezer, old man.”

“Respect your elders, young whippersnapper.”

“Please, I beg of you, don’t ever say that word again.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

Jon scans the surrounding area with his eyes. It’d only been a few hours since his fight with Damian. After Blake had his hands bandaged, they decided to take themselves to the neighboring park, and wait for Omen.

“I doubt she’ll be in costume,” Damian says. “It would bring too much attention.”

“Well, if she isn’t going to come in costume, what identifiers am I supposed to search for?”

Damian doesn’t say anything. He kicks a few loose pebbles off of the sidewalk, and watches them tumble downhill into a field of grass. Jon turns to him, puzzled, until it dawns upon him. 

“You have no idea what she looks like,” he realizes. 

“I communicated with her through Stein’s abilities. I never saw her face, or anything else, for that matter.”

“Stein, you’re talking about that exile dude, right?”

“Yes.”

“You said he was trapped in - what - between dimensions?”

“You have an astute memory.”

“Okay, so, you found him in between dimensions. How did you end up there to begin with?”

“I was stranded there after escaping my trials,” Damian explains. “Sanctuary had a variety of challenges they wanted me to participate in. I was always looking for a way out. I eventually managed to slip past them, but not without trapping myself in between planes of existence. It seemed Stein had somewhat of a similar experience when he, too, was abducted by Sanctuary.”

“Oh, so, you’re saying he was like you?”

“Precisely.”

“How did he end up contacting Omen?”

“It was a rather simple task if you take his psychic abilities into account.”

Jon looked as if he wanted to ask another question, but before he can, he is promptly interrupted by a feminine voice behind Blake’s ear.

“He’s one of the most powerful psychics I’ve ever made contact with.”

Blake jumps forward in surprise. Damian grabs his arm, tugs the boy behind him, and then gives the stranger a wary glare.

Blake takes the opportunity to peek around Damian’s back.

The woman smooths out her red hair, and flips it over a slender shoulder. She gives Damian a thoughtful look, and when she notices Blake’s curious examination, she smiles.

“It was rather surprising to have him reach out with his mind but-” she smooths out the wrinkles in her white t-shirt, tied up at the side, “It all worked out in the end.”

“Omen?” Damian asks warily. 

Jon was on the same page. He seemed just as guarded, if not more, because of Omen’s sudden appearance. It was jarring that he had not heard her initial approach. If he had, surely, he would have alerted his companions.

“Lilith Clay,” she offers. “I’m not trying to out myself right now. It’d be best if we went by different names.”

Jon and Damian share a look. 

Then, after silent deliberation, they return their attention to Lilith. It takes a moment for Damian to introduce himself, but when he does, it’s short, and straight to the point.

“Damian.”

Lililth inclines her head knowingly. 

Jon is next to introduce himself. He takes a few steps forward to extend his hand for a shake. When Lilith takes his hand, Jon says, “I’m Jon. Thank you for going out of your way to come here. I know Damian’s requests can sometimes be, um, rough.”

“I just wanted to do the right thing,” Lilith says, “and, besides, I know what it’s like to be taken up to a different world. It’s not all that fun.”

“I don’t seem to recall you ever mentioning this,” Damian says. 

“It’s not my favorite story to share,” Lilith returns. Then, she switches her eyes to Blake, and guesses, “I suppose the boy behind you is your anchor?”

“He is,” Damian answers.

Lilith observes Blake’s half-hidden form with an inquisitive eye. Damian further obscures Blake from vision by shuffling to the left. He does not sound happy when he says, “I’d appreciate it if you spoke to him as little as possible.”

“Damian,” Jon hisses. 

“I’m simply stating my feelings. I thought you told me I should be more attune with them?”

Jon looks towards Damian with disbelief. 

“I mean no offense,” Damian relents begrudgingly. 

“Relax,” Lilith says. “I’m just here to do my job. It won’t take long.”

“What is it that you need?” Damian questions.

“I need to be in contact with you. It’ll be easier for me to broadcast your location to the Sanctuary Herald if I’m touching you.”

“Wait, hold on, broadcast?” Jon interjects. 

“They'll come to us once they know there’s a chaos shard nearby,” Damian explains. “I thought I explained that.”

“You said we would find the Sanctuary Herald, but you never said that the Sanctuary Herald would find us.”

“It’s nearly the same thing,” Damian says. “If they come to us, then by all regards, we have found them.”

“I feel like I should be worried.”

“It is not ideal to have them come to our location,” Damian admits, “but it is the only way to draw them out. I believe the only concern lies in keeping the shard out of the Sanctuary Herald’s hands. It’ll be difficult to do so after they extract it from my blood.”

“I’m guessing you have a plan for that?”

“I could stick around if you need me,” Lilith says. “It’ll be a problem if the Sanctuary Herald uses their body as a vessel for the chaos shard. It’ll be impossible to extract without their assistance.”

“Jon may be fast enough to obtain the shard once it’s separated from my body,” Damian says. “I would advise you don’t hold it long, however, considering its tendency to grant wishes.” 

“Okay, so, once it’s out of your body, I’ll swipe it away, and try not to hang on it for long?” Jon asks. “I’m not sure what I’ll do with it once it’s in my hands.”

“You’ll give it to me,” Damian insists. “I’ll destroy it. Then, after it’s destroyed, it’s over.”

“Alright,” Jon agrees. “I think I can handle that.” 

Damian nods his head shortly before directing his attention back to Lilith. “Well, be on with it, then.” He raises an arm in her direction. “I don’t have all day.”

Lilith returns the gesture with a nod of her own. She brushes past Jon, wraps her fingers around Damian’s arm, and then warns, “It might tingle.”

“I’m not afraid of a tingle.”

Lilith closes her eyes.

Blake holds onto the back of Damian’s shirt as the air around them changes. It was only a slight shift, nearly unnoticeable, but it was there nonetheless. Blake shares eye-contact with Jon while he waits. Blake’s anxiety must have been showing because Jon offers him a reassuring smile. 

Lilith spends very little time holding onto Damian’s arm before snapping her hand away. Damian, likewise, nearly falls over when she releases him. Instead, he twists, grabs Blake, and throws him.

Blake’s eyes blow wide in confusion. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with his sight, because, in one second, everything was normal. In the next, a tall man stood in between Lilith and Damian, with pitch black eyes focused on his only target.

“Ah, lovely,” he remarks in a french accent. 

Blake watches dumbstruck as the man reaches out to grab Damian’s head. He then notices Jon extend his arm, as if to save Damian, but Lilith blocks him off with a nonverbal sign.  

This is happening too fast, Blake thinks, was it supposed to happen this fast?

Blake watches in horror as Damian’s skin began to glow red. It was seeping through like cracks in the Earth. It was nearly blinding. Blake couldn’t help the worry blooming in his chest.

Damian was frighteningly mute.

Jon moves quickly when a shard begins to form in the stranger’s empty hand. Blake has zero time to register Damian’s eyes rolling to the back of his head, or Lilith’s horrified expression, or-

“Damian?”

Blake feels his heart drop into his stomach when he hears a familiar voice. He turns and looks straight into the confused faces of Damian’s family. It seemed Tim had somehow found them, and he'd come at the worst time. 

Cass must’ve been in on the investigation with him. She, too, was present. 

It was a revelatory experience to see them nearby, but it was not nearly as exciting as Blake thought it would be. 

“Now, Jon!” Lilith cries. “I’ll bind him!”

Damian collapses like a rag doll. Tim is frozen in place, but not Cass, who runs for Blake’s older doppelganger. She drags the older boy’s body away from the scene, and Blake trails after her form with his eyes. Then, when Lilith makes a pained groan, he turns his vision back to the main event. It seemed that the Sanctuary Herald was caught up in mental agony, and Lilith, who was the perpetrator, shared that agony. She was falling onto her knees with gritted teeth, and the Sanctuary Herald seemed to be fighting her off. He was doing her best to kick her out of his mind. 

Jon zips the chaos shard away from the Sanctuary Herald’s vicinity. He searches for Damian, spots him near his family, and quickly joins himself with them. 

Blake feels detached as he watches them from a distance. Cass had her fingers on Damian’s pulse, but Tim was the one listening for breathing. 

Cass looks up from Damian’s body, heart-broken.

“No,” Jon says. “No, no, no. I just got him back. I just-”

Blake watches the shard slip from his hand. 

“Damian, Damian,” Jon says. He nearly pushes Cass off of him so he can cradle his body in his arms. “You can’t do this to me, I was just thinking of all the ways we’d catch up, and-” Jon seems to run out of breath quickly as he thinks over his next words. “You’re not doing this to me, you’re not.”

“Guys?” Lilith calls with grinding teeth, “I don’t know how much longer I can-”

Tim, Cass, and Jon weren’t listening to her. Jon was far too distracted, Cass seemed sullen, and Tim was nearly non-existent. His face was stony and hard. Devoid of any emotion.

But Blake? He was listening, and he remembered Damian’s plan. 

I don’t think Damian ever thought about what would have happened after the shard was taken from his body, Blake realizes, moving forward automatically, on some strange daze of auto-pilot. It was keeping him alive all this time. 

“I can’t deal with this a second time, Damian. Damian, are you listening to me?” Jon’s voice filters through the barrage of Blake’s thoughts. It's so terribly sad and broken. It doesn't sound like Jon at all. 

Tim’s eyes snap to Blake’s trudging form. He watches Blake lean down, pick up the shard, and then hold it to his heart.

Blake looks up at him weakly. 

“Sorry,” he says to him. “I’ll fix everything.”

Blake bends over the shard as if it were something precious, and presses it closer to his heart. He squeezes his eyes shut, thinks about Lilith struggling with the Sanctuary Herald, and then about all the good memories he had created with his new friends. 

I’m going to repent now, just like I promised myself, Blake thinks, feeling a small, small, tear travel down his cheek. It was nice while it lasted. 

It’s the last conscious thought he has as his world envelops in blazing red. Tim moves forward as if to stop Blake, but Jon isn’t even paying Blake any mind. He’s staring at Damian, grief-stricken, and Cass is in a similar state in mind. 

Blake relives multiple memories as his world fades into red.

Maybe, if he could live again, he’d have a family this time. 

Chapter Text

Damian woke peacefully with a single intake of breath.

His current state was all too-familiar, because, in a way, it reminded him of when he’d first woken up at Jon’s farmhouse. Except, Damian knows the ceiling he’s staring at, and it’s nothing like the Kent’s guestroom. It was strikingly similar to his own room.

Perhaps, he realizes, it's because it is his room. 

Damian slowly rises from his pillow with an ache in his body. He turns his head to the side only to spot zero signs of possible intrusion. He couldn’t hear Blake’s steady breathing, or Jon’s soft reassurances nearby. Damian was in an empty room, untouched, and different. 

Damian swings his legs over the side of his bed.

The Sanctuary Herald, what happened to him?

Damian picks himself up from his mattress.

He takes a step forward and nearly slams flat on his face.

Damian reels himself back into his current situation, and then notices how light his body feels. Then, with growing horror, Damian recognizes the size of his limbs.

No, he thinks to himself in such a way that it gets his blood pumping, it can’t be.

Damian steadies himself quickly. He storms for the door, throws it open, and then runs down the hallway.

Damian had no time to appreciate how he was walking in the house of his childhood. He had more pressing matters to attend to. He needed to find Blake. He needed to talk to Jon. Where was Omen? Where was the Sanctuary Herald? Why was he back in the manor? What happened to his body? Where was everyone?

Damian remembers looking through Blake’s eyes, in his dreams, and seeing all the people who lived in the manor. He knows they’re here somewhere. Someone has to have an explanation, surely, because if anyone would know what happened, it’d be his own family of detectives.

Damian emerges out onto the grand staircase just in time to see Dick nearly out the door. Damian draws the attention of his older brother. He was accompanied by Alfred. It must be a Saturday, because both are wearing outside clothes. They look like they’re ready to talk to the landscapers.

“Damian?” Dick questions. “I thought you were going to volunteer at the animal sanctuary today.”

“Richard,” Damian crows, “don’t play dumb. I want to know where you’ve hid the others.”

Dick shares a glance with Alfred. “Um, if you’re talking about Stephanie, I’m positive that she’s waiting in the car for you. Unless, of course, she cancelled, and I somehow didn’t hear about it?”

“No,” Damian spits. “I’m not talking about Stephanie, I’m talking about… I’m talking… I’m-” 

Damian trails off helplessly as the reality of the situation dawns upon him. It wasn’t just a matter of waking up in a smaller body, or realizing that he’d somehow made it to the manor. It was Dick getting dressed to do manual chores on a Saturday, something he hadn’t made a routine out of until Damian had been made Robin, and it was also the way Alfred expression was formed. He was concerned because of Damian’s displayed behavior. 

What happened? Damian thinks emptily as he turns away to head back to his room. He doesn’t register the distant call for his name, or the worried glance Dick shares with Alfred. He does, however, register the lump in his throat.

It’s an uncomfortable sign of his distress. 

Damian blindly fishes for his phone only to realize it’s not on him, and that he really doesn’t have a phone anymore. When he re-enters his room, he spots the device in question on the end table, and takes a long minute to stare at it. It looked brand new. It looked like it hadn’t been used for years. 

Damian feels numb as he grabs his phone. 

It flashes to life when he presses the power button.

He stares at the lock screen. It didn’t have any outstanding features. It had a default wallpaper. Damian remembered secretly switching to a picture involving his oldest brother a long time ago, way before he’d died, but it seemed things had reverted to an astronomical degree. Damian wasn’t just stuck in his ten year old body, in his old room, in the past. He was stuck in a time where his father had been presumed dead, Tim was out on the search for the man, and-

Damian’s mother had cloned him. 

Damian feels his knees go weak when his mind finally wraps around the situation. Damian had woken up in the manor. Jon, if involved, probably was fine in the farmhouse. Sweet, little Blake, on the other hand? 

Damian tries to keep burning tears at bay. Had his little brother not suffered enough? It was cruel to leave him in the arms of a cold, distant, mother. Damian could only imagine what he was going through right now. It couldn’t be good. 

“Hey,” Dick’s voice sounds from Damian’s doorway.

Damian doesn’t even have the time to be happy in reunion. He’s too stricken with grief to even care that (instead of merely watching through his brother’s eyes) he’s physically in the presence of his family again. 

“Is everything alright?” Dick asks. “Stephanie’s waiting for you downstairs.”

Damian looks up from his phone to stare at the wall in front of him. It was unsurprisingly bare due to his own lack of decoration.

“I’m fine,” Damian responds stiffly, ignoring the strain of his heart, “I’m afraid I just had a bad dream.”

Dick’s breath hitches like he’s surprised Damian even admitted that to begin with, but Damian doesn’t pay much attention to him. His mind is already racing for strategies to recover Blake. He has so much to do, and so little time. 

“We all get those sometimes,” Dick says, “Would you like to talk about it?”

“No,” Damian replies. It’d be messy if he involved Dick in this. Damian knows that, the less people in the know-how, the better. Besides, Dick wouldn’t want to do things Damian’s way, and Damian knew that his way was the optimal choice.

Damian also felt drained just thinking about explaining everything to his mentor. It was a long story. A cruel, sick play, designed by even crueler fates.

“Okay, well, if you ever need to talk about it, I’m here for you,” Dick says. “It helps to get things off of your chest sometimes.”

Damian finally turns to look at him.

He gives Dick a curt nod if only to be rid of him. 

And, at that, Dick beams as if the world had lifted. 

“I’ll see you later for patrol,” he says.

He disappears from the doorway, leaving Damian to his own devices. Damian stares at the empty spot for a lingering tic. 

Then, he looks back down at his phone, and tightens his grip in determination. 

Not this time, he thinks to himself wearily.

Damian waits for nightfall before he enacts his escape plan.

It’s easy to escape the sensors. It’s child’s play to avoid all of the cameras.

Damian knows how it works. He’d spent four years escaping the Sanctuary Priestess, and her croney, the Sanctuary Priest. Damian had mastered hiding from detection. It only helped that his assassin background added to his experience. 

Damian makes the trek across Gotham for one of the extra warehouses. He knew that stealing a vehicle from the cave would trigger the alarms, or at least inform Richard of his planned escape. Damian’s plan would run smoother if he used one of the spares.

Of course, only after he disengaged the alarm systems, and bypassed all the security features. 

Damian just didn’t anticipate for Jon to swoop down from the sky, in his full-blown, eight year old glory.

“Damian,” he greets cordially, except he doesn’t look all that proper, not with a missing tooth. 

It takes Damian a moment to adjust to Jon’s appearance. He was not nearly as tall as he used to be, and, in fact, resembled the Jon in Damian’s fondest memories. 

“I need to know what happened,” Damian demands. 

Damian doesn’t get his answer immediately. 

Jon sets foot on Damian’s rooftop, takes one step forward, and then lurches. Damian feels dazed when Jon, now a foot shorter than he, holds onto him tightly.

“I thought you died,” he whispers. “I thought you were gone for good.”

Damian doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Jon.

“Jon,” he says. “I need to know what happened.”

Jon takes in a shuddering breath as he buries his face in Damian’s shirt. It’s not the tunic that Damian would have prefered, but it was better than tipping Richard off.

Regardless, Damian’s thoughts float back to Jon. He thinks about how weird it must feel for his friend to be so short. Damian might be short, too, and younger than he remembers, but Jon was even more so.

Damian’s heart skips a beat.

Blake. 

Damian realized that his little brother might actually be the age of an infant. 

“I did what you said,” Jon says. It’s jarring to hear his voice so squeaky and immature. “I got the chaos shard. I tried to bring it to you, but then I realized your heart stopped beating. I think you were somehow killed in the extraction process.”

Jon smashes his face against Damian’s chest, and he twists the fabric in Damian’s shirt. 

“You died. I watched the world flash red, and I woke up like this, and-” Jon pulls back abruptly. “You can’t ever do that again, you jerk!”

Damian blinks.

Jon fumes. “I can’t believe you just let that guy grab you without fighting back. You’re hard-headed and - well - just plain stupid!”

Damian had a hard time taking Jon seriously when he sounded the way he did. Nevertheless, he did feel some remorse, because he knew he was responsible for causing his friend pain. 

“I understand,” Damian says. “I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. If I handled things better, I certainly wouldn’t be as I am now, or back in Gotham. I also wouldn’t have hurt you. I’m sorry that I did.”

Jon’s anger settles slightly, but it doesn’t disappear completely. 

Damian puts two hands on his shoulders. He lowers his head an inch to peer into Jon’s face. “I know I have a lot more apologizing to do, but I need your help Jon. Blake needs your help. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what my mother could be doing to him right now. Do you remember what his heartbeat sounds like?”

Jon looked taken aback. “Blake’s not with you?”

“No. He’s most likely with the League of Assassins.”

“He’s-” Jon inhales sharply. 

“We need to find him before something irreversible happens to him.”

“Yeah, of course,” Jon agrees quickly. “Give me a moment, I need to concentrate.”

Damian does as Jon requests. He tries his best to quiet his breathing, and to mute his bodily functions. It’s impossible to make himself entirely silent, but Damian makes due with what he is given. 

Cass' appareance whacks his control into the stratosphere.

Cass doesn’t bother hiding herself as she swings out into the open. Damian watches her grapple the building, cut through air, and then propel herself upward. Damian feels a tinge of panic because, if Cass was on the lookout for him, it probably meant Richard had gotten into contact with her. He’d most likely reached out to all of his contacts, and told them to keep an eye out for his wayward Robin. 

Damian is caught off-guard when Cass sweeps him up into her arms. The grapple clatters to the ground behind her, unimportant, and forgotten.

“Damian,” she whispers. “You’re here.”

“Cass?” Damian doesn’t bother with codenames. 

Cass squeezes him before withdrawing to cup his face. She traces his cheeks with her thumbs, and stares deep into his green eyes. It was as if she was trying to make sure if he was real. 

“I thought you died,” Cass says. 

It confuses Damian greatly. 

“You-” 

Cass remembered the future?

How?

“I’ve got it,” Jon announces. “Blake’s alive.”

Cass shoots Jon a questioning glance, and does so without removing her hands from Damian’s face. 

“We need to rescue him,” Damian states.

“Rescue?” Cass asks. She turns back to Damian, frees a hand, and runs it through his hair. It’s so familial, so affectionate, that it squeezes his heart. Damian didn’t remember Cass being this touchy when he was alive. Then again, had he ever given her the chance to be this close to him?

“Blake,” Jon tells her.

“Blake-?”

Damian takes a step back from her, and sets up an invisible wall. 

“Of course, how could I be so dull? You don’t know who we’re talking about. You never gave him a name. None of you did.”

Cass silently considers him.

Then, it makes sense to her, as evident by the shifting of her features.

“Little brother,” she realizes.

Damian doesn’t confirm nor deny her words. 

Jon, who seemed momentarily confused, puts the last dots together. Blake’s situation had never made complete sense to him, but he’d always suspected something was wrong after Blake’s comments at the dinner table. 

In addition, his behavior, and his way of speaking, screamed trauma.

“I get it now,” Jon says. “He was living with your family to replace you. ”

Damian bristles. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“I know,” Jon clarifies. “It’s just - now that I finally get it - how could you?” Jon stares straight into Cass’ eyes. “It’s horrible to take away someone’s identity like that.”

“I didn’t,” Cass tells him.

“No, you didn’t take away his identity, but you didn’t do anything to help him either, did you?” Damian hisses. “You let Father run around like a lunatic when he needed mental help!”

“I-” Cass seemed as if she were at a loss. 

Damian presses his lips together, unimpressed, and angry. Even so, a memory pops up in his mind, and Damian remembers Cass dancing with Blake. He can hear the wonder in Blake’s voice as he discovers music for the first time. Cass did more than any of his other siblings did for Blake.

Damian turns away to collect himself. 

“I’m leaving,” he puts out resolutely. “Blake could be in danger right now, and I’m wasting time talking about this. I suspect we’ll be due for a conversation at a later date.”

“I’ll go with you,” Cass says.

“No, it’s best if you don’t.”

Damian holds his hands up above his head. It’s a questioning move, but it has its purposes. Jon shoots up in the air, grabs Damian’s arms, and plucks him off the ground.

“Don’t follow us,” Damian warns.

Jon doesn’t bother giving Cass any sort of farewell. 

Cass watches Jon fly off with his best friend in hold. Damian doesn't bother looking back at her, and neither does Jon, as they root their eyes forward. 

Cass' figure lingers on a lonely rootfop.

Damian doesn't have the time to feel bad for her. 

Chapter Text

Damian tries not to complain when the sun beats into his skin. It’s not something he’s unacquainted with, but, when one had memory of zero temperature, the heat was grating. 

Damian also wasn’t a big fan of the high winds. However, what was one to expect when flying? He only wished he had some sort of eye-protection. Since he didn’t, Damian settled for closing his eyes. It was the only way he could manage the whipping speed.

“I’m guessing you have a plan?” Jon asks.

Damian feels a wave of deja vu as if he’d heard that phrase before. He probably did, considering the past few days, and how often he’d been asked about their next move.

Damian always had a plan. 

Except, this time, he gives an unusual answer.

“No.”

Damian tries not to focus on the weltering shame that fills his heart. It was his fault that they were in this mess to begin with. First, it started with the plane, and now? Damian’s plan to draw out the Sanctuary Herald stuck him back in the past.

It wasn’t ideal. Damian didn’t want to do everything again, and he didn’t want to build up old relationships. Sure, he could fix things, but Damian was tired. He’d travailed in another dimension for years, so why did he have to set himself back? 

“No?” Jon asks. Damian had only mumbled it under his breath, but with his super-hearing, Jon had picked it up easily. “You always have a plan.”

“None that are of any worth,” Damian confesses.

Jon sounds pained, “I thought we talked about this.”

“I got us into this mess, Jon,” Damian says. “I should have stayed with Stein. It would have saved everyone from a lot of heartache.”

“You’re telling me that you’d deprive me of my best friend, and warp yourself back up from wherever you were trapped?” Jon repeats unhappily. “I think you’re too caught up in your own head.”

“According to you, I died. So, even if I were to relive my previous circumstances, it seems I would have given you misery regardless.”

“Yes, but you’re here now, and you aren’t dead. I’ll have to thank Blake. I think he’s the one who did all of this.”

Damian’s voice sharpens. “Blake turned back time?”

Jon is sheepish when he admits, “Well, when I saw you lying on the ground, I got a little emotional. I dropped the chaos shard to hold you. It probably wasn’t the brightest idea but-” Jon’s throat tightens, and his voice lowers into a whisper, “I thought you had died.”

Damian didn’t know what to say. He was unequipped to comfort Jon over his own death. He felt like Jon’s grief was misdirected, but knowing Jon, it was genuine. Damian couldn’t simply dismiss it because he was slightly distressed. 

Damian forces himself to say something (even though he worries it might not be the right thing to say), “Since we’re back in the past, I suppose it never happened.”

Jon clears his throat. “Exactly. You’re here now, just like I said, alive. I wouldn’t trade that for anything. I’m glad you came back.”

Damian feels a sudden wave of sentiment at Jon’s honesty. It came from a good place, Damian could tell. Damian undersyood that Jon believed in what he was saying. 

Damian’s voice wobbles against his will, “You’re such a sap.”

The unsaid goes: What did I do to deserve such a friend?

“I am,” Jon agrees, “and I own it.”

“You put Richard to shame,” Damian puffs out in light amusement. 

“I think he’s cut from the same cloth as me.”

“You think that he’s a kryptonian refugee with superhuman abilities?”

“No, I just think that he sees the good in people, no matter where they come from.” Jon snorts. “You’re never this obtuse.”

“I was making a joke."

“Damian Wayne doesn’t joke,” Jon quotes in mimicry of Damian’s voice. “He’s far too sophisticated for such tom-foolery. It’s beneath him.”

“You’re an idiot.” Damian smiles. 

“I thought I was a sap.”

“You’re a sappy idiot.”

Jon laughs freely into the air right about until he halts abruptly. 

Damian is on the alert in an instant. “Jon?” He questions. It was never good to pause mid-flight. It meant that something bad was going to happen. 

“Jon Lane Kent,” comes a stern voice. 

Damian supposed Superman was as good a reason as any to stop.

Damian dares to open his eyes, and when he does, he comes face-to-face with Superman’s signature symbol. It’s usually a welcoming logo. Now, thousands of feet above the ground, Damian thinks the opposite.

“What are you doing?” Clark asks. “You leave home in the middle of the night without telling anyone, you worry your mother half to death, and you-” Clark glances down at Damian. “Kidnap Robin?”

Damian expects Jon to go on the defensive, but then he remembers he's a 100% well-rounded farm boy. His expectations soon morph, and by the time Jon speaks, he is not at all surprised.

“Dad, uh, I can explain.”

“I’m eager to hear this explanation of yours,” Clark says. 

Jon laughs nervously. It’s compulsive. “Okay, so, um, here’s the thing. I didn’t kidnap Damian. I, uh, I mean, we agreed to do this together.”

Oh, great, Damian thinks, throw me under the bus, too.

Clark quirks a brow. 

“I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just - it’s like Conner’s situation - okay? Damian told me he wanted to rescue his little brother - his - his clone.”

Clark crosses his arms. 

“I couldn’t just sit back,” Jon says. Whatever stutter he might have had, it was gone now, replaced entirely by firm confidence. “I had to do something to help him.”

Clark didn’t seem entirely convinced. “How do you know Robin in the first place when you barely leave the farmhouse?”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat. “I… I kind of listen in on his conversations sometimes? I know eavesdropping isn’t good, but I couldn’t help it. It’s hard to turn it off. ”

Okay, looks like we’re going down this route, Damian thinks. It was hard to lie to Superman, especially if you were his biological son, but Jon didn’t seem eager to fess up. If Jon wasn’t going to talk about the chaos shard, then Damian wasn’t going to, either. 

Clark’s eyes soften. He looks at Damian. “Where is this brother of yours?”

“Nearby,” Damian answers cryptically. 

“Alright,” Clark accepts the information easily. “I’m not letting you two do this on your own.”

“Dad,” Jon immediately objects. “I can do this!”

“You’re eight years old, Jon, and you’re in no condition to play superhero at two o’clock in the morning. I thought we agreed you had a scheduled bedtime, mister.”

Damian smirks. 

“And you, Damian,” Clark begins, wiping the smirk off of his face, “I think you’ll be interested to know that Batman has sent the Justice League an AMBER Alert for his missing Robin.”

Damian frowns. “I was only gone for a few hours.”

“He’s worried that you’ve been abducted by the League of Assassins,” Clark explains. 

Damian’s frown deepens. “He doesn’t usually involve the Justice League in such matters.”

“He’s concerned for your safety.”

Damian doesn’t know what to say to that.

Regardless, Jon slowly starts to pick up speed again, now accompanied by his father. It was a strange turn of events that Damian didn’t expect, but now, if he properly considered it, of course Superman would’ve sought out his son. Jon hadn’t been cleared for hero-work yet. It was strange for him to disappear without speaking a word. In fact, it was a surprise that Clark hadn’t even heard him leave, to begin with. 

“I think that’s it,” Jon points out with his voice.

Damian looks down towards the distant ground. He spots a large facility, achingly familiar, and militaristic. 

“I’ll just blast a hole through the wall since you don’t have a plan,” Jon says. “Then, we’ll bust in, and beat up the bad guys.”

“Fine,” Damian agrees. “I’ll search for Blake.”

“Blake?” Clark asks.

“That’s his brother’s name,” Jon explains. “Anyways, it shouldn’t be too hard since I’ll probably be able to figure out which part of the building he’s in. I’ll save us a lot of time by getting straight to the point.”

Damian grunts in the affirmative. He misses the strange look Superman gives him, but Jon is not so oblivious to his father’s attention. 

It takes Jon very little time to settle Damian on the ground. He puts him in a spot near a concrete wall, one that looked ready for a good busting. Jon lands in front of him with two fists braced on each side. With his elbows pointed backwards, as if he were ready to perform a martial arts kata, Jon’s eyes turn a bleeding red. Damian hears the lasers leave his eyes in an explosive motion. He nearly gawks at Jon’s uncontrolled vision.

Jon seems to have trouble making any sort of shape with his laser vision. It gave Damian second-hand embarrassment. He watches Jon struggle for an entire minute. 

Clark steps up to the plate. 

Damian watches Superman make a perfect circle in the wall. It put Jon’s messily spastic holes to shame.

“Aha,” Jon laughs nervously. “I was trying to do that. It’s not as easy as it looks.”

“It requires practice, just like everything else does,” Clark tells him gently. “I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it soon.”

Damian watches a chunk of the wall collapse inward. Superman steps in first, Jon follows after him, and then Damian climbs himself through. He’s greeted by a rather interesting looking room. He didn’t even know where to start. It was filled with beeping devices, whirring computers, and some giant flesh thing. It was disturbing to look at. Damian didn’t know how to explain how repulsive it was. 

“Oh, disgusting,” Jon complains.

“It seems to be some sort of organ,” Damian says. 

“It’s huge,” Jon points out.

Damian looks around the room for any signs of his little brother. Superman introduces something Damian didn’t want to consider. “I can hear someone inside.”

Damian presses his lips together.

Jon wrinkles his nose in disgust.

Clark is not nearly as disturbed. He reaches out a hand, and very, very, carefully, removes a section of the organ using bare strength. Damian tries not to feel too nauseous as Clark removes literal chunks of flesh. Damian didn’t know why Clark didn’t just use his heat vision, but he supposed there must have been a considerate reason. It must not have thrilled Clark to use his hands to dig through pale organ walls. 

Damian watches Clark disappear into the organ.

“Dad!” Jon wails. “I don’t think you should even be touching this thing!”

Clark doesn’t respond. 

Jon shares a look with Damian. “I didn’t think I’d fly us to a horror movie set. I thought we were going to find Blake!”

“I think we did find Blake,” Damian returns uneasily. 

It takes Clark a few minutes to re-emerge out into the open. Damian waits anxiously, counting down the seconds, until he finally spots Jon’s father. In his arms, face turned towards his chest, was a tiny body. 

“He was being grown in there,” Clark says.

Damian doesn’t pay much attention to his words as he focuses on Blake’s limp form. He wasn’t an infant. He looked young, certainly, but he was no baby. Damian estimated he must be around four or five. 

Now that I recall, Damian thinks, rummaging through memories, he was the size of a full-grown man when Mother sent him out.

Maybe Blake was supposed to be a baby, but because of his mother, Blake had already aged four (five?) years.

Damian feels bitter at the thought of his mother playing with life. Blake’s situation was not natural. 

Nevertheless, Damian thinks about the boy he’d traveled with, and then looks at him as he is now. He makes the terrible realization that, in some sick twist of nature, Blake had been a tiny child who hadn’t been able to grow up. He was forced to be Damian’s age, probably because of their father’s own wiles, when he was only a five year old boy. 

He was probably even younger than five, Damian thinks.

“Is he okay?” Damian finds himself asking.

Clark gives him a nod. “He’s fine, from what I can tell. I think he’s just sleeping.”

Damian’s shoulders gradually relax in relief.

We found you, Blake, Damian thinks. It’d been a rather smooth, quick, rescue. They had zero opposition, they didn’t trigger any alarm systems, and-

Odd, Damian realizes. Knowing his mother’s connections, and her way of doing things, one would think there’d be some sort of blaring siren on base.

“I want to hold him,” Damian says.

Clark gives him a look in consideration of his request. Finally, he shifts Blake in his arms, and then hands him down to Damian. Damian is not nearly as strong as Superman. He’s also not old enough to carry Blake in a comfortable position. That’s why, when Blake is handed down to him, he gently lowers to the ground with him. Damian gathers the boy up in his lap, and then exhales in melting relief. He carefully cups the back of Blake’s head to keep him from falling over. Then, he guides Blake’s face, and rests it near his neck.

He ignores the slimey, gooey, organ residue on Blake's body. He didn't want to make Blake uncomfortable by cringing away. Besides, he was used to blood, guts, and gore. It shouldn't be as problematic as his mind was making it out to be. 

Clark observes this entire scene with some curiosity. 

“I found you,” Damian mumbles into Blake’s hair. “It’s not going to be the same this time.”

Damian might not appreciate being ten years old again, but if he was back in the past, he might as well make the most of it. Blake would have a proper childhood experience this time. He wouldn’t go traveling across the country, not unless it was for a vacation, and he wouldn’t have to worry about Sanctuary’s catastrophes. He’d be safe, happy, and protected. 

Jon spins on his heels.

Damian looks up from his spot on the floor. When he sees Tim standing near the exit, bo-staff in hand, he questions almost everything in existence.

“Red Robin?” Jon guffaws.

Tim lowers his bo-staff to the slightest degree. 

“Interesting,” is all he says.

Chapter Text

“Red Robin?” Damian asks. “What are you doing here?”

Tim relaxes his stance. He leans against his bo-staff once it’s rooted to the floor. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I think it’s fairly obvious as to why I’m here."

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Tim agrees. He was looking at Damian with calculative eyes, and even though there were three other people in the room, he couldn’t seem to look away. “I would say I’m here for the same reason.”

Damian narrows his eyes. 

“We’ll save this conversation for later,” Tim decides. “I have multiple bombs planted in the facility. It’s only a matter of time before they blow. I’d rather not stick around.”

“You’re going to blow up the facility?” Jon cries.

“It’ll cripple the League,” Tim says. “I don’t know if you know this, but this facility focuses on enhanced human experimentation. I’d rather not let it hang around for future incidents.”

Tim still hadn’t looked away from Damian.

Damian had the inkling that Tim knew more than he was letting on. 

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Tim adds. He finally tears his eyes away from Damian’s, and lands his vision on Jon, “I already evacuated the area. It wasn’t too hard when you're the temporary head of the League of Assassins.”

Damian wanted to rub at his ears if only to check if they were working. “Excuse me?” He asks. 

“It’s a long story,” Tim says. “I don’t have time to explain everything.”

Clark leans down to extract Blake from Damian’s arms. Damian is not all that eager to give Blake up, but he knows it’ll be more efficient. Besides, Blake would be safe in Superman’s arms, and Damian would not have to worry about his protection. It was a win-win scenario. Damian was in no position to be lugging around a five year old boy. And, if Blake were to wake up in Damian’s arms, Damian would have to explain himself.

No thanks, Damian thinks.

“Let’s get going boys,” Superman says. 

Damian pulls himself off of the ground. He gives Tim a dirty look. “You will tell me what you meant about becoming the head of the League of Assassins.” 

Tim strolls away from the exit, twirls his bo-staff, and then compacts it back into the size of a thimble. He shoots a hand from his side when Damian isn’t expecting it, and before he brushes past him, he ruffles his hair.

Damian’s eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline.

“It’s nice to see you again, Damian,” Tim says.

Damian watches him follow after Superman. 

“C’mon, Damian,” Jon encourages. He presses a hand against his back to get him moving forward. 

Damian moves his feet forward automatically even though his mind is a thousand miles away. Jon’s hand is the only thing that threads him to reality, but, even then, it’s a strange thing to feel. Jon’s hand is so small against his back. It’s surreal. It’s abnormal. Damian had just gotten used to Jon being tall. How was he supposed to get used to Jon being two years younger than him? It was easy to adjust the first time. 

Damian wasn’t so sure if he’d adjust as easily this time. 

Damian slowly lifts a hand to his hair. 

“I think Red Robin might have been cloned,” Damian decides.

“What makes you say that?” Jon asks. 

Damian lifts one foot to step over the wall, and then does the same with the other. Jon is right behind him, watching his back. 

“He said it was nice to see me and then he messed up my hair.” Damian laces his fingers through black strands. “It must have been a hallucination.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was real,” Jon says. 

“He might be an imposter,” Damian repeats.

“I think he might have just missed you?” 

Damian frowns. “No, that can’t be it.”

“It’s been a long time since he last saw you.”

Damian nearly knocks Jon over when he swirls around. He gets close, real close, and hisses, “He remembers?”

“I thought you would have figured it out by now. There’s no way he’d come all the way here, at two o’clock in the morning, to find Blake if he didn’t already know about him.”

Damian turns away to eye Tim’s back. 

Jon’s points made sense. Damian simply wasn’t sure how to go about analyzing them. He didn’t understand Tim’s motives. Why would Tim, of all people, go out of his way to rescue Blake? It wasn’t as if they had the closest of relationships. 

Damian swallows thickly. “You’re surprisingly perceptive.”

“I can’t help being big-brained. I got it from my mom. It’s called investigative journalism.”

“Journalists are a menace to society.”

Jon clasps his hands behind his back. “I think they’d say the same thing about vigilantes.”

“I suppose that’s a double-negative for you.”

“I’m not a vigilante. I’m not even a journalist. I’m a humble farm boy.”

“I think the first step to humility is refraining from ever mentioning that you are humble.”

“Jon, Damian,” Clark interrupts. “I want you to stand next to me. I think it’ll be best if we use the zeta beams.”

Jon slaps Damian’s back in a friendly gesture before running over to his father. Damian follows after him, giving Tim a spare glance, before settling at Clark’s left. 

“I’m going to stay here,” Tim says. “I have to let my companions know that I’m alright.”

“Are you sure?” Clark questions.

“I’m sure,” Tim says. “I trust you'll take care of my family in the meantime?”

Clark nods. “I won’t let anything happen to them.”

Tim nods in acknowledgment. It’s all Clark needs before he reaches a finger up to his comm. He alerts whoever was on monitor duty, lowers his hand, and then sets his lips in a thin line. 

Damian keeps his eyes on Tim’s face. He doesn’t shy away when Tim makes eye-contact with him. For a while, they stare at each other, up until Tim’s features adopt a melancholic shadow. It’s so brief, and quick, that Damian believed it to be a figment of his imagination. 

Damian disappears into a flash of light before he can investigate any further.

Damian no longer knew what to do with himself.

He’d spent an entire year figuring out how he’d get back to Earth. Then, after using Blake as an anchor, he had been free to enact his plans. Jon might not have been in those plans, but he had been a welcome addition. It hardly changed anything. Damian still went to Fawcett City, retrieved his father’s prototype plane, and attempted to use it for discreet transportation. 

Huh, Damian realizes, I don’t think it’s been created yet.

Needless to say, Damian might have fumbled up with multiple of his plans, but he always had a single objective. Now that he had a lack of one, he felt strange, and empty. Damian had laid out everything for himself with intricate detail. It was mind-numbing to realize it had all been for naught. 

I guess the next best thing is to figure out what happened to the chaos shard, right? 

Damian glances in Clark’s direction as he speaks to Barry Allen’s protege, Wally West, The Flash. Damian felt like he was having an out-of-body experience looking at another superhero. It’d been five years since he’d seen any familiar costumes, faces, or people in general. 

“I don’t know what to do now,” Damian concludes aloud.

Jon gives him a sympathetic look.

“I had everything planned out,” Damian continues without prompting. “I knew what I was going to do, how I was going to go about it, and where I was going to end up.”

Damian raises a hand to flex his fingers. He stares at his unblemished skin, only touched by calluses, and childhood scars. 

“I don’t think I’m going to get any of that back.”

Damian’s attention drifts to the bright planet sitting outside the Watchtower’s vast windows. 

“I guess you’ll just have to find something else,” Jon tells him. 

“I don’t know where to even start.”

Jon slaps a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, probably because he doesn’t know what to say, but that doesn’t stop him from squeezing Damian’s shoulder. 

Damian looks down at the floor hopelessly.

Jon announces, “I’m going to hug you now.”

Jon wraps his arms around Damian’s body in a crushing embrace. It’s different from the hug in Gotham because, with unrestrained strength, Damian returns the favor. He buries his face into Jon’s hair, and holds onto him tight for comfort.

“I’m one shout away,” Jon reminds him. “It doesn’t matter where I am, or what I’m doing. I’ll always be there if you need me. I’m not letting you go through this alone.”

Damian squeezes his eyes so tight that they create an uncomfortable pressure. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve your friendship, but I am honored to call myself your friend.”

“I think you’re the sappy one,” Jon chuckles with a watery laugh. 

“It’s contagious.”

Jon pulls away to wipe at his eyes.

“I meant what I said, you know, about being glad that you’re here.”

Damian searches Jon’s blue irises.

“I believe you."

Clark gently adjusts the sleeping child in his arms. Blake was caught in deep sleep. Clark had noticed he’d yet to twitch, move, or react to any external stimuli. It didn’t matter how loud they were being, or what was happening around him. Blake might as well be in a coma. 

“You’ve always been good with children,” Wally notes.

Clark looks up at him. 

“I’ve seen how you treat them,” Wally expands. “I even initially thought he," Wally gestures to Blake with a hand, "was related to you.”

“No. He’s one of Bruce's,” Clark explains.

“Woah, seriously?” Wally shifts his weight. “I guess that means I’m looking at another Robin in the making."

“I think he’s a little young for Robin.”

“I swear they get younger every generation.”

Clark glances back down at the boy in his arms. He felt his heart ache in a stretch of sorrow. He knew how hard this boy was going to have it for being a clone.

Clark was regretful overall for the boy’s situation because, by a cruel twist of fate, he would never know his biological father.

Clark also could only imagine how much stress Dick had when taking on Damian. Clark figured the new addition would add extra stress to his plate. It wasn’t something that Dick signed up for.

It was a mess. It wouldn't be nearly as complicated if Bruce was still alive.  

“I wish he could see his family grow,” Clark whispers longingly. “I think he would’ve liked to welcome another one to the family.”

Wally holds back any quip of Bruce having an adoption problem. Instead, he says, “Yeah, I think so, too.”

Clark goes mute when he feels Blake stir in his arms. He even stops breathing when a lone red eye peeks up at him. It’s a striking color that, at the moment, Clark can’t recall seeing anywhere else. It couldn’t be natural. 

Blake wearily considers him. Then, as if he had never woken, he stuffs his face back into Clark’s family symbol. 

He continues to stare down at Blake even after the boy made himself comfortable again. Wally is the one who breaks him out of his trance.

“Is he okay?”

Clark tears his eyes away. 

He gives Wally his attention, but even then, Clark isn’t entirely there. 

“I think we could turn the guest room into a bedroom if Lois doesn’t have any issues,” he mumbles in deep thought. 

“Superman?” Wally questions.

Clark realizes he’s speaking aloud. “I’m just running over some options. I’m not sure Batman will be equipped to take on another kid at this point in time.”

Wally winces. “It’s been hard for him. This, ah, whole thing. You’ll probably want his input first before you decide to do anything.”

“Of course,” Clark instantly agrees. “I wouldn’t dream of acting without his opinion.”

Yet, even after he says this, Clark feels Blake pressed close to his heart. It was odd that he felt such a strong, invisible, connection to this complete stranger. It was as if they were drawn together by mystical energy. 

I hope Lois won’t mind.

Clark immediately scolds himself internally; Stop jumping the gun. This isn’t your decision to make.

Clark finds himself in a daze even as Wally pulls himself away from the conversation. Clark doesn’t bring himself back into reality until he hears a shattering war cry.

Clark twists to see Jon wrestling with Damian on the floor. At first, he assumed they were genuinely fighting, but he quickly takes notice of the smiles on their faces. 

Clark knew Jon was a sweet boy, and that he was good at making friends. Clark just had no idea how he’d made fast friends with Damian. Clark had heard how he was the complete opposite of Jon in nearly all aspects.

“Hey, now, cut it out,” Wally pretends to scold. He had a big smile on his face as he ‘tried’ to intervene. “I just mopped the floors.”

Clark feels a smile on his own face. It stays on his lips for about three minutes. Then, when he hears the signature ray of the zeta beam, it slowly fades away. Clark adopts a serious countenance.

Dick Grayson, The Batman, narrows his white lenses.

"Damian Wayne al Ghul," he growls. 

Chapter Text

Damian feels rebuked at the call of his name.

Dick didn’t look too happy with him. He steps off the zeta beam pad, strides forward with a purpose, and then peers down at Damian with a frown. He crosses his arms against his chest with extra emphasis. For a moment, Damian saw his father, but unlike Dick, Bruce liked to hide his anger behind a stoic facade (unless he was really angry). 

Damian pulls himself up from his wrestling match with Jon. 

“Grayson,” he greets stiffly.

Dick frowns.

“I better get a good explanation for this. Give me one good reason as to why I shouldn’t bench you for the rest of your life."

Damian allows the situation to settle in his mind. Dick’s idea of a punishment was benching him. It catches Damian’s breath. Damian couldn’t remember the last time he’d been benched. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d talked to Dick, or when he’d last stood before him like this. Damian only remembered watching him through Blake’s eyes. 

Damian’s heart aches. 

It was hard to believe that Blake was treated so poorly by the man standing in front of him. Damian wanted to defend Blake’s honor, but what was the point if Dick didn’t remember? And, even then, Dick’s actions hadn’t lacked context. Bruce had replaced Damian with a clone, and Dick had taken great offense. It disrespected Damian’s memory.

Damian understands this point of view because, at one point he, too, was not incredibly happy with Blake. It’s not something he thinks about often, but when he started having dreams of him, it was rage-inducing. It wasn’t fun watching his own father treat a stranger, his murderer, as if it were him. 

Nevertheless, as Damian continued to dream of Blake, his opinion gradually shifted. Heretic had been severely wronged in his forced involvement. It hadn’t been his choice to jam himself into a grieving family. It horrified Damian when he realized that, in the blur of all of Blake’s experiences, he had been dreaming of a kid. One who was innocent, oblivious, and very, very, confused. 

Damian catches himself up in a mental conflict. 

It ends with one single thought; I’m going to fix everything.

Damian wasn’t going to let his family treat Blake as they’d done in the future. And, when he saw his father again, it didn’t matter if he didn’t remember anything. Damian was going to whack him. 

You don’t inscript people into freakish schemes just because you’re grieving over someone, Damian thinks. 

Blake had deserved better. 

Damian exhales slowly. 

“He wanted to rescue his brother,” Jon pipes. Jon throws an arm around Damian’s shoulders protectively. “It was all he could think about after finding out about him.”

Dick is silent for a tic.

Then, “What?”

Jon gestures over to his father who still had Blake in his arms. 

Dick looks over at Clark with a stony face. When he spots Blake, he’s utterly silent, and, if Damian knew his brother as well as he thought he did, he was probably thinking one hundred miles per minute. 

“Clark?” Dick asks.

Clark cuts to the chase. “I found my son carrying Damian to a facility in Yemen. I had every reason to bring them back home, but Jon was insistent that we rescue Damian’s brother. Apparently, Damian had been cloned, and he didn’t want to wait around.” 

Dick stands in place seemingly lost. 

Damian makes the decision for him. “He is family, Grayson. He’s coming home with us.”

For some reason, Clark decides to add his own input. “I understand it must be stressful for you to find out about this last minute. I have an extra room in the farmhouse. We could take him in for a while, if that’d help.”

Damian bristles. 

Dick looks even more lost.

“It’s your decision, Dick,” Wally tells him.

Dick raises both hands to line the sides of his nose. Then, after taking a deep breath, he settles for only using one. Dick massages the crook of his nose with exhaustion in his movement. Damian felt tempted to speak up on his behalf, if only to lay down the law, but Dick eventually voices his half-formed thoughts. 

“Thank you for your offer, Clark, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Damian looks over at Clark, straightens out his shoulders, and nods proudly. 

“I must insist,” Clark says. There’s something strange in his eyes, and Jon, who knows his father best, is the first to notice it. 

“Dad?”

Clark doesn’t bother looking over at his son. “It’d be no trouble at all. I already feel like he’s one of my own.”

Dick lowers his hand with pinched brows.

“Clark,” Dick intones slowly. “I know you only have good intentions, but this is family business now.”

Rightly put, Damian thinks. 

“It is my business,” Clark snaps. “In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to keep me out of it!”

Dick tenses to a significant degree. 

“He’s Bruce’s son, Clark, he isn’t yours.”

Clark seems to take offense to that. He growls like a feral beast, and with the narrowing of his eyes, the temperature drops several degrees. Damian subconsciously reaches for his non-existent belt, if only to pull out a cluster of kryptonite, but since he didn’t have such a thing, his hand hovers in the air. 

Dick seemed to have a similar thought. Just like Damian, his hand was reaching for his belt, but Wally put a stop to it. 

“Hey, hold on,” Wally rests a hand on Dick’s shoulder, “I don’t think Clark is himself.”

Damian frowns as he considers this observation. Indeed, it was uncharacteristic for Clark to act this way, but what would have prompted it? 

“I think you should put down the kid,” Wally tells Clark. 

Damian didn’t like the implication Wally was making. 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Clark seethes. “I’m twice your age, young man. I know what’s best.”

Wally lifts his hand from Dick’s shoulder, and walks forward peaceably. He holds both hands out diplomatically in an attempt to soothe. “I get that, I really do, but he might need a check-up. You know, a health one, before you, uh, take him home.”

Clark considers Wally with a hazed gaze.

“He’s not taking him home!” Damian shouts out.

Dick silences him by throwing out a hand as if to block him. He stares off at Wally with an impassive expression. 

“I’ll take him to the med-bay. Then, when I’m done, I’ll give him right back.”

Clark is stiff as Wally reaches forward to extract the child from him. He stares at Wally, hard, even as the man slowly retrieves Blake from his arms. 

It takes him a minute of feeling empty, but when Blake is taken from him, Clark’s mind boots back up. 

Clark’s eyes widen a fraction as his limbs fall to his sides.

“I-” Clark looks around, clueless. It seemed he was having trouble formulating any proper words. “I don’t-”

Clark looks up, bewildered.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

Wally cradles Blake carefully, if not a tad warily.  

“I think I have somewhat of a clue,” Wally says.

Damian fights tooth and nail to keep Blake off the examination table.

“I’m not going to let you treat him as if he’s a subject to be tested!” Damian growls out. He blocks Wally from putting Blake down on the metal slab. Damian was well aware that Wally could easily out-maneuver him, but Damian wasn’t going to let him without a fight. 

“I’m not going to treat him like a test subject,” Wally defends. “I’m just trying to figure out why Clark acted the way he did.”

“You’re insinuating that Blake had something to do with it,” Damian grits out.

Damian gives Wally a hard glare. He ignores everyone around them, even Dick, who hovers nearby. 

“I imagine he did have something to do with it,” Wally says. 

“Blake is innocent!” Damian cries out. Perhaps, he’s a little too emotional about it, because Dick whispers Damian’s name in disbelief. 

“I never said he wasn’t,” Wally calmly returns.

“You implied it,” Damian spits venomously. 

“I didn’t imply anything.”

Dick takes action by wedging himself between the arguing duo. He faces Damian when he does so, as if Damian was the problem.

Damian inwardly fumes at this interpretation. Dick was supposed to be on his side,  but perhaps Damian’s expectations were set too high. Dick wasn’t good at observing a situation objectively. He’d proven it in an unmade future. Damian isn’t sure why he thought Dick could change. 

“Damian,” Dick calls softly. He crouches down until they’re at eye-level, and Damian feels pathetic that Dick has to do so to begin with. “I know you just want Blake to be safe. It’s admirable that you want to protect him. However, if we’re going to bring him home, we need to be prepared for it. I don’t imagine he’ll be comfortable if we aren’t equipped for him.”

Dick tugs off his cowl.

Damian searches Dick’s blue eyes. Dick’s eyes didn’t betray his voice. Damian found no hidden intent in his body language, or in the softness of his kind expression. It seemed that was the purpose for taking off his cowl. Dick wanted Damian to read him.

“It’ll be okay, Damian, I promise.” 

Dick offers Damian a comforting smile. He lets the moment sit between them.

Damian averts his gaze, and glares at the ground.

Dick picks himself up. He places a hand on Damian’s smaller back, and gently encourages him to move out of the way.

Damian does so reluctantly. 

Wally looks after Dick with a thankful expression before lowering Blake down on the examination table. 

Jon grips his father’s cape. He asks, quietly, “You won’t hurt him, right?”

Wally adjusts Blake’s limbs into a comfortable position. “I won’t harm a single hair on his head,” he swears.

Jon doesn’t acknowledge his father’s arm slipping around his shoulders.

He says nothing when his father squeezes him against his side.

Stein sits in the abyss surrounded by cold whispers.

It was the place of no-return. Stein was trapped in a never-ending darkness, something devoid of creation, with only the company of stranded energies. It was not his favorite place to be, but Stein had no other option. He could not leave, die, or live.

Stein meditates as he reaches through dimensions. It was a practice he did with only the use of his mind. Since he had nothing to do, he often explored universes, and searched for stimulation. 

Stein feels something warm brush past his ear. It is nothing like the cold whispers he is well-acquainted with. It caresses his cheek, slides up through white strands of hair, and slips away tauntingly. 

“Stein?”

Stein mentally pauses.

“Stein?” Something that feels, and sounds, feminine calls. 

Stein frowns in contemplation. He had linked minds with people before. It was not an unusual thing for him. It is, however, unusual to have someone link minds with him. 

“Who are you?”

He feels something akin to relief. It doesn’t belong to him.

“I’m Lilith. I have a lot of questions for you.”

Stein furrows his brows.

“What makes you think I have the answers to them?”

Lilith doesn’t skip a beat.

“It’s about the chaos crystal.”

Stein feels sick to his stomach at the mentioning of such an accursed artifact. It reels his mind back to where he’d come from, Sanctuary, and digs up buried nightmares.

“I don’t want to talk about the chaos crystal.”

Lilith communicates surprise through their link.

Why is she surprised? Stein thinks.

“You’re the only one who can help me,” she says.

Stein frowns.

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Before Lilith has the chance to continue, Stein forcefully cuts off their connection, and opens his eyes. 

It was better to face the abyss than to relive his days in Sanctuary. 

Chapter Text

Blake comes to consciousness slowly. 

It feels strange. Blake remembers giving everything up. He remembers curling around the chaos shard, and sacrificing himself for a better cause. Blake didn’t think he’d wake up afterwards, and he didn’t think it’d be in his room.

Damian’s room, Blake mentally corrects, as he stares up at the familiar ceiling. For a while, that’s all he does, until everything crashes into his mind. Blake shoots up feeling panicked, wrong, and-

Blake’s heart races at the prospect of facing Damian’s family again. He’d seen Tim come to their aid. Cass, too, if his memory was to be trusted. Blake didn’t think he’d have a difficult time conversing with them. Father - ah - Bruce - on the other hand? Blake wasn’t ready for that. He wasn’t ready to talk to Bruce, Dick, or Jason. He didn’t want to face them. Blake didn’t think it’d be good for their mental health if he reappeared in their lives. He’d already made enough of a mess the first time around. Blake didn’t want to make another one.

Blake knew that he should forgive himself, but now it seemed like an impossible task. Again, he’s swamped by tormenting thoughts, and a wild imagination. Blake can only picture the worst. 

I thought I repented, Blake thinks, feeling a horrible ache in his heart. I thought I made everything better. How can I forgive myself for failing?

Blake faces the possibility that he might have somehow ruined everything again. Damian died, Jon was still grieving over his friend, and it was Blake’s fault. It was because he didn’t follow Damian’s plan. He decided to take things into his own hands, and ruin everything for everyone.

Blake is only distantly aware of the size of his fingers, and how difficult it is to curl them around his blanket.

“You’re awake,” someone announces.

Blake’s heart stops when he finally notices Damian sitting to his left. He sat upon a wooden chair, something that looked like it’d been stolen from the dining room, with a book in his hands. Gingerly, he turns a page, and slides in a bookmark. 

“You need to put on the sunglasses on your bed stand,” Damian says. “I won’t be able to look at you until you do.”

Hundreds of questions rush into Blake’s mind, but his attention is primarily laid in Damian’s diversion. He looks over at his bed stand, spots a black case, and then reaches for it. 

Blake falters when he sees his hands.

What?

“Blake.” Damian sounds impatient.

Blake hurriedly grabs the case, pulls it into his lap, and then pops it open. Inside, staring him up at his face, laid a simple pair of shades. 

Blake takes notice of how little the glasses are. 

Those won’t fit me, he thinks, but to please Damian, he grabs them, anyway. 

Blake pulls the sunglasses up to his face. 

Blake is surprised that they fit. 

“They’re on,” Blake says. Abruptly, he shuts his mouth, because his voice sounded alien. 

“Good,” Damian says. He squints up at Blake in examination, and Blake resists the urge to squirm.

Blake wanted to ask Damian a question.

Blake decides it’d be better to keep it in. Damian obviously had more important things to say.

Still, Blake really wanted to know; how are you alive?

“I’m going to get straight to the point,” Damian says. “I don’t know what you did, but you made a wish on the chaos shard. We all ended up here, years in the past, in our younger bodies. With Jon’s help, and Superman, we found you in an experimental facility.”

Blake was at a loss for words.

“We beamed everyone up to the watchtower, Richard came, and that’s when we decided you’ll stay here for the time being. Superman had the inclination to take you to his home, but it was because your eyes triggered that instinct in him.”

Blake reaches a hand up to his glasses. 

“It’s the reason you have to wear those,” Damian explains. “It is unknown as to how you’ve received this ability, but I imagine it had something to do with the chaos shard.”

Blake’s hand trembles on the way down. 

“Blake,” Damian asks seriously, “what did you wish for?”

Blake tries to recall. Reluctantly, he dives back into recent memory, and thinks upon his last thoughts.

“I…” It’s a good start, maybe, but not a great one. Blake can only hope that it’ll start a string of words, and kick up his brain to actually think properly. “I wanted you to be okay. I wanted to give back what you had lost.”

“Is that all?” Damian questions. “I thought it’d be more specific.”

Blake rubs the back of his neck. Or, well, he tries to. It’s surprisingly difficult with the size of his hands. After Damian’s explanation, though, it made sense. Blake was younger, just like Jon, and just like-

Blake gets a sneak peek at his older doppelganger. Dumbstruck, he realizes that Damian looked nothing like he used to, and that he was very much a child. In fact, Blake felt like he was looking in a mirror, and it was quite uncanny. Blake didn’t know why this was hitting him just now.

“I wanted to go back before - before all this happened - and…” Blake trails off uncertainly. “I asked the chaos shard to stop your death from ever occurring.”

Damian leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. Blake allows himself to go silent. It lingers in the air between them for several ticks, Blake can even hear the imaginary clock, but Damian doesn’t let it last. 

“Well, it worked,” Damian says.

“Yeah, it did,” Blake exhales in realization. “I guess I just didn’t think that I’d-” Blake stares into the palm of his hands. 

Damian’s ‘encouragement’ comes out as a short, snappy, “What?”

Blake looks up.

“I didn’t think I’d come back.”

This time, when a silence falls, it’s suffocating. Blake looks back at his hands with shame, and Damian is intimidatingly mute. Something falls over his face, dark, and angry. Blake couldn’t stand to look at it. It was why he averted his eyes to begin with. 

“You were going to die in my place?” Damian hisses out angrily. It feels like a thousand needles stabbing Blake’s skin. It’s not something he’s ever wanted to feel.

Blake doesn’t say anything. Damian leans forward with restless fuming, and then-

Blake cries out when Damian smacks him over the head. It’s not rough, or violent, but it was surprising. It wasn’t gentle enough to be soft, but it wasn’t aggressive enough to hurt. It was simply meant to grab his attention.

“You’re an idiot,” Damian seethes. “I can’t believe you’d do that. I do not need your sacrifice. I don’t care about that.”

Blake is stunned.

“Your life is just as important as mine. Of all the stupid, idiotic, things you could do… it had to be this?” Damian stands up from his chair. His fingers curl into angry fists. “Did you even stop to think if I’d want that?”

Blake feels hot shame roll down his back like molten lava.

Blake opens his mouth to speak, but Damian doesn’t give him the opportunity.

“You thought I’d want my little brother to die for me?” Damian hisses, stabbing a finger into Blake’s chest. “Is that it?”

Blake’s eyes go wide.

“Did it not occur to you that I would want you to stay?”

Damian stumbles back a few steps to slam himself back down onto the seat. He crosses his arms, gives Blake an angry glare, and then shifts in his chair. 

Blake could barely believe what he was hearing.

“You… want… me?”

Damian narrows his eyes. “I don’t believe I said anything contrary to that statement.”

Blake feels his heart tremble with a stuttering pace. 

“I - Damian - I murdered you,” Blake reminds.

“Well, since we’re in the past, that narrative is no longer applicable.”

Blake startles. His mind halts, his heart pauses, and his thoughts come to a sudden stop.

“You never murdered me, not in this timeline,” Damian continues as if nothing was unusual. “And, even if you had, it wouldn’t change my opinion.” 

Blake is struck with disbelief.

“So,” he begins, shaking, “nothing I did ever happened?”

“Correct.”

“I - I didn’t kill you - and rip your family apart?”

“No.”

Blake feels tears form in the corner of his eyes.

“Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass? They - they’re all happy?”

“Relatively speaking.”

Blake chokes up on his next words. “Bruce?”

“Father,” Damian corrects. “He’s not around at the moment, but Tim will change that soon. It’s only a matter of time before he returns. I-” Damian looks hesitant. “I don’t expect you to tolerate him after all that he did to you.”

“But,” Blake’s heart lifts hopefully, “he never did any of that to me.”

“He did,” Damian says. “It doesn’t make everything invalid.”

Blake's heart drops. Blake gives Damian a sad look. “I guess I really did murder you then.”

Damian opens his mouth. He closes it. Shocked, hit in the face with his own logic, Damian was aware that he'd been caught in his own web.

“Blake,” Damian pushes out in his own frustration. “It wasn’t you who murdered me. You were conditioned, from birth, mind you, to follow Mother’s orders!”

“I took you away from your family,” Blake tears up. 

“No, you didn’t,” Damian says.

“I ruined everything,” Blake’s voice is watery.

“I don’t care what you think,” Damian raises his voice high. “You’re my little brother, damn it, and it’s going to stay that way!”

Blake flinches back in surprise.

“I only have one little brother,” Damian rasps with a strange wobble in his voice. “I might not have been all too excited about it at first, but as we were traveling together, it hit me. I have you. I’m not going to give you up just because you want to play martyr. Do you understand? I’m not going to tolerate anymore of this talk!”

Blake doesn’t nod only because he’s stunned.

Instead, Blake sits in his bed, frozen. Damian fumes so bad that it looks like steam is coming off him. Yet, at the same time, he seems hurt. Blake didn’t understand how Damian could deflect the circumstances of his death so easily, especially after watching their family grieve over him, but what he did understand was Damian’s genuinity. Damian wasn’t lying about anything that he was claiming. 

He meant it. 

He meant it all. 

Blake feels fat teardrops roll down his cheeks.

Blake had always wanted a family. He just didn’t think that Damian could be included in that equation. Blake had only existed to replace him. It seemed wrong to even think he could be brothers with this talented individual. Blake felt unworthy. 

However, to Damian, those things didn’t matter. 

Blake understood that he needed to let go of his hurt. Blake also knew it was easier said than done. But for now-

Blake sobs as he throws himself into Damian’s arms.

Damian wasn’t expecting it. He hadn’t done much to physically comfort Blake, not like Jon, so this was all new to him. However, when Blake nearly falls out of bed, Damian is there to lower him down onto the floor. Gently, as if Blake was delicate glass, Damian wraps his arms around his little brother. It was not filled with confidence, not like Jon, but it was enough.

Damian awkwardness doesn’t last too long, anyways, because something shifts inside of him. Blake feels Damian’s hug turn into something fierce. 

Blake weeps into Damian’s shirt. He holds on tight as if it were a lifesaver, and he doesn’t let go for anything else. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Blake repeats until it becomes a mantra. 

Damian’s answer doesn’t come in words. His muscles tighten, his arms hold Blake closer in restriction, and he buries his face in Blake’s hair. 

Blake cries hard enough to the point that he can barely breathe. Damian holds onto him the entire time, never saying anything, but never letting go, either.

Blake took everything away from Damian.

Damian gave it all back. 

Chapter Text

Blake falls asleep in Damian’s arms. 

It was an embarrassing thing to remember. Blake had never cried badly enough to the point of knocking himself unconscious, but, apparently, it was something he’d have to watch out for in the future.

Blake felt exhausted after crying his eyes out. Maybe, it had something to do with his little body, or maybe it was because he had never cried so hard before. Blake didn’t know. Regardless, what he did know was that he ended up waking up in Damian’s bed, somehow tucked in snugly.

Blake rolls his head to the side to search for his brother. Blake doesn’t find him sitting on his chair. What he does find, however, is a pair of shades in his peripheral vision. Blake reaches out for the sunglasses. He draws them off of the bed stand, and then props them properly on his nose. 

Damian told me to wear these, he remembers, adjusting the sunglasses until they were comfortable.

Blake’s hands freeze when he hears the door open.

“Ah, Young Master Blake, I see that you are awake. I apologize for intruding. I thought you might still be asleep.”

Blake feels his heart pick up several beats as Alfred steps foot in his room. Blake can’t help the memories that come crashing into his mind. He remembers Alfred’s distance, his mute disposition, and the last time they’d spoken. Blake knows that things are going to be different now, but his body reacts as if nothing had changed. Blake’s heart was initiating a race of anxiety, and Brok could do nothing to stop it.

Blake stays silent as Alfred walks towards Damian’s closet. In his arms, tightly secured, sat a cardboard box. It was stuffed with protruding clothes. From what little Blake could see, the clothing looked far too small to belong to Damian, so he could only assume they were supposed to be his. 

Blake doesn’t point any of these observations in fear of somehow earning Alfred’s ire. Blake wants to make a good first impression. It gives him a new pressure that weighs heavily upon his chest. Blake knows he has to do things differently this time, but how was he supposed to go about it? Blake didn’t have an inkling as to how he was supposed to properly act. 

“These are gifts from Master Damian’s friend, Jon Kent,” Alfred explains as he sets the box down on the ground. Bending down, he grabs a pair of jeans, and then pulls them out. Alfred reaches for a hanger to add the pants to Damian’s closet. Blake almost opens his mouth to protest, because this was Damian’s closet, after all, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He was far too afraid that he’d end up making Alfred hate him. 

“Amongst them are a few new additions,” Alfred continues on, creasing the wrinkles out of the jeans, “Master Dick thought you might enjoy some clean clothes that are fresh out the store.”

Blake curls his blanket with his fingers.

“I would suggest a bath before you decide to change,” Alfred says. “I’ll draw one up if you feel well enough.”

“I’m well,” Blake blurts out. It was probably because of his absolute need to please. 

Alfred gives him a small smile. “I am glad to hear it.’

Alfred’s smile makes Blake’s heart jump.

It was everything he ever wanted, yet, at the same time, it made his elated heart sink to the bottom of his stomach. It was jarring to be on the receiving end of Alfred’s good nature. It didn’t feel right. Blake even felt as if he didn’t deserve it. 

Blake slowly pulls himself out of bed. He gets up on his feet, looks down at the ground, and flexes his toes.

I’m so small, Blake thinks, looking at how miniscule everything was.

Blake looks up quickly to address Alfred. 

Blake swallows nervously. “I can - um - I can help you.”

Alfred pauses to blink at him. For a moment, Blake fears he said something wrong, and he curses himself for even speaking. 

Then, Alfred decides, “I’d appreciate that very much.”

Blake hurries himself to Alfred’s side. He doesn’t dare look him in the eye as he pulls out a red-striped t-shirt. When he hands it up to Alfred, he makes sure that their fingers don’t brush, or any of their skin, for that matter.

Alfred hums as he accepts the offering. “I see that, though you might look like Master Damian, you share nothing else in common.”

Blake pulls out another article of clothing, a pair of slacks, clearly well-loved by the original owner. His mind races as he attempts to decipher Alfred’s words. Was it a good thing that he didn’t share anything in common with Damian? Was Alfred disappointed? Did he want Blake to be more like Damian? If so, Blake didn’t feel so good, and maybe he wasn’t cut out for this after all.

“Master Damian was not nearly as eager to help when he first arrived,” Alfred recounts. “In fact, he had a bit of a violent streak, and it was difficult to communicate with him.”

Blake’s interest peaks.

“Ah, yes, Master Damian has changed much over the past year,” Alfred confesses as he takes the slacks from Blake’s hand. “However, within the past week, I’d even say he’s become a completely different person.”

Blake chews his bottom lip.

Of course Damian is different, he realizes, because he used to be fifteen. 

Alfred hangs up the slacks. He shifts topics by saying, “Master Blake, after you are done with your bath, I will escort you to the dining room. I am sure you’ve already met Master Damian, since he seems to hold some familiarity with you, but Master Dick would like to introduce himself.”

Blake’s fingers tremble as he struggles to pick up the next article of clothing. Maybe Alfred notices, or maybe he’s just intuitive, because he continues, “I’ll be right by your side when the time comes. I promise you that you have nothing to be scared of.”

Blake doesn’t know what gets into him. He had a compelling need to defend himself. That’s why he blurts out, “I’m not scared.”

The corner of Alfred’s lips tug in amusement. “Ah, of course, forgive me. I should not have assumed.”

Blake wants to smack himself for speaking, but Alfred’s reaction wasn’t too bad. It gives him a sense of relief. 

“I know that a confident boy such as yourself will need no assistance from me.”

Blake nods.

Alfred’s chuckle is light and heart-lifting. Blake doesn’t know what prompts it nor does he entirely understand it.

He’s not given much time to think over it. Damian decides that now is the time to make an appearance.

Damian walks into his room with a stride. He announces his presence with a polite, “Alfred.”

“Master Damian.”

“I assume you are nearly finished moving Blake’s things in?”

“Yes. As you requested, I’ve added his wardrobe to your closet.”

“Excellent,” Damian says. “I can always count on you.”

Alfred allows himself to look a tad shocked. It quickly fades into an expression of professionalism, but Blake hadn’t missed Alfred’s surprise. It was an interesting reaction to Damian’s compliment. 

“You must be in a good mood,” Alfred decides. 

Damian doesn’t give him any coherent response aside from an acknowledging grunt. He strides for Blake’s position, stops next to him, and then glances down at the shirt in Blake’s hands. 

“Blake,” he says. “I do not think you should be exerting yourself.”

Blake blinks. “I’m helping Alfred put the clothes in the closet.”

“I am not blind. I’m well aware of what you’re doing, but I suggest you rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Ah, but we dug you out of a whale in the middle of gestation, so I would rather avoid any surprise health scares.”

Blake’s face scrunches up. “Gestation?” He repeats in a murmur. 

“It’s back to bed with you,” Damian insists. He puts a gentle hand on Blake’s back, despite his stern tone, and directs him back to bed.

“I’m fine,” Blake says. “It’s not hard to help Alfred put the clothes away. I’m very capable.”

Damian’s face softens. “I know you’re capable.” 

Damian encourages Blake to lower himself onto the mattress. Blake looks up into his eyes as his weight sinks into the edge of the bed. 

“I just want to make sure you’re better before you go about doing anything,” Damian says.

“I need to take a bath,” Blake protests weakly. “Alfred told me to.”

“You’ll have your bath, Blake, after you catch some more sleep.”

Blake sees Alfred’s form from the corner of his vision. He doesn’t register the man’s misty eyes, or the touched look he displays on his face. All he sees is a man waiting for things to be done with, and a cardboard box sitting at his feet.

“I don’t want to go to sleep by myself,” Blake admits. “I don’t want this all to be a dream.”

Blake lays down after Damian pushes his shoulder.

“It’s not a dream,” Damian promises. “It’s real. You're real. I'm real."

Blake feels his heart calm. “Promise?”

Damian sits himself back down on the chair he’d once deserted. “I promise.”

Chapter Text

Blake can’t look Dick in the eye. 

It’s easy to think about making new starts, but Blake’s body remembers the hurt. Blake wants to forgive, he wants to have a relationship with Dick, but it feels nearly impossible. His hope grows when they’re apart, but when they end up in the same room? Blake’s hope evaporates in an instant, and anxiety immediately replaces it. Suddenly, he’s back in the gym, listening to Dick’s muted voice argue with Bruce. Then, in a flash, he’s in the hallway one-on-one. Dick had told him things that hadn’t made too much sense at the time but now? 

Blake understood what he had been talking about. 

Blake is half-hidden behind Damian’s body as they walk into the dining room. Blake doesn’t have good memories in the dining room, mostly because it was suffocating, and filled with the words of his deluded ‘father.’ Tim, Cass, and Blake all stayed silent. Bruce had rambled on about life as if everything was normal, and his children didn’t pipe up once to participate. 

Damian sits Blake down in the seat next to his own. Blake takes notice of the seat that Damian picks, and distantly recalls that it’d been the one he, himself, had often sat. 

Blake dares to peek up. Dick sits across from them, patient, and beaming. Blake is struck dumb at the sheer happiness on his face. Blake couldn’t recall ever seeing Dick so happy.

Alfred brings dinner in on multiple white plates. Dick doesn’t bat an eyelash when Alfred places food in front of him, and, in fact, gives Blake a charming smile.

“Hello there,” he greets, friendly, and bright. 

Blake, realizing he’d been caught staring, quickly ducks his head. 

“You must be Blake,” Dick’s voice is soft. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Blake grabs hold of his pants and curls them up in his fingers. He keeps his gaze on his lap, and that’s where it stays.

“I’m Dick, Damian’s older brother, so, I guess that makes you my little brother, too.”

Blake’s heart reaches out in needy want because yes - that’s all he ever wanted - yet - his heart falters in anxiety. 

I might disappoint him again, Blake thinks. If I speak to him, he’ll probably find something he doesn’t like, and I’ll offend him. Then, I’ll ruin our relationship forever, and he’ll be unhappy with me. Just like before.

Blake does not see the glance that Damian gives his hands. 

“You’re making him nervous,” Damian puts out bluntly.

Dick blinks in surprise. 

“Talk to me instead,” Damian suggests.

Damian’s suggestion is surprisingly mature, collected, and non-insulting. If Blake could take a look into Dick’s mind, he’d see the utter whiplash the man was going through, and the chaos running through his mind.

“Okay…” Dick puts out slowly. 

Alfred sets a plate of pasta in front of Damian.

“What did you do today?” Dick asks.

Damian starts reciting his schedule by memory. “At 8:00 AM, I finished exercising, and tended to the animals. At 9:00 AM, I took a proper shower, and tidied up my bathroom drawer. After that, at 10:00 sharp, I re-familiarized myself with the manor.”

Dick’s brows dig into his forehead. “You - uh - familiarized yourself with the manor?”

“It was a necessary caution,” Damian insists. 

“Damian - you - you know the manor inside and out,” Dick reminds.

“Yes, at one point, but not recently.”

Dick stares.

“I suppose I should explain myself,” Damian says. “I’m going to be blunt. I’m not actually eleven, ten, or whatever age I’m supposed to be right now. I’m fifteen.”

Dick leans forward as if to stand up from his chair.

“I’m from the future,” Damian continues as if there was nothing wrong with any of his words. “I was assassinated, resurrected, and kidnapped by an interdimensional organization. I spent five years participating in several challenges that I’d rather not mention. Meanwhile, Blake was here on Earth, and Father forced him to take upon my role.”

Damian gives Dick a blank look. 

“You, and other members of our family, were not good to him. He ran away from home, just in time for my reappearance, and accompanied me on a journey to extract the chaos shard from my bloodstream. Before you ask, the chaos shard is the instrument that resurrected me, and kept me alive.”

Dick was stunned.

“I’m fairly certain Blake is the only reason I’m still alive,” Damian draws on. “I’m also certain that the chaos shard has left him with some abilities that we investigated in the watchtower.”

Damian pauses to give Dick room to digest his words. Dick doesn’t say anything for a long, long, moment. Blake feels his heart pick up in pace in the silence. 

Then, with a drained voice, Dick asks, “Alfred?”

“Martian Manhunter, I presume?” Alfred sounds equally distressed.

“Yeah, you read my mind,” Dick whispers. 

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I suppose I was far too optimistic in believing you might take my word for it.”

Dick throws a hand through his hair. He had no idea what to say, or where to even begin. Damian had just offloaded a lot of information on him, and what was Dick supposed to do about it? Well, first, he knew he ought to confirm it. After that, Dick was at a loss, because what had he just heard?

Blake looks up desperately. Out of nowhere, surprising the entire room, he bursts out, “I’m sorry. Please, please, don’t kick me out. I promise I’ll be good. I promise I won’t do it again. It’s not Damian’s fault.”

Blake seemed borderline hysterical with his desperation. 

Damian isn’t happy. “I’m not letting anyone kick you out.”

Dick was still at a loss. According to protocol, his brothers should be detained until verification of their identity, but-

No, Dick thinks to himself, I’m not doing that.

“I’m not going to kick you out, Blake,” Dick puts out softly. 

Blake makes eye-contact with him for the second time that day. Blake’s eyes are filled with worry, concern, and stress (he still has his sunglasses on).

Blake looked like a trembling rabbit in front of a fox’s gaping maw. 

He seemed so scared. 

“I’m just going to check over some things with Martian Manhunter,” Dick promises. 

Blake doesn’t seem too convinced, but Damian makes for a good distraction. He grabs Blake’s fork, grabs the boy’s hand, and then pushes the tool into his hand. Damian gives Alfred a pointed look over his shoulder.

Alfred quickly deposits the last plate in front of Blake. 

“Eat,” Damian commands. “You’re thinking too much.”

Blake remembered Cass telling him the same exact thing. Timidly, he lowers his fork, and navigates it around his pasta. 

Blake tries to refrain from chewing on his lip.

Chapter Text

Blake curls underneath Damian’s sheets.

He listens closely to the muffled fan blades overhead, and the near-muted voices outside in the hallway. Blake can barely understand what was being said, but he knew it had to revolve around him. Blake’s embarrassing outburst had drawn a lot of concern from everyone in the dining room. Blake can’t remember what their final expressions were, probably because he’d been so intent to stare at his shoes, but he had picked out the hidden strain in their voices.

Or, maybe he’d just been imagining it all, because his mind was messed up like that. Blake couldn’t trust his own interpretation of events since it was always, always, wrong

Blake stills when he hears the gentle crack of the door. There were three sets of foot steps, but only one pair enclose on his location. Someone sinks their weight into Damian’s mattress, and then a wide palm settles on Blake’s shoulder. 

Softly, the owner asks, “Blake? If you wouldn’t mind, we’d love to talk to you.”

Blake shoots a hand out from underneath the coveres in a blind search for his sunglassess. He feels around the bed stand until a gentle hand pushes the object into his palm.

Blake snatches it up like a greedy cave goblin, slips his hand back underneath the coveres, and then fumbles around with the sunglasses. Once he settles the shades on the bridge of his nose, he tentatively peeks out, and spots Dick sitting on his bedside. 

Dick gives him a warm smile.

Blake can’t look at anything else. Again, it was so odd to see Dick smiling, but it didn’t seem unfit for his face. It was a good look for Dick to have.

Someone clears their throat for Blake’s attention. Blake spots Damian leaning against the doorframe, and then sees a strange looking man in the middle of the room. He was almost entirely green, except for his bleeding red eyes, and his costume palette. 

“Blake,” Dick introduces, “this is Martian Manhunter. He’ll take a look into your memories to verify Damian’s report.”

Blake instinctively looks over in Damian’s direction for guidance. Damian catches his shaded gaze, shifts grumpily, but then gives him a short nod.

Blake looks back at Martian Manhunter with the submissive nod of of his head. Once permission is granted, Martian Manhunter steps forth, and spans his hand over the top of Blake’s skull. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and then-

Blake can’t feel Martian Manhunter in his head, but he can see several memories flash through his mind. He regains vivid recollection of the moment he opened his eyes in the manor, and the instance he registered Bruce’s stunning blue irises.

He remembers training in the gym, hiding under the piano, and rollerskating with Cass. He relives the revelation that something is off about his situation, and recalls the utter terror of tipping off the side of a building. Several more memories pass by, but all Blake’s heart lingers on is the betrayal he'd felt. It was associated to the absolute, bone-chilling, fear he'd suffered while looking up at his father's image.

Blake comes back to himself with a painful intake of air. Dick’s arms are wrapped tightly around him, Blake doesn’t why, but maybe it was because he was sobbing. 

In addition, Blake had a horrible tremor that wouldn’t go away, and nothing seemed to feel right. In fact, Blake wanted to simultaneously cringe away from Dick, and accept his comfort.

Blake doesn’t do anything except sob in Dick’s shirt. Since he had no ability to make a proper decision, every muscle in his body was frozen. Blake didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn't even know he'd started crying until just a few seconds ago. 

Dick seemed to know what to do though. With gentle hushes, he holds Blake close, and sways them both side to side. 

Blake’s gradually raises his hands to grab Dick’s shirt.

Dick gives Martian Manhunter a concerned glance. For some reason, J’on had braced himself against the wall, and Damian was nearby with the tension of a wooden board.

“J’on?” Dick asks.

J’on holds his hand up.

“I… need a moment.”

Dick gives J’on a short nod before focusing the rest of his energy on Blake. Blake struggles to calm down even as Dick attempts to soothe him. He didn’t know why Dick’s embrace wasn’t helping, not when this was everything he could have ever dreamed of, but something finally starts to shift when Dick begins to sing.

It's completely out of the blue, but it's not entirely unwelcome. Dick’s singing is low in volume, raspy, and unpracticed. It sounded like he didn’t sing very often. Regardless - Blake’s sobs slowly die down as he listens in on Dick’s voice - leaving only painful, jolting hiccups behind.

It takes some time, much longer than he'd like, but Blake feels himself relaxing. Even with the uncomfortable smudge of his sunglasses.

Dick must have a sixth sense for Blake’s discomfort. He pauses their sway momentarily just to pull Blake’s sunglasses off. Dick then carefully places them back on the bed stand, cups the back of Blake’s head, and navigates it to his chest. He rests Blake’s ear over his heart for a different song, the one that only Dick’s heart could sing.

Blake listens closely. 

Damian watches the scene tensely with tight lips. J’on pulls himself off the wall with conflicted emotions. He stares at Dick as if he were someone else, yet, at the same time, J’on was entirely aware of who he was currently. 

Dick’s singing dies down once Blake is slumped against him. Blake’s senses take the brief moment to pick up the smell of Dick’s shirt. It smelled like laundry detergent, fresh out of the dryer.

It was strangely relaxing. 

J’on takes advantage of the silence. He pulls himself out of thought, and calmly announces, “Damian’s report holds no falsehoods. Damian’s memories show no sign of tampering nor do Blake’s.”

Dick gives J’on his attention. Cautiously, he questions, “What happened just now? Between you and Blake? You didn’t react this badly when you looked at Damian’s memories.”

“Damian is better at handling his emotions,” J’on confesses.

Damian doesn’t show any outward reaction to this statement. 

J'on continues, “Blake’s emotions feel… raw. It’s not entirely unusual for a child his age, but his emotions are highly volatile.”

J’on pauses for a contemplative moment. 

He continues, as professional as he is able, “I think it would be within your best interest to find the boy some… healing.”

Blake wrings Dick’s shirt in his hands with a pounding heart. 

Was there something wrong with him? 

Dick makes a noise within his throat. 

Quietly, he says, “I’ll look into it."

“I did something wrong, didn’t I?”

Blake twists Damian’s blanket in his hands. Damian, himself, was not too far away. He was sitting at his desk, eyes drawn to an old sketchbook he’d nearly forgotten. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Damian grounds out. 

“Martian Manhunter said I needed healing.”

Damian flips the page of his sketchbook.

“He said that because you’re a traumatized child who needs more than we can give.”

“I’m traumatized?” Blake asks.

Damian looks up from his sketchbook, glances over his shoulder, and then answers seriously, “Yes.”

Blake frowns. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“Traumatized; subject to lasting shock as a result of an emotionally disturbing experience or physical injury.”

Blake opens his mouth, closes it, and then thinks hard about Damian’s words. He certainly hadn’t been physically injured, not in any way he could think of. Blake also couldn’t think of a way he’d been subject to ‘lasting shock’ as a result of an emotionally disturbing experience.

“I don’t think I’m traumatized.”

Damian spins in his chair. Flatly, he states, “You broke down after Martian Manhunter searched your mind. You didn’t have a positive experience re-living certain memories. By all definitions, Blake, you are traumatized.”

“I was just being stupid,” Blake mumbles.

Damian stares at him. Then, with a sigh, he spins back to his desk. “I’d tell you otherwise, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

Blake feels a pang of hurt in his heart. 

Damian thought that he wouldn’t believe him? That - well - that couldn’t be true. Blake clung to Damian’s every word like a lifeline. 

“It’s fine.” Damian rolls his shoulders. “I guess this is just something you’ll have to figure out for yourself. You’re not stupid, Blake, and you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Blake feels an obligatory but bubble up in his throat, but then Damian slides his phone off his desk. Blake flinches when Damian tosses it onto the mattress.

“Put on some music,” he says. 

Blake reaches out for Damian’s phone while staring off at his older brother. Damian does not return the gaze. He continues to search through his childhood sketchbook, silently reminicissing about the violent chaos he’d once created. 

Blake grabs Damian’s phone.

“I don’t know what to play.”

“Play your favorite,” Damian says. 

Blake feels excitement spike up in his heart at the prospect of playing street music. Happily, as if his prior problems were fleeting, Blake opens up Damian’s phone. He finds Youtube, right where he remembered it, and pops it up.

Doreen Ketchens, he types, House of The Rising Sun. 

When he taps the first video on the results list, Blake almost combusts with joy. Doreen starts growling her clarinet with masterful technique, and Blake feels a big smile grow on his face. 

He looks up just in time to see Damian smirking at him.

Damian looks away after his smirk turns into something gentle. He hides it in the palm of his hand, and listens to Blake’s tune.

Blake’s mind reels back to the time he’d danced with Cass. Suddenly, something sad, and melancholic comes over him. 

It is the first time Blake realizes that music could be associated with memories. 

Maybe I’ll remember this, too, Blake thinks as he examines Damian’s form. 

It would be a better memory to recall if Martian Manhunter went poking through his mind again.

“You’ve always liked those types of videos,” Damian’s voice brings him back into the present. “I remember watching them through your eyes.”

“They’re fun,” Blake affirms.

“Maybe you should pick up an instrument,” Damian suggests. 

Blake remembers how fondly he thought of the trumpet, but then recalls how horribly loud it is. Surely, Dick wouldn’t appreciate such a powerful, booming instrument in the manor. It’d make way too much noise for the quiet atmosphere. Alfred probably wouldn’t be a big fan, either, because he didn’t seem like the type to enjoy crowing noise. 

“You’re overthinking again,” Damian says. 

Blake feels as if he’d just been slapped in the face.

Astonished, he asks, “How did you know?”

Damian taps his temple. “I use my brain.”

Blake snorts. Then, he slaps his hand over his nose, and stares wide-eyed at his older brother.

Damian doesn’t acknowledge it. He hums in self-amusement with, again, most of his concentration focused on his sketchbook. 

Blake lowers his hand.

“I don’t think Dick would appreciate it if I played an instrument,” Blake confesses honestly. “It would sound pretty bad.”

“I doubt Richard would care if you played an instrument,” Damian says. "In fact, knowing him, he’ll probably encourage it.”

Blake suddenly remembers that Damian knows Dick ten times better than he does.  

“Besides, everyone sounds bad to start out with, so there’s nothing unusual there. Stop caring about what people think, and do what you’re interested in.”

Blake blinks. He looks back down at Damian’s phone. He imagines himself in Doreen’s position, sitting up on a chair, and playing out for the world to hear. He thinks about being free, strong, and full of life. He can see himself pouring his whole heart into an instrument of his choice. 

Blake is excited just picturing it. 

He makes his decision. 

“I want to play the trumpet.”

It feels good to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

Blake didn’t know why Damian had been insistent on moving into his room, but it was comforting to be with someone he knew. However, when night came around, Blake wasn’t sure about the sleeping part. There was only one bed in the center of the room, and it wasn’t exactly big enough to give two individuals separate spaces. It was clearly meant for one person.

Blake didn’t feel too comfortable stealing Damian’s bed from him, so he insisted sleeping on the floor with a couple of blankets as cushioning.

Damian’s response to this was an inarguable, “You’re sleeping on the bed.”

Blake was not good at defending his case and had quite the submissive personality. So, when Damian told him he was to sleep on the bed, Blake didn’t do anything to convince him otherwise. He climbed up into bed, tried his best to give Damian some space, and balanced near the edge. Damian didn’t seem to realize how strange the sleeping situation was until after Blake climbed up into bed, and then promptly decided that he would be the one to sleep on the ground. After some grumbled apologies, Damian attempted to remove himself from the mattress, but Blake was quick to voice his objections.

“It’s your bed,” he said. “I should be the one sleeping on the floor.”

Damian gave him a frown that Blake didn’t like seeing. For a second, he thought he had done something wrong, and maybe he had. Damian seemed to be unhappy with his conclusion. Blake didn’t know where he had failed. It must have been something he said. Damian was displeased with him.

Damian’s ultimate decision was to climb back up onto his bed. Blake took that as a sign to pull himself off, but he didn’t get very far. Awkwardly, Damian tugged him back in, and then wrapped his arms around the younger boy. Blake froze in his arms. Damian didn’t seem to be very confident in his hold, and Blake was not entirely sure as to what he was supposed to do.

“I’m not very good at this,” Damian admitted after a minute of silence. “Grayson used to hold me like this when I had nightmares. I thought that maybe it’d help you feel… comfortable.”

Blake inhales the scent of Damian’s laundry detergent. It smelled fresh. It was much better than the road trip smells that they’d accumulated. Oh, and the bus, good heavens. Blake didn’t miss that smell.

“You were close to him,” Blake realizes aloud.

Damian doesn’t say anything. It’s an answer on its own. Yes, he might as well have said.

“What is he like?” Blake finds himself asking. Something inside of him curses at him for asking anything to begin with, but Blake’s curiosity was stronger than his self-imposed insecurity. Blake could only remember Dick ever being hostile in a passive way. Now that they were years in the past, Blake understood that Dick hadn’t always been that way, and that something had drastically changed after Damian’s death. Blake couldn’t help but feel as if it was his fault. However, Damian told him it wasn’t, and he told him that he shouldn’t think about a future that no longer existed. Blake would try to follow his advice.

“He is compassionate,” Damian whispers. It seems reverent. Bittersweet. “Unlike the others – Grayson was the only one who tried to work with me – and he was the only one who defended me.”

“Really?” Blake asks. It seemed unusual for that to be the case. Blake remembered an entire family grieving over Damian’s absence. They had been greatly offended on his behalf.

“He had hope in me when others didn’t,” Damian mumbles. “I imagine he wasn’t too happy to work with me at first, but he never chose to give up on our relationship. In fact, in some ways, I would even say he was my father.”

Damian adopts a melancholic look.

“I suppose things won’t be the same as they were first time around,” he whispers. “Father will be coming back much sooner than anticipated. Drake will make certain of that. Grayson will never have the same love he had for me before.”

Damian’s sadness is not present on his face, but Blake can sense it pouring out of him.

“I am sorry for how my family treated you,” Damian whispers. It seemed like a half-hearted attempt to distract himself from his feelings. Blake appreciated the sentiment, but he didn’t need Damian’s apologies. Blake understood where Damian’s family had come from. Now, hopefully, Blake could stop their family from breaking up to start off with. Maybe, since Damian seemed caught up in what he didn’t have, Blake could focus on his relationship with Dick first. Blake would try to make things better between them and return an important part of Damian’s life. It seemed only right.

Blake gradually relaxes in Damian’s arms. It doesn’t make things less awkward, but it gives him a new perspective on their position. Damian might be holding him, but Blake didn’t think it was to comfort him. Damian might have convinced himself that was the case, but Blake suspected that Damian was subconsciously trying to soothe himself. Blake was the only person he could express his concerns with.

“It’s okay,” Blake says. He doesn’t know what else to say, but he does know that he wants to help. Slowly, he inches his arms around Damian’s waist, and experimentally attempts to comfort him. Blake didn’t really know how to do it, not as good as Jon seemed to, but he knew he couldn’t just keep his arms pinned to his sides. Damian was having his own problems, too, and Blake was his family now. It was his now his responsibility to make sure Damian didn’t feel alone.

Damian’s tension slowly fades away as he settles his chin on Blake’s head. It doesn’t feel as unnatural as the embrace. In fact, the longer they’re together, the more comfortable it feels.

“I didn’t mean to make this about me,” Damian attempts to remedy. “I suppose I got caught up in the past.”

Blake didn't mind. 

Blake’s voice is soft when he says, “It’s okay to miss your dad, Damian.”

For a long, long, time, everything is silent. Blake fears he might have said something wrong. He soon realizes that Damian's silence was far more meaningful than originally assumed. When Blake's hair begins to feel damp, it all starts to make sense. Damian was weeping. Blake wouldn't have noticed if he didn't feel it. It quickly taught him that Damian wasn't the type to cry aloud. 

Blake holds onto Damian tighter so that he didn’t have to be alone.

Damian reciprocates as he clings to him.

Blake was not a big fan of wearing sunglasses to bed.

It seemed pointless. Sometime, in the middle of the night, the sunglasses slip off his face. Blake doesn’t even notice he’s missing any shades when he wakes up. He’s not used to wearing sunglasses constantly, so when they go missing, it felt as if nothing was out of place.

Blake detaches himself from Damian to sit up on the bed. Sleepily, he rubs at his eyes, and tries to fix his blurry vision.

It’s surprising that Damian doesn’t wake after Blake’s jostling, but Blake doesn’t do anything to fix this oddity. Damian was in desperate need of sleep. Blake wasn’t going to be waking him up just because he felt something was odd.

Blake takes great care to lift himself off the bed without causing a commotion. He swings a leg off the bed, rests a foot on the ground, and then tries to do the same with the other. He must have done it too hard though because, after his right food lands on the floor, Blake hears a crack.

Blake blinks down at the ground. Dread fills his chest as he narrows his eyes on a broken set of sunglasses.

Damian said he can’t look at me without them on, Blake thinks worriedly.

Blake rubs at his eyes with weighed concern. It was heavy on his heart. He knew that he couldn’t stick around when Damian woke up, not when he was lacking a specific set of shades, so he pulls himself off the bed with hesitance. Blake drags himself out the room in search for the bathroom. It seemed like a good place to hole down until he could come up with a plan. Nobody, even if they really needed to use the restroom, would invade his privacy.

Blake just didn’t anticipate running face-first into Dick.

Blake falls backward onto his butt with shock. In a stunned stupor, he sits on the ground, and stares forward at Dick’s legs. It doesn’t even occur to him to him that he should close his eyes until after Dick talks to him.

“Blake, hey, are you okay?” Dick crouches down to his level.

Blake slaps a hand over his eyes in a panic. “I’m fine,” he rushes out.

It’s an obvious sign that the opposite is true. Blake’s body-language, alongside his forced words, were strong tells.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Dick says. “I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

Dick rises off the ground to assist Blake. When Blake feels a hand on his arm, he tries not to panic, and straightens himself out. Dick encourages him with a gentle touch. Blake’s mind reels back into the night prior when Damian told him that Dick was a compassionate person.

It was still jarring. The last time Blake had bumped into Dick in the hallway, he’d been met with hostility, and frustration. It was different this time.

Blake’s heart inexplicably softens as he thinks upon Damian’s relationship with this man.

I need to do something about it, Blake thinks resolutely. Suddenly, his past experiences don’t matter as much, and neither does his own discomfort. It disappears when his resolve edges in. Blake feels a determination to direct Dick towards Damian.

“I’m sorry for imposing on you,” Blake says. To start out with, he might as well be respectful, and it was very important to be polite.

“You’re not imposing on us,” Dick assures. “In fact, based on all that I’ve learned, you’re exactly where you belong.”

Blake mentally pauses. “What does that mean?”

“We’re family,” Dick explains.

“We’re family,” Blake repeats. Why did it not occur to him, even after accepting Damian as his brother, that this logic would extend to everyone else in the Wayne family?

Blake clears his throat.

“Um, Mister Dick, sir,” he begins, swallowing down his nervousness. “I hope you don’t think unfavorably of Damian after everything that was said.”

Blake can’t see the complicated expression on Dick’s face.

“I don’t think unfavorably of him,” he promises. “I don’t really know what to feel right now, but you don’t have to worry about Damian. I won’t think differently of him.”

Blake feels relief.

“So, he’s still your son?” He asks before he can stop himself. The minute the words come spilling out of his lips, Blake wants to hit himself, because holy crap. He could not, apparently, for the life of him, keep such things to himself!

Dick goes disturbingly quiet in a shocked sort of silence. Blake wished he could see him, but he couldn’t open his eyes.

“Is that what you think we are?” Dick whispers.

Blake doesn’t answer because, quite frankly, he didn’t want to ruin things further. 

Dick must take some pity on him. After several moments of awkward silence, Dick asks, “Were you going somewhere?”

“Bathroom,” Blake confesses softly.

“I’ll help you get there,” Dick offers. Blake couldn’t even hope to deny his request. Dick reaches out a hand, respectfully grabs Blake’s, and then tugs him forward. “I hope you don’t mind if I do it like this.”

Blake feels his heart throb in wishful warmth as Dick leads him forward. How could Dick, despite knowing very little about him, treat him so familiarly?

I guess he’s just like this, Blake thinks to himself.

“You know,” Dick starts while they trail towards the restroom, “you’re quite well-spoken for someone your age. I guess it makes sense since you’re from the future, but it’s still a little surprising to hear you speak so eloquently. I think that Damian would’ve spoken like you at your age.”

Blake wants to compulsively apologize but Dick continues before he can.

“You’re observant, too,” Dick says.

Now, why would you think that? Blake wonders to himself. The journey to the bathroom in a short one, and within the minute, Dick is releasing his hand. He gives Blake an encouraging push inside, all the while asking, “Did something happen to your sunglasses?”

Blake feels his cheeks go red.

“Broke them,” he mumbles.

Blake almost expected a scolding. Instead, he gets a laugh, the kind that lights up his entire environment.

“I’ll go get you a spare,” Dick promises. “It won’t take long. Hopefully, by the time you’re finished, I’ll already be in the hall.”

Blake rubs the back of his neck.

“Thank you."

Chapter Text

Blake didn’t have a whole lot to do.

It was the opposite of Damian. Damian had an endless list of items that he needed to attend to. Blake didn’t know why he was so busy, but he heard Damian mutter something about elementary school. Damian was not happy that he had to attend again, but Alfred was insistent that Damian endure the year until summer vacation. It would draw suspicion if Damian was abruptly withdrawn without reason. Certainly, they could come up with a myriad of excuses, but Dick wanted to avoid the tabloids. Damian was already in a sensitive situation. It would not be favorable if they became a popular topic for gossip.

Damian was not only occupied with school. Robin took up a large portion of his time. Blake had nearly forgotten that Damian used to be Robin. However, when Dick came up to retrieve him, merely on habit, Damian thrust himself back into the role. It seemed to be an exciting thing for him. Blake will never forget the way he saw Damian’s eyes light up.  

Damian soon made it routine to disappear into the cave whenever he was needed. Blake never followed him. It was not a place he wanted to be. He did not have any good memories associated with the cave. It seemed like only yesterday that Damian’s father – grieved as he was – forced Blake to don on a Robin costume. Blake did not have a good image of Robin because of it. Damian might think Robin was one of the most exciting things in his life, but Blake could not think of anything more ill-inducing.

Yet, despite his avoidance of the topic, Blake would not allow himself to hold Damian back. Damian was always reluctant to leave Blake to his lonesome. Blake had to constantly reassure him that he’d be fine. Damian did not need to hang around him every second of the day. Nevertheless, Damian would not let up, not until Alfred decided to interject himself.

Blake would end up spending many of his days with Alfred.

Blake didn’t really know what to think about this new arrangement. He remembered a time where Alfred would avoid him as much as possible, only stopping by to make sure he had his needs taken care of. Now, Alfred was going out of his way to know Blake, and Blake didn’t know how to deal with that. It was off-putting to receive attention from Alfred.

It wasn’t all bad, though.

Blake looks down at Alfred’s hands as the man helps him buckle. It was a little embarrassing that Blake didn’t know how to buckle himself in but, in his defense, he had never needed to sit on a booster seat before. It had been easier to buckle himself when his arms weren’t so stubby.

“There we are,” Alfred says.

“Thank you,” Blake mumbles as Alfred withdraws.

Alfred only replies after he closes Blake’s door and sits himself in the driver’s seat. “I did not think I would have the pleasure of such polite company. I believe the other boys have much to learn from you.”

Blake tries to imagine him somehow teaching his brothers. It’s a ridiculous notion.

“It’s refreshing to see such good manners,” Alfred says.

Blake feels himself sink in his seat. If he could hide his head in a shell, he would. Maybe, if he held his breath, the red in his cheeks wouldn’t be as prominent.

Alfred starts the car. It is not long before they are on the road. Alfred engages Blake in some small talk, but Blake is a poor conversationalist. Most of his answers to Alfred’s questions are yes, yeah, uhm, and uh. It’s not as intelligent as he’d like it to be. Regardless, Alfred continues to chat with him as if he were not a fumbling fool and, now that Blake thinks about it, Alfred was very gentle with the way he spoke. His words and tone were considerate. Alfred never seemed to be deterred by Blake’s short replies.

It puts Blake at ease. Alfred was so confident in himself, unbothered by the lack of proper two-sided conversation. It was hard not to admire Alfred’s way with words. In addition, he seemed rather witty, and his humor was good-natured. It was difficult to restrain a smile. Yet, upon remembering how distant Alfred used to be, Blake’s smile fell. It was strange to think about how he had missed this integral part of Alfred’s personality. It felt… wrong… that Blake had somehow taken that away from him.

You didn’t, Damian’s voice reminds him, it never happened.

Alfred’s conversation pauses when they reach their destination. After Alfred parks, he helps Blake unbuckle and hop out of the car. Blake sets his feet on the ground before taking a good look at the building they parked next to. He hadn’t known where they were going, mostly because he was far too shy to ask, so it was quite the surprise to see their destination. Blake found himself staring at a medium-sized building. It had bold blue letters that stated Gotham Music Center. It looked rather plain on the outside but-

Blake felt as if he was stepping into another world once Alfred ushered him inside. His jaw drops when he takes in the sheer number of instruments hanging on walls, spilling from shelves, and sitting in display cases. Blake cannot explain the sensation he has as he attempts to digest everything. It's nothing short of amazing. It’s wonderful – it’s spectacular – it’s – it’s fantastic.

Blake doesn’t realize he’s frozen in place until Alfred clears his throat. Quickly, in a snap, Blake looks up at his escort. Alfred looks down at him with no lack of amusement. His eyes twinkle.

Blake swallows down his astonishment. Quietly, he asks, “Mr. Alfred? Why are we here?”

“I believe Master Dick learned, from Young Master Damian, that you require a trumpet. He ordered one for your benefit, and we are here to pick it up.”

Blake blinks. “Mister Dick ordered me a trumpet?”

“That he did,” Alfred confirms. “I don’t think we’ll obtain it anytime soon if we linger by the doorway.”

Blake doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed. He’s so floored, so enchanted, that he doesn’t have any more room for anything else. He follows Alfred like a mindless bee, bumbling about in wonder, and awe. Blake would not snap out of it even as Alfred inquired after the trumpet. Blake doesn’t even register that they were at the counter until the employee mentions going in the back for the item in question.

Blake has no thoughts as he lifts his hand to grab Alfred’s sleeve. It took everything within him not to combust on the spot. It was as if he was on the verge of emotional exploding.

When the employee returns with the encased trumpet, Blake can’t look anywhere except for the hidden instrument. Blake is completely taken as Alfred reaches out to carefully grab the case.

“I apologize, Master Blake, but you must let go of my sleeve,” Alfred regretfully points out.

Blake immediately releases Alfred’s sleeve. He’s too caught up with the instrument to feel embarrassed. He watches Alfred collect the case in his arms, with reverence for Blake’s instrument, and then follows the butler’s heels when they turn to leave.

“Is that mine?” Blake asks with a release of breath.

“It is,” Alfred says. “However, since you are quite young, we will be waiting one more year before putting you in lessons.”

“You’re going to put me in lessons?” Blake questions dazedly.

“Is that something you would wish against?”

“No!” Blake shouts.

Blake quickly mutes himself in realization that he’d just raised his voice. Yet, contrary to his beliefs, Alfred did not seem upset. In fact, he had a small smile on his face.

Alfred carefully deposits the trumpet in the back seat.

Blake is most eager to sit himself up in the booster seat just to be next to it.

Blake feels as if he’s floating.

Lying in bed, listening to jazz thrum, Blake might as well be simulating a nap in the clouds. It was difficult to suppress his smile. Blake’s smile stretched ear to ear as he listened to singing trumpets.

“I imagine you must have had a good day,” Damian comments. Unlike Blake, he was sitting in front of a blank canvas, fingers black with smeared charcoal. “I have never seen you in such a good mood.”

“I’m going to play the trumpet, Damian,” Blake says. “I’m going to be good at it, too.”

“Mhm.”

“One day – when I’m really brave – I’ll even play it in front of a huge audience.”

“I see,” Damian hums.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Blake sighs out dreamily.

“It will be if you keep up your practice,” Damian agrees. “It’s not going to be easy getting the hang of a brass instrument.”

“I don’t care If it’s easy, Damian,” Blake says. “I’m going to play a trumpet, and nothing is going to stop me.”

“I didn’t think anything would.”

Blake’s smile stretches impossibly wider right before Damian’s phone starts to ring. Suddenly, the trumpets fade, and Damian’s average ringtone blares. Blake picks himself up on his elbows, and then he rolls to his side. He squints at Damian’s phone screen and tries to pick out the caller ID with his eyes. Once Blake realizes who’s calling, he fumbles for Damian’s phone, and frantically answers the call.

Damian glances over his shoulder questioningly. Blake holds the phone up to his ear with excitement.

“Damian?”

Blake wasn’t Damian, but he was too excited to clarify. “Jon!”

Jon takes a few seconds on his side of the line to comprehend who was speaking to him. Then, once things settle, Jon’s voice brightens significantly. “Blake! You’re awake! I was going to ask about you!”

“Put it on speaker,” Damian commands.

Blake agrees with the nod of his head, holds the phone out, and then taps the speaker button. Soon, Jon’s voice is loud enough for both to hear, and Blake doesn’t have to hold it up to his ear anymore. Blake places the phone back down on the mattress.

“How are things?” Jon asks.

“It’s good. I got a trumpet!”

“A trumpet? Oh – um – cool!”

“He’s been wanting one,” Damian explains.

“Oh man, well, I’m glad you finally got one! Remember me when you’re famous, okay?”

Blake laughs. “I’ll always remember you, Jon!”

Jon pauses.

Then, he releases, in awe, “Blake – you sound so happy.”

Blake starts to feel an edge of insecurity. Damian had pointed that out earlier, too, as if Blake had never been happy before.

“Is that a… bad thing?”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. Jon rushes in to remedy Blake’s misconception. “No! I’m just – I’m happy for you – that’s all. I’m glad things are going well with you. I was really worried about you.”

“He’s fine,” Damian puts out flatly. “I made sure of it just like I promised.”

“And I trusted you,” Jon says. Blake can hear the smile in his voice. “I knew you would take care of him.”

Damian doesn’t respond to that. He keeps silent, smoothing his charcoal stick over white canvas.

“How are things for you?” Blake finds himself curious.

Jon takes a moment to contemplate Blake’s question before sighing. “I don’t know, Blake, it’s kind of hard being eight again. Dad is treating me like a baby, Mom gets freaked out if I stay up too late, and, yeah, I don’t know what to do.”

Damian furrows his brow. “You haven’t told them?”

“How exactly am I supposed to break the news that I used to be an adult?”

“By being honest,” Damian rolls his eyes.

“I know – but – it’s not that simple – okay? It’s – ugh – it’s just hard when they look at me like I’m their everything. I don’t want to ruin this for them.”

Blake tries to imagine being a parent and realizing his eight-year-old was mentally twenty. Just the thought of it was uncomfortable, so how on Earth was Dick dealing with this information?

It must be awkward for him, Blake thinks. His heart fills with dread at the thought because, maybe, just maybe, it’d drive a wedge in his relationship with Damian. Sure, Dick said he wouldn’t think differently of him, but-

I need to do something, Blake is desperate, but I don’t know what.

“You always make things more dramatic than they have to be,” Damian says.

“I’m not being dramatic, Damian, I’m being thoughtful,” Jon huffs.

Blake bites his bottom lip.

Jon continues to banter with Damian, but Blake can only thing about Dick.

Feeling sick, Blake crawls out of bed, and makes his way towards the door.

Damian takes note of his departure. “Blake?”

“I’m just going outside to think,” Blake whispers.

Blake leaves Damian behind, clueless, and with a big frown.

“Is something wrong?” Jon’s voice echoes.

Damian pinches his brows.

"I don't know."

Chapter Text

Blake has trouble finding Dick around the manor during the daytime.

Apparently, according to Damian, Dick didn’t like to hang around the manor too much. It was suffocating. Damian told Blake that they had moved locations at some point in their partnership, but they returned to the manor because of recent events. The Penthouse (Blake didn’t know what a penthouse was) might have been spacious, but Dick had his doubts that it’d be appropriate for four people. Besides, Blake wasn’t exactly jumping to participate in their vigilante activities, which was something they would have to discuss openly in their re-located base. It didn’t have a cave to convene in.

Finally, Blake’s presence would be noticed if they housed him elsewhere, and Dick didn’t want to deal with the press.

Well, regardless, Blake eventually finds Dick.

He finds him outside. In the garden. Weeding. It’s not where Blake thought he would be, but Dick had a routine on Saturdays. 

“They should just hire landscapers,” Damian had mumbled after informing Blake of this information. 

Dick didn’t seem to care for spending frivolous money. If he could do something himself, he would, even if he looked exhausted.

And – oh – he looked exhausted.

Blake feels bad for even wishing to talk to him. Dick looked haggard. Alfred, who was much frailer than the manor’s primary inheritor, looked ten times healthier. Blake didn’t want to disturb him by reaching out to ask a question. He might feel a pressing need to heal Dick’s relationship with Damian, but Blake was beginning to think that his question could wait for a later date. It didn’t seem right to tire Dick further. So, with this new mindset made, Blake turns back to head for the manor. He makes only a couple of steps before he hears Dick call out for him.

“Blake!”

Blake freezes.

“Hey, kiddo, what’s up?”

Blake slowly turns like a deer caught in headlights.

Dick waves him over with a smile on his face. It looks strained – like he’s doing it for Blake’s benefit – but Blake doesn’t pay much attention to Dick’s expression. He was just trying to process Dick’s invitation. While he wanted to talk to Dick, he didn’t think this far ahead. How was he going to approach this? Blake didn’t know how to talk to him. Not really. Yes, they might have had a short exchange earlier, but Blake wasn't the one who initiated it.

Technically, he wasn’t initiating it now, but what did it feel like he had?

Blake moves forward automatically.

“Hi,” he manages when he halts near Dick’s crouching figure. He was next to a garden bed, filled with budding plants. It was also littered with sturdy weeds.

“Are you doing anything right now?” Dick asks.

Blake mutely shakes his head.

Dick beams. This time, it’s genuine.

“I could use some help,” he offers gently.

Blake glances to the side where he sees Alfred kneeling down on a cushion of some kind, situated not too far away from where he was standing. Alfred catches his eye after wiping the sweat off his brow.  As if sensing Blake’s thoughts, he assures, “It would be most kind if you would assist us.”

“I don’t really know how to…” Blake doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. He looks down at the garden bed, pauses, and stares at it. If he stared any harder, maybe the weeds would evaporate by themselves. They’d see how helpless he looked and then take pity on him.

“I’ll teach you,” Dick’s pips, “It’s simple. Here, why don’t you watch what I’m doing, and then try it yourself afterwards?”

Dick pats the spot next to him.

Blake slowly walks to the spot. Then, like Dick, he crouches down.

“Here’s what I do,” Dick demonstrates. “I like to do this with a pair of gloves since some weeds can be spiky. You wouldn’t think so, judging by the look of the plant, but they have little thistles near the roots. Sometimes, they still get through the glove, so I just use the shovel when that happens. Anyways, usually, you want to grip them right about here.” Dick wraps his hand around the bottom of a weed's stem. He grunts as he gives it a tug. “See, it’s tight in the ground. I can’t dig out all the roots without tearing it up. If that’s that case, I’ll use my trusty shovel to loosen up the soil.”

Blake watches Dick shovel the soil. Within a minute, he disturbs the soil, drops the shovel, and then grabs at the weed. Blake listens to the satisfying pull as Dick tugs it upward.

Dick gives him a glance to gauge his reaction. “What do you think? Am I good or what?”

Blake nods his head wordlessly. Dick deflates. He must have been expecting more of a reaction. 

Dick tosses the weed aside into a growing weed pile. “Alright, I’ll just hand this shovel off to you. We’ll do a little teamwork. I don’t think Alfred has an extra pair of gloves that are… um.” Dick’s eyes dart down to Blake’s hand.

“I will buy them soon,” Alfred promises.

“Sounds good, Alfred!”

Dick offers Blake the shovel.

“Now, if I find a hard weed to pull, I’m going to ask you to loosen up the soil. How about it?”

Blake hesitantly accepts the shovel. He holds it between both hands, as if it were something precious.

“What if I mess up?”

Blake looks down at his feet.

Dick is silent for a second. Blake's brain jumps to the worst conclusions. What a stupid question, it tells him. You shouldn't have even come out here. Dick doesn't need someone like you around. Why don't you just give up before you get hurt? Everything will be ruined if you make a mistake. It's not worth it. 

With the softest voice, Dick promises, “You won’t.”

Blake looks up at him. Dick wasn’t smiling at him anymore, but his features were loose with sympathy.

Dick doesn't stare for long. He turns his attention back to the garden bed, reaches out, and wraps his hand around another weed. It’s not as rooted this time. It comes out easily with a slide.

Blake feels his heart pound as he watches Dick do his thing. While he was nervous about possibly messing things up with the shovel, he was more anxious about bringing up Dick’s relationship with Damian. It wasn’t something that someone could bring up out of the blue, was it? Dick might not like it. It could be a sensitive subject for him.

Blake bites his bottom lip.

Then, he pauses all thought, and makes a realization. 

I’m overthinking again.

Blake had the tendency to do that.

“So, Blake, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what’s the future like? I heard about – um – Damian’s death. I mean, you were there, but, uh, do you know exactly how it… happens?”

Alfred tuts in distaste. “Master Dick, I am sure there are more appropriate subjects to speak about.”

Blake tenses so bad that his muscles ache. His fingers tighten around the handle of his shovel, his hands turn red, and his heart makes a bad habit of running. Damian told him that he hadn’t killed him – that he wasn’t responsible for a future that didn’t exist – but Blake knew Dick ought to have the truth. It was a fact that Blake was responsible for Damian’s death, even if the future didn’t exist anymore.

Blake’s throat feels dry. “I-“

Blake shakes.

Dick is quick to remedy things. He picked up Blake's unease immediately, and the look on his face showed regret. It comes out in his voice, too, when he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It’s just - Damian refuses to talk about it. Says it doesn’t matter anymore, that it won’t happen." A pause. "It doesn’t stop me from worrying.”

Blake feels things calm down if only to momentarily process Dick’s words. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. A perfect lead.

“Because you love him,” Blake analyzes aloud. 

Dick smiles to himself. “Yeah, I do.”

Blake stares at Dick as he computes this information.

Damian, he realizes, I don’t think you have a lot to be concerned over.

Blake feels sweet, sweet, relief. All of Damian's fear, all of his worries? It was unfounded. Dick still loved Damian. Dick wanted him to be safe. He was asking Blake about how he died so that he could prevent it from happening. It was because he cared about him. That's why, when Damian hadn't answered him, Dick turned to the only other person who might know. It probably wasn't his first choice. It also probably had been grating his mind for several days. Blake could only imagine how stressed Dick might feel over this new knowledge. He must have drawn the connection that Damian would die soon based on what had been shared. Damian had told him that he was fifteen in the future - that he spent five years away from home - so it would be logical to assume he'd die when he was ten. Dick most likely had gone haggard out of his worry. 

“You were very angry in the future,” Blake shares with bitter fondness. Strange. It shouldn't be possible to feel two conflicting emotions. 

Dick seems interested. He pauses, stares at a tough weed that he’d yet to ask for assistance with, and then makes a sound in his throat. It was a sign for Blake to continue.  

“Damian meant a lot to you,” Blake says after a deep breath. “I didn’t realize it at the time, but that’s why you were angry. It’s because Damian was like your son.” Blake lowers the shovel gently onto the ground beneath him. “And – I guess it was too much when I came around – because I was a mockery of that.”

Blake gives them both enough time to digest what was just said. Blake feels as if the atmosphere has grown thicker, but he wondered if he was just imagining it. Blake’s mind seemed to misinterpret many things.

“I hurt your family,” Blake whispers. It's a half-hearted confession of what he'd done to Damian, but Blake wasn't being clear enough to insinuate that he was the one responsible for his death. He was a coward. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Dick gradually removes himself from a crouch and leans back to sit down on the dirty pathway.

Dick doesn’t say anything in that moment. If Blake looked up, maybe he would have seen the winded look on his face.

“I understand if you want to kick me out,” Blake’s whisper falls until those around him can barely hear him. It’s not enough for Alfred to miss. Because, after Blake speaks, Alfred is quick to reply.

“Master Blake. No one will kick you out. I can promise you that.”

That gets Dick going. He exhales. Then, he adds, “It’s not within my intention, or anyone’s, to kick you out. Besides, Damian trusts you. He doesn’t give that out freely. It means you’re a good person." Dick isn't looking at him. "I’m a big fan of people like you. It makes me want to do better.”

Blake’s confusion was made apparent on his features after Dick’s statement.

“I make you want to do better?”

“You saved Damian,” Dick simply explains. “Apparently, whatever you did made Damian regard you with the highest of respect. He’s fiercely loyal to you and he constantly defends you. That doesn’t just come out of nowhere, you know? Damian’s not the type of person to do things superficially.”

“So, you want to be better because you want Damian to treat you the same way,” Blake concludes.

“I didn’t say that.”

“It sounded like it,” Alfred snorts.

Dick groans. "I didn't mean it like that. I was just trying to tell Blake that he fits with us. Maybe I did it in a roundabout way but- I was going somewhere- I swear."

Blake disregards Dick's statement and rubs at his lips to hide a smile. 

“That’s silly,” Blake laughs lightly. It’s so funny to him – so bizarre – that Dick thought his relationship with Damian was a goal to reach.  “Damian loves you. He’s loyal to you, too, and he respects you.” Blake’s smile widens at how ridiculous this whole situation was. Dick. Thinking he didn't already have those things? Thinking that those things were exclusive to Blake?  “Damian even thinks of you as his father. It bothers him a lot that you might not care about him as much as you did in the future.”

Blake finally looks up at Dick. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like he needs to avert his eyes.

Dick was in disbelief.

“No way,” he says.

Blake smiles so hard it hurts.

“You’re like me,” he decides.

“Huh?”

Blake taps his head.

“You overthink things,” he explains.

Dick sputters.

“Ah, you’ve been caught red-handed, Master Dick,” Alfred dryly remarks.

Dick sputters more nonsensical sounds before ceasing altogether. It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. When he does, he asks, “Damian thinks of me as a father?”

Alfred tuts just like he did earlier. “I thought it was obvious. Master Bruce hardly spent enough time with the boy to be considered as such.”

“I’m – but I’m – I’m in my twenties!”

“And?” Alfred might not have rolled his eyes, but his voice sure sounded like he did.

“He’s obsessed with inheriting Bruce’s legacy,” Dick defends.

“Only because of what he’s been taught,” Alfred sighs.

Dick was at a loss for words.

But Blake – who was borderline gleeful – found a weight lifted off his heart.

The next time Blake comes across Damian, he pulls Blake aside into their room (one day Blake will have his own, until he is adjusted, according to Alfred). Then, he slams the door, and spins on his heels. Blake backs further into the room as Damian paces back and forth near the exit. He held up his hands to his lips, pressed against one another flatly.

“Damian?”

Blake lowers himself down on Damian’s preferred desk chair, which was the only one, but still. Blake didn’t often make it a habit to take Damian’s spot in the room.

Damian gives Blake a calculative glance. Then, he moves his eyes away, and continues his pacing.

Finally, when his thoughts are in order, Damian stops.

“Blake,” he asks plainly, closing the distance between them, “do you know anything about Grayson’s recent behavior?”

Blake didn’t know what he was talking about. He makes that clear with his next words, “Is something wrong with Dick?”

Damian searches Blake’s eyes. Once he’s satisfied, he takes a step back, and pinches the arch of his nose.

“Grayson has had a difficult time conversing me after I confessed our… situation,” Damian hesitates. It almost looked like he regretted telling Dick the truth to begin with. Now that Blake thinks about it, he hadn’t seen Dick interact with Damian much after his confession. Maybe that was why Damian had wept a few days ago? Because the atmosphere between them had been off? Because Damian regretted telling the truth? Regretted mentioning that he was fifteen years old, and not the ten-year-old that Dick remembered? 

“But recently, he’s been going out of his way to talk to me,” Damian says.

Blake doesn’t know why that would make him pace.

“It has been painfully awkward. Richard was acting like a stuttering schoolboy.”

Damian releases his nose.

“And – after he got his words out – he started to fuss over me. Like I’m some sort of – of–baby.”

It was rare to see Damian as confused as he was now.

“He fretted over my bruises over patrol yesterday, Blake,” Damian stresses. “Yes, he usually shows concern, but he doesn’t fret over my health. Not like some – some mother hen.”

Blake feels a stupid smile form on his lips.

“And-“ Damian backs into the bed. He’s inelegant about it. It was nothing like his usual composed façade. “Blake, he hugged me without asking. He always, always, asks. He’s so touchy now – he – he wrapped his arm around my shoulders – and – argh.”

Damian flushes. He stares at the ceiling, but then he does a double-take.

“Wait, why are you smiling?”

Blake can’t help himself. He laughs.

“Blake?”

Blake’s laugh came straight from his gut. It was so bad that he was bending over in Damian’s chair, trying to get his air back.

“Blake!” Damian demands. He stands up from his mattress. “You know something!”

Blake wipes the tears away from his eyes.

“You-!” Damian had enough of Blake’s laughter. He hooks an arm around Blake’s neck, tucks his head into his side, and wrestles with him. “I demand you tell me what’s going on!”

Blake is breathless as tears go streaming down his cheeks. Happy tears. Funny tears. Whatever. Blake likes them this time.

His lack of response is bothering Damian because Damian suddenly pulls him up in the air.

“W-Wait,” Blake laughs.

Damian tosses him onto the mattress.

Blake breaks out into more laughter.

“Blake!”

Chapter Text

Blake picks around his pancakes as the people around him dig into Alfred’s bounty. While Blake wanted to show Alfred he appreciated his cooking, he was still reluctant after his little accident at Jon’s house. It’d been beyond embarrassing when he started choking. Blake didn’t want to make a scene again. He wasn’t looking to humiliate himself, even if the pancakes looked good.

Alfred went all out on this meal. He added fruit, cream, and a side of syrup. Dick seemed to particularly favor the syrup. The bottle only spent a few minutes on the table before Dick was picking it up again, squeezing it out onto his motherload of pancakes. Dick had a tall stack of them. Alfred seemed to know Dick’s appetite well.

“Wipe that stupid smile off your face,” Damian grumbles.

Blake looks up only to realize that, at some point, Dick had stopped eating entirely. He paused to consider Damian across the table, and that loopy smile of his hinted to the thoughts in his mind.

“Aw, Damian, can’t I just enjoy the moment?”

Damian stabs a fork into his meal. “I can’t eat when you’re staring at me and smiling like a loon.”

“I guess we’re in the same boat then.”

Damian’s grip on his fork falters. He stares at Dick, wide-eyed, and Dick smirks. It takes a moment for Damian to collect himself, but when he does, it comes with a scowl. “I fear something must have happened to you on patrol. I believe you have a few screws knocked loose.”

Dick gives Alfred a glance.

“I made sure Master Dick did not return to the manor without a medical checkup,” he says. “I’m afraid he’s quite healthy.”

Damian eyes Dick suspiciously.

Dick chuckles underneath his breath, shakes his head, and then briefs a glance in Blake’s direction. Something passes over his expression (concern?). Dick’s face falls into a neutral zone. Carefully, he asks, “Blake? Is the food not to your liking?”

Damian finally notices that Blake had not touched his food. In just a matter of seconds, Blake had collected all the attention in the room. It makes him shrink in his chair.

Blake mumbles something under his breath, something indecipherable.

“Speak up, we can barely hear you,” Damian demands.

“I don’t know how to eat it without choking,” Blake clarifies with red on his cheeks.

“Is something wrong with your throat?”

Blake shakes his head. “No – I – I just don’t know how to eat pancakes.” Then, he sinks further in his chair, and mutters, “It’s embarrassing.”

Alfred acts by crossing the room to Blake’s side. He bends down and picks up Blake’s butter knife. “Allow me, Master Blake. I will make it easier for you.”

Blake nods. Alfred acts immediately. He grabs Blake’s fork, puts it through his pancakes, and then uses it to stabilize his stack. Alfred then expertly slices the pancakes up in half. After that, he cuts it into fours, sixes, and finally eights. When he’s done, he lays down Blake’s silverware and withdraws.

“Bite-sized pieces,” Alfred explains. “It’s hard to choke on those.”

Blake picks up a piece with his fork.

With a shy smile, he says, “Thanks, Alfred.”

Alfred’s wrinkled features significantly lighten. “Good manners, indeed.”

Blake smiles to himself as he lifts the fork up to his lips.

It must bring peace back to the room. Dick looks away at his own plate, Damian works at cutting his meal, and Alfred removes himself from the dining room. Blake busies himself with his own meal while Dick starts up another conversation. He talks about school, Damian says something about how it’s as boring as he remembered, and then the two erupt into another round of bickering. It was a fascinating interaction. Blake had only seen Damian comfortably bicker with one other person. Jon Kent.

I miss him.  

Blake is almost done with his meal. Just in time for chaos to erupt. Alfred, the cat, scrambles into the room. A dog chases after him with clumsy legs. He crashes into the wall, bumps into a chair, and then barks happily. Blake stares at the dog wide-eyed. He remembers Alfred the cat, but did the family use to have a dog?

Two dogs, apparently, when another dog shows up. It’s smaller than the one that came bumbling in. More alert.

“Ace!” Dick greets. “I guess Alfred let you out of the cave, huh!?”

Titus knocks Damian out of his chair the second he notices he’s in the room.

“Titus, you are a bumbling buffoon! Get off me!”

Titus listens obediently with retreating licks to the face.

“This is madness,” Damian grumbles. He wipes the drool off his face, gets back up, and twists his expression until it becomes one of disgust. “I wasn’t finished eating.”

Blake watches Damian grumble further until a head headbutts his hand. Surprised, Blake looks down, and sees Ace trying to get a pet out of him.

“Oh, hello,” he greets softly. When he starts to run his hand over Ace’s fur, he thinks of when Lois had let him pet the cows.

Ace licks his fingers when they’re close to his mouth.

Alfred, the human, appears in the entrance of the dining room. He clears his throat and says, “Titus, Ace, heel.”

Titus deserts Damian to heel at Alfred’s ankles. Ace does the same. Alfred the cat, on the other hand, was happily grooming his fur.

“I apologize for the disruption,” Alfred the human sighs. “Our guest released them on accident.”

Dick’s face goes stone serious. “Guest?”

“Master Jason,” Alfred offers. “I saw him on the cameras.”

Dick shoots out of his chair. “Jason?”

Dick quickly wipes his hand on a napkin. Then, he tosses the napkin aside, and storms out of the room. Damian looks interested in following him, but he hesitates when he sees Blake’s lost expression.

Damian makes an ultimate decision by returning to his meal.

Blake questions, “You’re not going to meet him?”

“No.”

“He’s your brother,” Blake says.

“And so are you,” Damian huffs. “Besides, your company is far more favorable than his.”

Blake feels warm in the face. “Really?”

Damian grunts with a mouth stuffed full of pancakes. It seemed he’d done it deliberately just so he didn’t have to explain himself further. So, Blake decides to return to his meal, and mull over Damian’s words himself.

I guess I didn’t really know the extent of everyone’s relationships with each other, he thinks to himself. It was easy to assume when everyone was so defensive about Damian in the future. Blake just automatically guessed that they must have all been close to him.

Blake chews mindlessly.

Then, the memories come barreling in, and his fork almost slips out of his hand.

Hold on, Jason’s here.

The same Jason who thought he was a disgrace – the same man who had the meanest growl Blake had ever heard.

“I-“

Blake trembles as he stands up.

“I’m going to take a nap,” he says.

Alfred quirks a brow.

“It is only eight in the morning,” he reminds.

“I’m tired,” Blake lies. It’s not a good lie. He knows everyone can see through it, but he doesn’t want to tell them the truth. Blake doesn’t want to say that he was afraid of Jason, that he wanted to avoid him. Nevertheless, even without the truth laid plainly, it seemed they already had some sort of inkling. Damian was glaring daggers into the side of his head. Alfred seemed troubled.

Blake stuffs the last piece of pancake in his mouth before heading out of the dining room. He brushes past Alfred, walks down the hall, and eyes the grand staircase ahead. Damian’s room never seemed so far until he wanted to hide in it.

Blake feels something brush across his leg.

With one glance, Blake could tell he had a furry companion.

Alfred the cat follows him as he makes his way upstairs. He doesn’t seem intent on leaving, not even with Blake’s quick pace. Blake doesn’t know what to think of it. His goal is the only thing in his mind, and he doesn’t feel relief until it’s accomplished. Until he swings Damian’s door open, steps inside, and slams the door shut behind him.

Blake heads for the mattress.

When he climbs over the edge, he decides to bury himself into the covers. It makes him feel safe with the sheets tight around his body. It’s comforting in a way that the open dining room is not.

It’s okay.

Blake curls in on himself.

It’ll be fine.

Blake takes a deep breath. Alfred the cat purrs as he kneads into Blake’s side. Balancing on him with skill.

I just need time to process everything. 

Chapter Text

Damian soon joins Blake in their temporary living quarters (temporary in Blake’s case, as previously mentioned) after breakfast. Blake half-expected for Damian to make some comment about his behavior. Damian didn’t do anything of the sort. He silently sat himself down on his desk, pulled out his sketchbook, and then started up on a new page.

Blake had intended to hide in Damian’s room for the duration of Jason’s visit (however long that lasted), but now he was feeling a little awkward doing nothing in bed. Blake had already tried to coax himself to sleep, but his body was not cooperative in that department. Instead, his body was telling him he ought to do something, but Blake didn’t know how to fulfill that need. It didn’t sound like a good idea to leave the room. It also didn’t sound like a good idea to disturb Damian.

Blake sits up in contemplation. Mindlessly, his hand drifts to Alfred’s head, and then his mind wanders into distant places.

Blake startles when Damian speaks.

“I imagine the excuse you gave earlier was just a poor lie to avoid Todd.”

Damian doesn’t look at him while he speaks. Blake is glad. If Damian could see him, he’d see how he good he was at pretending to be a spooked deer in headlights.

“For future scenarios, I suggest you simply tell the truth,” Damian drawls, “You are not good at lying.”

Blake shrinks back into the mattress.

Damian must sense something off. He briefs a glance in Blake’s direction, hesitates, and then remedies, “I do not blame you for trying to avoid him. I have… seen your memories of him.”

“He’s scary,” Blake whispers.

Damian looked like he wanted to say something, but he keeps the words in his throat. Instead, he settles to say, “I suppose he can be intimidating at times.”

Damian doesn’t sound so convinced, but he was trying to be sympathetic. Blake feels his lips crack into a small smile. It was nice that Damian was trying to understand him. Blake can’t remember anyone trying to do anything for him. Just thinking about it dips his heart into heavy mud. Blake lowers his gaze towards the wrinkled covers draped over his lap. The smile, though fresh, removes itself from his face. Blake takes in a trembling breath.

“I know he’s different now,” Blake confesses. “I know that things aren’t the same. But I’m still scared. I don’t want to disappoint everyone again. I don’t want to ruin everything for your family.”

“Our family,” Damian corrects.

Blake grimaces. He tucks his knees in, rests his arms atop the joints, and then rests his chin on his limbs.

“Regardless,” Damian continues, “I don’t think you’d ever be capable of disappointing our family.”

Blake stares at Damian with a question in his eyes.

Damian expands, “Blake, the members of our family only dislike those who have evil interests and, as far as I’ve seen, you don’t have a single bad bone in your body. It is impossible for you to disappoint anyone.”

Blake didn’t know what to say to that. In fact, he was speechless, and his mind was blank.

Damian really thought that about him?

“It’s an unfounded fear.”

Blake lets Damian’s word digest before feeling a smile break out on his face. Shyly, he tucks his face in his arms, and hides his eyes from Damian’s prying ones. It takes him a few minutes to summon any courage for a reply. By the time he’s done gushing, he picks his head up again, and says, “I didn’t know you thought that about me.”

“I will break the bones of anyone who thinks you’re a disappointment,” Damian states flatly.

“I don’t think that’s how things work.”

“For you, no, but for me? I have responsibilities.”

Blake’s smile stretches. It’s silly that he’s so happy over this, but it’s nice to feel protected. It’s refreshing to hear that someone cared enough to defend him. What’s more, it was Damian, his big brother, that had committed to protect his name.

Blake takes off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes. Blake couldn’t feel the shift in the air when Damian left his seat, but his surprise was prominent when Damian’s weight dipped into the bed. Blake raises his sunglasses to put them back on his face, but Damian stops his hands abruptly with his own.

“I want to test something,” Damian says.

Blake’s lips press into a concerned line. His eyes, though uncovered, are squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” Damian commands.

Blake doesn’t dare open his eyes. “I can’t without my sunglasses.”

“I’m giving you permission.”

Blake’s brows crease with worry. “It might do something to you.”

Blake didn’t know what they’d do, but there was a reason he needed the sunglasses to begin with, right?

“It’s fine,” Damian’s voice is soft. “If anything goes wrong, you can simply put your sunglasses back on.”

Blake hesitates. Yet, Damian’s gentle tone, and his tender touch prods at his resolve. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, and looks upward into Damian’s. It’s the first time he shared eye-contact, without shades, in this tiny body of his. Damian’s eyes were illuminated with green. It was mesmerizing.

Damian surprises him when he leans forward to rest their foreheads together.

“I think I know what’s wrong with your eyes,” he says.

Blake blinks at him.

“Whatever you wished for, it had to be related to family, because now that we’re brothers, I’m not enthralled.”

Blake didn’t even know where to start. He had a lot of question to ask, like, for instance, what on Earth was Damian talking about?

Damian lets their foreheads rest for a sentimental moment before withdrawing. He gets back up, heads for his desk, and sits quietly on his chair. He picks up his pencil, concentration renewed, and proceeds to work on his unfinished sketch. Without turning his head, he hums, “Did you wish for anything other than returning to the past?”

Blake pinches his brows as he recalls his last moments in the future. It takes him some time to remember his last thoughts, but when he does, it hits him like a steam engine. Blake chews on his bottom lip. Then, as if Bruce were present, he forces himself to stop. Slowly, he says, “I wanted a family.”

Blake curls tighter into himself.

“I wanted a family,” he repeats as if it were a great revelation. “I wanted to belong somewhere.”

Blake goes quiet as he anticipates Damian’s reaction. Damian doesn’t say anything, not immediately, but when he does?

“You did belong somewhere,” he states simply.

Then, he draws up his sketchpad, and stares at the finished composition of his little brother’s features. It was one of the most peaceful drawings in his sketchpad. Especially now that Damian had captured his innocent eyes.

“They just weren’t ready for you,” Damian says quietly. He puts his book down, turns to look at Blake, and then stares into his stunning red eyes. “I won’t let them hurt you again.”

Damian meant it; Blake could tell.

It comforted him.

“Master Blake, I must insist that you join us for dinner,” Alfred states.

Damian had already left to eat. According to Damian, being a vigilante meant you had to eat a lot of calories or else his muscles wouldn’t maintain themselves. Or something like that. Blake hadn’t been paying a lot of attention. Regardless, Alfred must have noticed Blake’s missing presence at the table, otherwise, why else would he have come to fetch him?

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Blake says quietly. Even though he’s standing at the door, inches away from Alfred, he can’t look him in the eye.

“It is an excellent idea,” Alfred says. “It is important to have a proper intake of food if you wish to grow.”

Blake is reminded, again, that he is five.

Blake stares at his feet as if he were a scolded child. When he makes no reply, Alfred unclasps the hands gripped behind his back, and then settles them at his side. One, however, stretches out for Blake’s benefit. It appears in Blake’s vision.

“Come now,” he says gently. “I will make sure no harm will occur to you.”

Blake stares at Alfred’s outstretched hand. Damian had said the same thing, but Blake still didn’t want to go to dinner. For some reason, Alfred was different, maybe because he was an authority figure? Blake wasn’t sure. Regardless, Blake isn’t sure what compels him to put his tiny hand into Alfred’s, but it feels like a good decision with Alfred’s fingers tighten around his.

Blake holds Alfred’s hand as he’s escorted out into the hallway. Blake doesn’t realize that he’s clinging onto Alfred tighter than the man was clinging to him, not until they enter the dining room. Blake’s hand tenses into a death grip as he rests his eyes on Jason Todd. When they make eye-contact, Blake looks down at the floor in fear, and he only distantly registers the squeeze from Alfred’s hand.

“Blake,” Dick calls over cheerfully, “sit with me!”

Blake doesn’t answer. Alfred leads Blake to a seat next to Dick, despite Damian’s distant complaining, and Blake tries not to think too hard when he must climb up into the chair. He keeps his gaze on the table, refusing to look anywhere else.

“That is a child,” Jason’s voice rings in his ear. He sounds flat, like it wasn’t much of a surprise, but still enough so that he ought to point it out. “I’m guessing Bruce had another escapade we don’t know about?”

Dick’s voice is strained. It sounds like he’s trying to be positive, “Blake is our new brother who originates from experimental circumstances.”

Jason curses. It didn't take much for him to catch on. 

“I’m sick of the cloning crap,” he says.

Blake flinches.

“I don’t even know why I agreed to stay for dinner,” Jason grumbles. “I’m tired of family drama.”

“Blake is a welcomed addition to our family,” Dick says. “It doesn’t have to be dramatic.”

“It’s like a damn soap opera, Dick.”

Blake feels his eyes mist up. Immediately, he regrets following Alfred into the dining room, and Damian’s room sounded like a better option.

“Todd, you are an uncouth ruffian with no sense of social awareness,” Damian grits.

Jason looks over at Damian with an arched brow.

“Oh, wow, would you look at that? Damian’s still an angry little gremlin.”

Dick makes a sound in his throat as if he didn’t appreciate Jason’s comment, and for some reason that draws Jason’s questioning eyes in his direction. Jason seemed surprised at Dick’s reaction, but his surprise grows when he sees Blake crying. It doesn’t occur to Jason that he should question Blake’s sunglasses, or why he happened to be wearing them indoors. It’s the last thought in his mind as Blake humiliates himself with a public display of weakness.

I’m so stupid, I cry all the time, Blake thinks miserably.

Alfred hands Dick a napkin whilst giving Jason an unimpressed glance.

Dick seems clueless until he follows Jason’s gaze. Once he sees Blake crying, right next to him, Dick crumbles.

“Blake, oh kiddo, it’s okay,” he soothes. “Jason wasn’t trying to be mean.”

Damian grumbles from across the table. Something about how Blake should’ve sat next to him instead. It flies over all their heads.

Dick wipes up the tears from Blake’s face with a soft coo. Blake tries to nudge his face away, but Dick reaches out a hand to steady him. It rests on his cheek and turns his face in Dick’s direction. Dick has more access to wiping away his tears in this position. It also forces Blake to look at his chest.

“Master Jason, I understand that you are not happy to be here, but let it be known that I wished to spend more time with you. I did not mean to make you take your frustrations out on those around you, or to make you feel that you would be trapped here against your will.”

Jason was at a loss.

“Idiot,” Damian grumbles.

Alfred shakes his head. He walks away to retrieve the food and leaves the air thick with awkwardness. Dick runs his fingers over Blake’s bangs, as if he’d been doing it his whole life, and tucks a few invisible strands to the side. Blake doesn’t even notice the touch, or how natural it feels, as he tries to compose himself.

Alfred returns with the food on a rolling metal cart.

After Alfred serves the food, Jason still finds himself at a loss.

Then, breaking the silence, he says, “Well, I feel like an ass.”

Chapter Text

Blake tolerates Dick’s babying for the rest of the meal.

Dick must have remembered the pancake incident because, when Alfred brought out the steaks, he’d made it his task to cut up Blake’s food for him. Jason looked like he wanted to say something about it, but he kept his mouth shut during the entire interaction. Damian, on the other hand, didn’t pay it any mind. Alfred had made him a plate of roasted vegetables and rice. Damian dug in as if the food would grow legs and walk away.

Jason wasn’t too talkative after Blake made a spectacle of himself. Blake wasn’t sure if he should be grateful, or if he should somehow encourage him to speak. It was awkward. Jason looked like he was trapped. Nevertheless, Blake didn’t have the guts to start up a conversation, or to try to make Jason comfortable. It was the last thing on his mind. All Blake wanted was to keep Jason from getting angry. He had a mean growl, the kind the haunted Blake’s memories, and his sneer could kill. Blake would do anything to keep those things from repeating.

“So, Damian,” Dick begins for the sake of breaking the tense silence. “Is school working out for you?”

“It’s the same as I remember it,” Damian says in between bites, “boring.”

“I saw your report card. I’m proud of you.”

“If you saw my report card, then why did you even ask if school was working for me?”

“I wanted to have your opinion.”

Damian wipes his lips with a napkin. “Here’s my opinion,” he lays down, “school is a waste of time. I could be doing more important things. I could catch up to the cases we’ve woefully fallen behind on.”

“No case talks at the table,” Alfred scolds.

Damian huffs through his nose. “I don’t know why you decided to put me in school when I’m already familiar with all the material. It seems pointless.”

Jason finally speaks up, “That’s what I said.”

Dick gives him a look.

“Bruce tried real hard to get me into school. I fought him every step of the way. Kept telling him that there was no point in putting me in the education system when I was already several grades ahead of my age group.”

“It’s not just for the grades,” Dick sighs. “It’s for the socialization. It’s for our family’s public image.”

“I didn’t get anything out of hanging with a bunch of snot-nosed brats,” Jason grumbles.

“They’re my inferiors,” Damian retorts.

Dick glances between Jason and Damian.

“You two have a lot of common,” he notices.

“Oh, hell no,” Jason grounds out, “I am not anything like Damian.”

“Don’t insult me by comparing us,” Damian sniffs. “Todd’s intelligence severely lacks. I am not nearly as stupid.”

Jason taps his fork idly on his plate. “I don’t know how you can say that when I’ve seen you pull some pretty stupid stunts.”

Blake pulls a piece of steak up to his mouth as Jason erupts into bickering with Damian. Jason had once been solid in his standing to defend Damian’s memory. Blake wondered what had changed to make him that way. It didn’t make any sense. Jason didn’t seem to have a good relationship with him. Not like Blake had originally assumed. Blake thought that Jason had adored Damian. Now, he knows that he is wrong, because why else would Jason spew out insults?

Damian didn’t seem all that happy with his presence either, now that Blake thinks about it.

It doesn’t explain why Alfred is smiling.

“I think we should do something after this,” Dick says loudly enough to interrupt. “It’s been a while since we’ve been together like this. You know, without trying to kill each other, and all that.”

Damian scowls. It seemed there was a memory associated to Dick’s words.

“No thanks,” Jason says. “I’m not looking to patrol outside Park Row.”

Dick seems exasperated, “No, I’m not talking about patrol, Jason. I’m talking about an activity. Alfred patched up the basketball. I was thinking we could play a round outside.”

“I’ll get bit up if we go outside,” Jason complains.

“Good thing we have mosquito spray,” Dick is undeterred.

“I hate the outdoors,” Jason claims.

Damian scoffs so hard that it makes him cough. “Todd,” he hacks, “you are pathetic.”

“And you sound like you’re dying,” Jason says dryly.

“Yes, well, your presence is ill-inducing,” Damian scowls. “So go, Todd, like the coward you are. Basketball is beyond you.”

“Basketball is beyond me?” Jason looks over at Dick. “Do you hear what this kid is saying?”

Dick covers his face with his hand. At first, it looks like it’s because he’s exhausted, but Blake sees a hint of a smile on his lips.

“I could dunk you out of the damn park, Damian,” Jason says.

“Todd, if you paid attention to anything that came out of your mouth, you’d realize that you know nothing about basketball.” Damian rolls his eyes, “Dunk me out of the park? Baseball isn’t remotely related to shooting hoops.”

“Okay, I can’t take this slander anymore,” Jason slams his hands on the table. “You and me, Damian, on the basketball court. Now. I’ll show you a thing or two about sports.”

“I don’t want the play with a simpleton,” Damian says but he’s smirking about it. As if he had Jason wrapped around his finger.

“Good thing I’m anything but,” Jason says. He readies himself to walk out the dining room, but Alfred is there to re-direct him right back to his seat.

“After dinner, Master Jason,” he insists.

Jason groans as he pops back down on his chair. “I don’t have the patience for this.”

“Then it’s time to cultivate it,” Alfred says.

Blake chews through his steak as Jason starts picking at his meal half-heartedly. Alfred gives him a look that makes him stop playing with his food. Jason eats with a purpose.

Dick is beaming brightly as he returns to his own meal.

Damian looks smug.

Blake felt as if he’d missed something.

Blake ends up outside with the rest of the family right after dinner.

Damian stretches out his body as he prepares himself to teach Jason a lesson. Blake listens to them occupy each other with tough talk. Jason cracks his neck for show as he rebuffs Damian’s verbal jabs. It seemed as if nothing Damian said would knock him off his game. Jason was only fazed when Damian insulted his physical capabilities. Now, Damian, on the other hand, was not exempt from offense. Jason knew how to get under his skin. Damian’s weakness was his pride. Jason took advantage of that.

“Ready, short-stuff?” Jason asks.

“I’m going to pummel you, Todd,” Damian claims.

Jason bounces a basketball off the ground below them. He looks ready to start, but Dick pauses everything. “Wait!” He cries out, jogging over to Damian’s position, “Damian, you can’t play, not with your shoes untied.”

Dick abruptly crouches down to tie Damian’s shoes for him. He fusses over the laces, and Damian stands there. Red-faced.

“Richard,” he hisses, “you’re making me look like a fool.”

Jason lets the sight digest in his mind before he’s blinking out of his stunned stupor. Then, he’s laughing, throwing an arm over his stomach. “Aw, Damian, does the widdle baby need his shoes tied?”

Damian’s red face darkens in hue as Dick concentrates on Damian’s shoes. It was as if nothing else mattered to his father figure. Dick was a man on a mission.

Jason finds it hilarious.

Blake watches Jason bust a gut from where he stood next to the hoop. It was entrancing. Jason looked like he was getting a kick out of Damian’s predicament. It was astounding to hear him laugh. Blake hadn’t witnessed it before. Not so – so carefree – and amused.

Damian escapes Dick the moment the man announces that he’s finished. Jason wipes the tears away from his eyes as he taps the ball against the pavement under his feet. Once he’s done getting a hold of himself, he gives Damian a taunting smirk, and then he gets into position. Damian readies himself on the opposing side. He might be smaller than Jason, much, much, smaller, but his aura was enormous. Damian wouldn’t be going down without putting up a tough fight.

It begins in a manner of seconds. Blake watches the two springs to life as the game starts. Damian works on stealing the ball from Jason, and Jason is dead-serious as he feints to avoid him. Nothing can wipe the concentration off Jason’s face. Nothing.

Jason makes his first shot.

It bounces off the rim.

“Todd, as expected, your performance leaves much to be desired.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Better work harder if you want to goad me.”

Damian uses his small body to avoid Jason as he runs across the court. Blake watches as the two engage in a battle of wills. Jason isn’t going to let Damian shoot easy. He manages to block Damian at his front, stretch out his hands, and catch the ball mid-air. Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth in irritation. Jason grins ferally as he runs for a dunk.

Dick sees it before anyone else.

“Blake, move!”

Blake didn’t realize how dangerous it was to stand next to a basketball hoop when someone was dunking. No one had told him to step away. Blake’s common sense hadn’t kicked in, either, because he hadn’t put any thought into it.

Blake’s unprotected head gets slammed.

It wasn’t as if he was standing underneath the rim itself. But, when Jason broke the rim with his weight (it must have been old), it all came crumbling down on Blake.

Jason managed to avoid the boy, but the basketball didn’t.

And Blake distantly thinks that he must have deserved it.

Blake flexes his fingers as the world around him blurs. Someone is patting his cheek, hey, kid, they say, stay awake.

Blake didn’t even realize he was on the ground until someone was propping him up.

Blake looks up at Jason’s face which held a deep frown. It’s not the woozy pain that gets Blake, but the scary face that floats above him. Blake tries to turn away from it. “Don’t be angry, please,” he begs.

Jason sputters, “I’m not angry kid.”

“You scare him,” Damian’s gritting voice grinds nearby. “Let go of him, now.”

“Hey, hey, hey, calm down,” Dick says from the side. Blake can’t see him. Can’t see Damian, either.

Blake tries to curl into himself as his head throbs bad enough for a bubbling whimper. It must shatter something in Jason because his face twists into something guilt stricken. “I think we need to take him to the clinic.”

“Agreed, now release him,” Damian demands.

Jason does the opposite. He collects Blake in his arms, lifts him up, and then carries him towards the garage. Blake’s hand automatically flies to hold onto Jason’s shirt. It’s the only relief he gets for the pounding in his head.

“Didn’t mean to,” Blake whispers. Please, he hopes, let Jason understand.

Jason doesn’t say anything. Damian does. “Todd, you hurt my little brother!”

Damian sounds upset, angry, and grieved at the same time.

“Alfred, I’m taking a car,” Jason announces, ignoring everything around him.

Because, even if it wasn’t said, Jason felt responsible.

Damn him for listening to Alfred in the first place, for deciding to stick around.

Jason would always hurt the people around him.

Why did he think anything would change?

Chapter Text

Jason feels like a piece of trash.

Blake was diagnosed with a concussion. Leslie prescribed medication, rest, and warned against physical activities. That meant, because of Jason, Blake was essentially bed-ridden. Don’t let him stress out, Leslie had told the men huddled in the clinic, he’s very young, so hopefully he’ll bounce back quickly, but mental stress will disrupt the healing process. All Jason had extracted from that – however – was that Jason had given Blake – a very young child – head trauma. It could have damaged him for the rest of his life. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to be as bad as it could be, Leslie was insistent upon that part, but Blake would be sporting a nasty headache.

Jason finds himself at Blake’s bedside out of guilt. The poor kid threw up a few times on the way to the clinic, and now he was all tuckered out after being forced to stay awake. The entire time Jason held him, all he could think about was Damian’s words, he’s scared of you, and wonder if he looked as intimidating as he tried to be. It was supposed to be a good thing. Yet, scaring little children had not been his intention, and, gods, Jason wasn’t as good with children as he thought.

Damian was not happy with Jason. Still, now that Jason felt like he owed Blake an apology, he couldn’t kick Jason out of the mansion. Jason knows he wants to, but he’s not going to leave. Not until he makes up for his mistakes. Jason understands he couldn’t have predicted the faulty basketball hoop, but he was, is, responsible for bringing harm to a little child.

Jason did consider leaving for the sake of his own stress. But, knowing his own conscious, Jason wouldn’t be able to handle it. It’d plague him until it was resolved. It’d cut down to his heart just like the rest of his problems. Except, Jason was the adult in this issue, and he might as well do what he always wanted Bruce to do. Take responsibility. Elsewise, he’d be a hypocrite, and Jason hated hypocrites. It didn’t matter if he wanted to hightail it. Jason couldn’t let some kid think he was looking to hurt him. It’d give him stress that a child shouldn’t have. Clone or not.

He’s an actual child, Jason had realized at the dinner table, right around the part where Blake had started crying. Clones usually had a tendency of being cold-hearted or way more mature than originally assumed. Jason didn’t have any good interactions with doppelgangers but – ugh – it was clear Blake was the exception. Dick wouldn’t have taken him in if he had bad intentions nor would he have cared for him like a baby if he wasn’t one.

Jason scrolls through his phone in the dark of Blake’s room.

Damian was asleep at his desk. Blake had taken up the entire bed. Jason didn’t see the point of sharing a room when the two looked like they’d barely fit together in the bed, but apparently, it’d been Damian’s idea to start off with. Count Jason surprised when he’d heard that piece of news. Damian wasn’t the type to share.

Jason keeps the volume down as he entertains himself with pointless videos. It was well within the night. Jason wasn’t going to sleep. He didn’t have much to sate his boredom, but his phone was an excellent stand-in for killing time. Jason didn’t bring his headphones along though, so he settled for keeping the volume low.

Jason tries to watch a video about a woman putting her cats through various challenges. Instead, his concentration drifts, and he starts thinking about Dick. Dick hadn’t blamed Jason when he should’ve. In fact, after Blake had been diagnosed with a concussion, Dick lamented over the idea that it was his fault.

I should have been by his side, he had said, it wasn’t your fault. I’m supposed to be his guardian. I don’t know why I haven’t been acting like it.

It was a wakeup call for Dick. Or at least that’s what he claimed.

Jason shifts in his seat.

He doesn’t notice the accidental swipe over another thumbnail until music starts playing. Gotham Symphony was playing a classical piece. Jason doesn’t quite remember the name. The piece is familiar but, for some odd reason, the YouTube title doesn’t give any credit. It only says Gotham Symphony Performance at Highstand Theatre, July, 20XX.

Jason checks the description.

Nothing.

Jason stares at the empty description text box.

Then, he hears a hum, and his eyes snap upward.

Blake was awake – looking at the ceiling with glassy eyes – humming to the song.

“Do you think Father will let me go?”

Jason shifts in his seat once more. Confusion.

“What?”

Blake rolls his head.

“I like this part,” he says. “Duh – da – duh – duh – duh.”

Jason knew the medication must be talking to him, not Blake.

“Dovrak – Symphony No. 9 – Movement 4,” Blake slurs. “I like the trumpets.”

“Oh,” Jason sounds. Is he supposed to say something else?

Blake sighs sleepily.

“I want to go,” he exhales.

Jason looks back down at the phone. It takes him a moment to understand what the heck Blake is talking about. When he figures it out, it makes sense.

“You want to see the Gotham Symphony,” he realizes aloud.

“Yeah,” Blake agrees.

Jason’s mind starts running.

It wouldn’t be that hard to procure tickets, right? When would the next concert be? He didn’t know anything about classical music, or the Gotham Symphony, or anything associated with it. But that’s why the internet existed, right? Jason could buy the tickets, take the kid with him, and make everything up to him. It’d make things better.

“Nothing stopping you.” Jason puts his phone down.

Blake frowns.

“Can’t go,” he whispers.

Jason tilts his head.

“Father will make me play the violin."

Jason opens his mouth to ask a question, but Damian surprises him with a statement.

“Father won’t make you play the violin, Blake, not if I can help it.”

Jason looks over at Damian’s form. He hadn’t lifted his head from the table, but it was obvious he was awake because of his reply.

“Am I missing something here?”

“Blake is his own individual, Todd, but he fears that he’ll be forced to replace me.”

Jason blinks. Okay, hold on, that was a loaded sentence.

“Don’t put much thought into it,” Damian warns. “It’d be best if you forgot this whole conversation.”

“Hey – hold on – I’m interested now.”

“All you need to know is in the files downstairs,” Damian says. “Beyond that, I would warn you not to dig for information, not after you hurt my baby brother.”

Jason lets Damian’s words process through his mind.

“I thought out of all people, you’d be the one most on edge about this whole,” Jason gestures to Blake’s situation, “thing. Isn’t it weird that you’ve been cloned?”

“He’s not my clone, he’s my little brother, and nothing else needs to be said.”

“Damian’s a good brother,” Blake adds drunkenly.

Jason had thought Damian would be the last person to accept that he’d been cloned. Yet, here he was, treating said clone like close family. Jason wondered what Blake must’ve done to earn Damian’s loyalty – you know – aside from looking like him.

Jason leans back in his chair.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Jason rubs at his jaw. “Believe me, I wish I could go back in time to prevent it.”

Damian doesn’t say anything as he allows them both a moment to think.

Jason starts again, “I’ll make it up to him.”

“Don’t bother,” Damian says.

“It’s okay, Damian, you’re good,” Blake adds without context. It made no sense. Something else must be going on in his mind. Jason could only wonder what a medicated child could be thinking about.

“It’s pointless if you don’t mean it,” Damian grounds out.

“I do mean it,” Jason insists. “I’ll make it up to him. I’ll show him there’s nothing to be afraid of, be a big brother, and all that."

“You just called him a clone five seconds ago,” Damian snarls. This time, he does lift his head. "You're not his brother."

"Can't just say anything you want, kid. If he's your brother, then he's mine by default."

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with our family.”

Jason inwardly sighs. Point, he admits to himself.

“It doesn’t matter if I want to do anything with our family. It doesn’t change the fact that we’re siblings.”

“In name only,” Damian scowls.

“Which is enough, legally,” Jason retorts.

Damian looks ready to argue but Blake whimpers.

“No fighting, please,” he begs.

Damian shuts his trap. Jason does, too, before anything can come out.

“Just want everyone to be happy,” Blake whimpers, “just… want…”

Blake rolls his head again as he begins to fade from consciousness. Jason was starting to think Blake had more problems than just being afraid of him.

Jason looks back down at his phone. Thoughtfully, he whispers, “How about we just save this for later?”

Damian doesn’t look like he wants to, but he grunts in the affirmative, regardless.

For Blake’s sake.

How interesting.

Damian was willing to stop for someone else.

It made Jason want to go downstairs to read those files.

Chapter Text

Blake spends a lot of time doing nothing.

It’s the consequence of the concussion. Blake would like to get up. He’d like to leave the room, eat with the family, and act like a healthy individual. It seemed nigh impossible with the constant headaches. That, in addition with dizzy spells, made it impossible to act like a normal person. Blake couldn’t even hold a conversation without zoning. Somehow – in some way – the concussion made it hard to think.

Damian spent a lot of time with Blake while he was cooped up in their room, but Damian had responsibilities that often pulled him away from Blake’s company. Not only did he have to go to school, but he had taken up vigilantism (as was stated before). Frankly, Blake couldn’t be happier for him, especially after all that’s happened. It was good to hear that Damian was getting back to his life. Blake had wanted this for him. Now that it was happening, now that Blake could see it with his own eyes, he was content. Damian Wayne was with his family again. Blake could fix everything.

When Damian is away, Blake receives the occasional visitor, often manifested in the form of Alfred. Alfred doesn’t linger long. He comes by with food, checks up on Blake’s health, and then leaves. It was probably for Blake’s sake. Blake was, after all, terribly, terribly shy. Alfred could barely hold a conversation with him. It was always one-sided. Blake would try to answer, but his replies were short. He didn’t give Alfred a lot of motive to stick around, and Alfred couldn’t resurrect a dying conversation. Even though he tried. A lot.

Blake felt bad that he wasn’t a better conversationalist. It would be nice to have the confidence that Damian had. Blake wouldn’t have to worry about people’s thoughts, and he’d also talk without questioning every word that came out of his mouth.

Blake sighs as he stares off at Damian’s desk. There was a lot of admirable traits about Damian, and one of those things happened to include his hobby. If Blake could draw – if he could just make a simple sketch – it’d kill a lot of time. It was so boring sitting in bed all day.

Blake can only fantasize for so long. A knock on the door draws his attention, and it doesn’t sound anything like Alfred. Blake had heard his knock enough times to know when he was present.

Cautiously, Blake says, “It’s open.”

Blake wonders if he’d made a good decision when Jason Todd walks into his room.

Jason strides in like he owns the place. He grabs hold of Damian’s desk chair, rolls it over to the bed, and then plops down. It happens quickly. Jason knew what he was going to do the minute Blake invited him in. 

Blake stays silent. Frankly, he doesn’t know what he’d say in this kind of situation, and even if he did know what to say, he’d still be mute, anyways. Probably out of fearful respect for this man. Jason had shown that he could be a little goofy (having risen to Damian’s childish challenge at the dining table), but Blake didn’t want to risk testing his personality. Blake didn’t want to get on Jason’s bad side. Didn’t want to do anything that could possibly make Jason dislike him. One wrong word – one wrong action – it could change everything. Blake knows the power of change. It’s not always good.

Blake grabs his sunglasses from the bedside stand. Doesn’t dare look Jason in the eye without putting them on.

Jason sniffs. He leans back into his chair, rests a foot on his knee, and rests his hands behind his head.

“So,” Jason begins. “I knew you were smart for a five-year-old. I wouldn’t have guessed it was because you’re from the future.”

Blake looks down at his lap.

“You read the files,” he says.

“Yeah,” Jason confirms.

Jason goes silent for a moment. He lets his answer sit between them, lets it float in the atmosphere, as the two of them process whatever emotions they were having. Blake didn’t feel anything beyond anticipation. Jason probably thought of him differently after reading those files. Blake could only wonder what might have changed in his perception of him. It would be nice if he’d just say it out loud. Blake didn’t want to leave things up to his imagination. It was a not-fun game when his mind decided to get creative.  

Blake expects Jason to have some questions. However, instead of pushing the subject, Jason surprises him.

“I brought my PlayStation 2 over,” Jason mentions. “I hooked it up downstairs. I thought you might enjoy getting out of here.” He then adds, in a mumble, “I know I would.”

Blake watches Jason shift in his seat. A small, small, sign that he was nervous. Blake probably wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t staring.

Blake spends a little too much time staring.

Blake would like to blame the concussion for making it hard to process things. Eventually, he relieves the tension with an innocent question.

“I don’t know what a… PlayStation 2 is.”

Jason returns Blake’s stare as if he’d just confessed a horrifying secret.

“You’re kidding,” Jason says.

Blake gives him a helpless look. Jason was acting as if he was lying. Blake knew he wasn’t lying. He genuinely didn’t know what a PlayStation 2 was, and he didn’t know why it was important to Jason. It had to be important to him if he’d react so strongly.

 “Wait, no, you aren’t kidding. You – you seriously don’t know what a PlayStation 2 is?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappoint.”

If anything, that baffles Jason further, doing the opposite of what Blake wanted. Blake was looking to make peace between them. Instead, it had the opposite effect, proving to do nothing to benefit Blake’s position.

Jason is nearly speechless.

“I’m not saying you’re a disappointment,” Jason blurts out before Blake can have more time to reflect over his ‘mistake.’ “I’m just… damn. I can’t believe how old I am.”

Blake pinches his brows. “You’re not old,” he examines. Jason looked to be in his early twenties. In the future, he was in his later twenties, and he’d looked so angry. So betrayed. Blake thinks the stress might have added to his age. Made him look older than he really was.

I wonder why he was so angry, Blake thinks to himself, watching Jason rub his neck. From what he’d seen, Jason didn’t have the closest relationship with Damian, not like the one Dick had. Blake wondered if he was missing something.

“I don’t know,” Jason finally says, flopping his hand back into his lap, “I think you’d feel old too if we swapped places.”

Blake honestly couldn’t imagine himself ever feeling old. It seemed like a far-off future that would never happen. Not at the rate of which he was growing. Not after he’d regressed in age.

“I’m not going to spend anymore time thinking about this,” Jason decides. He picks his heavy body off the chair. Blake listens to the relieved creak of the plastic pole, and then proceeds to observe Jason head for the exit. “I’m going to get you properly cultured, Blake, don’t you worry.”

Jason opens the door, takes one step outside, but then pauses.

He turns. Shoots a look over his shoulder that has expectations in it.

“You gotta get out of bed, kid,” he says.

Blake’s concussed mind slowly registers Jason’s words before realizing that, oh, yeah. Jason is right. Blake couldn’t follow him without getting off the mattress.

Blake slips his blankets off, throws his legs over the side of the bed, and takes his time getting up. It’s not easy to make sudden movements with a concussion. Blake’s head pounds when he moves around. It’s not a fun experience. Blake hopes he’ll never get a concussion again.

“Sorry,” Blake murmurs as he gets up on his feet.

Jason opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then he decides it’s better not to say anything at all. He clamps his mouth shut, turns, and leads the way out of the room. Blake slowly walks after him.

And Jason – who probably could’ve just left him behind – makes sure he’s only three steps ahead of him.

Jason teaches Blake how to play on the so-called PlayStation 2. It’s a gaming system that requires controllers to play. Blake has one of the controllers in his hand. It’s grey, made from plastic, and it had a long wire that connects it to the gaming system. Blake could move his character around on the screen because of it. It was… amazing. Blake was moving a character, made of clunky polygons, on the television screen with his thumbs.

“You’re a natural,” Jason says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I don’t know what’s up with kids in your generation, but they’re frighteningly good at technology.”

Blake feels himself warm up at the praise.

It’s the only time that Blake gets praised, but it echoes in his mind throughout the session. Jason likes something about him. Jason thinks he’s good at video games. Blake can’t let go of the feeling. It’s precious to him – it’s a treasure in his heart – something that’ll be there forever. Blake appreciates the positivity. It makes him feel better about himself.

However, as good as the compliment might make him feel, it doesn’t make his headache go away. After some time of playing, Blake puts the controller down, reaching a hand to tenderly press upon his temple.

Jason’s voice is soft yet solid.

“Is everything okay?”

Blake squeezes his eyes shut. “I think that my medication is wearing off.”

Jason curses as if this was a pain to him too.

How odd, Blake thinks, remembering that, though unintentional, it’d been Jason who’d given him this concussion. It shouldn’t have hurt him, too, right? If so, then Blake would have to apologize. Jason wasn’t meant to get hurt. He was meant to be happy, like the rest of them, and how was Blake supposed to fix things if Jason was upset?

“Tell me where to find it,” Jason says. “I’ll go get it.”

“Alfred,” Blake says.

“Alfred has it?”

“He’s the one who’s been giving me doses,” Blake whispers with tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Blake had never had a headache before. Not before the concussion. It was a miserable experience.

“I’ll find him,” Jason swears.

Blake doesn’t reply as Jason gets up from the couch. He hears him shuffling out of the room, but it’s hard focusing on the sound. Blake can’t think of anything except the pain in his head. It was like he was being hit in the head all over again. Briefly, he wonders if this is what would’ve happened if Red Robin hadn’t saved him, if he had hit the ground when his father pushed him off the building.

Blake doesn’t realize there are hands on him until voices register in his head.

“-just started hurting once we finished the ga-“

“-ou done nothing wrong-“

“-oor kid.”

Blake swallows something hard. It’s round, circular, and weird. It’s hard to guess what it was through the fog of pain. Blake couldn’t even process his environment let alone what was pushed into his mouth.

“-ake him back upstairs.”

“I’ll do it, Alfred. I don’t train without reason.”

Blake feels himself lifted. It makes his head throb. It makes him whimper like a kicked puppy.

Poor puppies, Blake thinks deliriously, who is kicking the puppies?

“I know kid, I’m sorry,” someone apologizes.

Blake’s head flops against something solid. It’s firm and sturdy. It moves a little bit, but it radiates heat.

I’m going to throw up.

The minute Blake is set down onto a soft mattress, he’s lurching over the side, emptying the contents of his stomach. It makes him feel disgusting. It makes him gag even more.

Blake is waiting for someone to agree that he's disgusting Waiting for his environment to tell him that he’d messed everything up. Instead, a hand presses into his back, sitting there while Blake tries to find relief for his stomach. It hurts his head every time he vomits. It makes him sob in misery.

When Blake finally stops throwing up, he’s too busy just trying to breathe. The hand never removes itself. At some point, it even starts rubbing him, making repetitive motions that slowly draws his attention.

Finally, Blake starts hearing a voice that had always been there, but that he hadn’t been listening to while he had been suffering.

“There we go, bud. It’s over now, it’s done.”

Blake takes in a shaky breath.

“Don’t worry about it, okay? Just get some sleep. Alfred and I will take care of the mess.”

Blake feels the hand start to lift off. It’s not something he wants. He blindly grabs out for whoever was sitting next to him, sinking his fingers into a fabric of some kind, holding onto the person with all his strength.

Jason, Blake remembers.

“Hey, what’s up?” Jason sounds so gentle. So quiet. Things that Blake didn’t know he was capable of.

“How – how do you be,” Blake swallows. “Confident.”

“What?”

“I want to be confident,” Blake says. “I-“

“Look, how about you get some rest,” Jason encourages.

“Don’t hate me,” Blake begs.

Jason grabs hold of Blake’s hand, the one holding onto his shirt.

“Rest, Blake,” Jason soothes. “It’s fine, alright? I don’t hate you – confidence comes from experience – all that jazz. Just, let your brain get some rest, yeah?”

“Okay,” Blake whispers shakily as Jason lays him back down on the bed. “Okay,” Blake repeats, mostly for himself.

“Good boy,” Jason praises.

Blake takes in another rattling breath before closing his eyes. Doesn’t even register the fact that someone was taking off his sunglasses. Just – focuses on the darkness. Secretly asks it to take away the pounding in his head.

It does.

Chapter Text

Jason isn’t around when Blake wakes up.

Good, Blake thinks, remembering how he’d thrown up everywhere. It was embarrassing that Jason had to witness all of that. Blake couldn’t think about the memory without cringing, and it didn’t help that the memory kept popping up. It was impossible to do a simple task without recalling his recent humiliation. It was as if his mind wished to torture him. Blake had never, it felt like, been so trapped in his brain.

Blake inhales deeply, grabs the empty bowl on his lap, places it on the side-table, and then buries his face in his hands.

It stays that way until Alfred knocks.

“Master Blake,” his voice echoes through the wood, “I’ve come to collect your dish.”

Dish, right, Blake thinks while lifting his head. He turns his eyes towards the empty bowl, white porcelain stained with tomato soup, recalling how Alfred had delivered it to him an hour ago. It took part of a new routine. Ever since Blake got his concussion, Alfred would bring him food, and if not Alfred, then Damian. Sometimes, Dick visited, too, but not as often as the others. Dick was a busy man. Damian didn’t know what he did during the day, but it was important enough to take his attention.

Blake reaches for his bedside stand, grabs his sunglasses, and rests them on the arch of his nose.

“Come in,” Blake invites.

Alfred does exactly that. He opens the door, steps foot into the room, and scans the space. Alfred’s gaze lands on the empty bowl. It must amuse him. Blake doesn’t know why, but Alfred's lips quirk up.

“I see the tomato soup was to your liking,” Alfred says. “I tried a new recipe on that one. It’s creamier than I usually make it.”

“I like just about everything you make,” Blake admits honestly.

Alfred’s lips don’t just quirk, this time, they curve.

“High praises, Young Master,” Alfred says with satisfaction. “I’m glad you enjoy my talents. I rarely receive such compliments from the others.”

That can’t be true, Blake thinks to himself, there’s no way. Blake remembers sitting at the Wayne table, with his father seated at the head, and Alfred’s carefully prepared meals. Bruce would always thank Alfred for his service. Sometimes, he’d even invite him to join them, but Alfred was never fond of the idea. Blake later began to assume it had something to do with him. Alfred was warm towards the other children, but he’d been terribly distant with Blake.

Remembering how Alfred used to treat him has Blake shrinking in his collar, even though he didn’t have much of a collar, but Alfred doesn’t seem to notice. It seems he has other things in mind.

“I suggest a stroll around the grounds today,” Alfred advises, “seeing as to how you’ve been lacking your daily dose of Vitamin D. I think the exercise would do you some good, too.”

Blake blinks. “Vitamin D?”

“Vitamin D is a nutrient,” Alfred explains. “It helps your body function in a variety of ways.

“Oh,” Blake blinks again, “how does going outside give me Vitamin D?”

“The sun,” Alfred expands. “It boosts your Vitamin D levels.”

Alfred collects the bowl, wipes down the bedside stand, and then nods at his handiwork. Blake watches him for a moment before a question arises in his mind. Blake fights the urge to bite his bottom lip. He didn’t have any trouble asking for clarification earlier, so why was he struggling to ask Alfred a follow-up question? It filled his chest with anxiety.

Blake feels helpless as Alfred turns to leave. He opens his mouth, closes it, and then swallows thickly. Alfred is out the door before Blake can build up any confidence.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Blake whispers harshly. He curls his fingers into his blankets, rolls the fabric up until his skin is red, and curses himself for being such a coward. It didn’t make any sense. Blake had been fine telling Alfred how he’d felt about his cooking. It was difficult to understand why he was having trouble now.

Blake throws a leg over the bed as he berates himself for holding back. He throws the other leg over, scoots towards the edge, and then spots his shoes out in the open. Blake takes a deep breath before he picks himself off the bed, but the deep breath wasn’t enough to calm his head. It throbs angrily when he moves. Blake pauses. He gives his head some time to settle, not daring to move an inch until finally, finally, it doesn’t threaten to tip him over. Blake pushes forward to reach his shoes.

It's a mistake to bend over with a pounding headache.

Blake nearly cries, distraught that he couldn’t accomplish a simple task, like picking his shoes up off the floor without a throb. Blake couldn’t wait until he was healed.

Blake lowers himself to the ground slowly so that he can put his shoes on. Alfred catches him in the act by the time he’s tying his shoelaces.

Alfred doesn’t say anything while he hovers in the doorway. However, when Blake attempts to lift himself up, Alfred moves into the room. Alfred helps him rise off the ground with two gloved hands. It doesn’t lessen Blake’s ache, but it distracts him from the pressure.

“I think I’ve got it,” Blake mumbles. Alfred releases him.

“Tell me if you stand in need of anything,” Alfred says. “I’ve had a few concussions in my life, and I know it’s not a pleasant experience.”

Alfred takes the lead as they head out of the room. Blake takes slow, deliberate, steps after him. It prevents the pressure from squeezing his head in.

“In fact, when I was in theatre, I suffered a concussion in front of an entire audience.”

Blake takes a moment to process that Alfred had been in theatre, a fact that he’d never known, and then allows himself the space to imagine Alfred’s injury.

“I smacked my head against one of the set pieces,” Alfred explains. “It was the first time I ever needed a stand-in. The man, I forget his name, was a little too excited that I’d gotten hurt.”

Alfred turns the corner with Blake at his back.

“But I didn’t pay too much attention to him,” Alfred dismisses. “I was in too much pain to care.”

“It hurts pretty bad,” Blake empathizes. “It’s worse without the painkillers.”

“Yes, it is” Alfred agrees.

Alfred approaches the staircase and then pauses. He goes quiet, in a contemplative sort of way, turning to Blake only when he is finished inspecting the stairs.

“Master Blake,” he says, “do you think you can handle going down the stairs?”

Blake peers down the staircase. With the flip of his stomach, he watches his vision warp the stairs, shifting them into impossible squiggly widths. It makes him feel dizzy. Blake could just picture himself rolling down the stairs, knocking himself out, and then waking up in more pain than before. Blake hated physical pain. He’d do anything, anything, to avoid it in the future.

It takes Blake a full minute to come up with a proper response. It’s a ridiculous amount of time considering the simplicity of his confession.

“No,” Blake admits.

Blake thought that this might force them to turn right back around. It seemed ridiculous. He’d been fine with the stairs when Jason had invited him to play games, but why was he now suddenly incapable of descending down? It had to be something mental. Blake didn’t feel dizzy, woozy, or anything of the like.

“Well then,” Alfred breaks through Blake’s concerns, “allow me to offer you my strength.”

Blake looks up at him questioningly.

Alfred continues, “Is it alright if I carry you?”

Blake feels heat rise in his cheeks. “I – I don’t think that’s – uh – I’m sure I’m heavy. It’ll be hard to go down the stairs with – with an extra load – I think.”

Alfred quirks an eyebrow. “Master Blake, you are the lightest person in this entire manor and, might I remind you, you are five years old. I am quite capable of carrying you down the stairs, up the stairs, and into the depths of the bat-cave.”

“I don’t want you to fall because of me,” Blake says.

“I appreciate your concern. However, I will not fall, I assure you.”

Blake shuffles in his place awkwardly. He finally gives into the urge to bite his bottom lip, and then looks away timidly. Quietly, he admits, “I don’t know how this would work.”

Alfred doesn’t scold him for biting his lip. Doesn’t lecture him, point out his fears, or tell him how to act. Instead, his soft voice pierces the atmosphere, and Blake listens.

“I’ll show you how it works,” he says, “if you would permit me.”

Blake takes a few tics to fiddle with his fingers before raising his head. It’s a challenge to lift his gaze. When he does, it lands on Alfred’s eyes, and Blake pauses to digest the softness in them. It’s so warm. It’s like a thousand fuzzy blankets. It’s new to him. Blake had never seen Alfred wear this look before, not for him, which might be why he thoughtlessly nodded his head.

Alfred approaches him with care. Blake feels nervous at their proximity, but there’s something comforting about how Alfred handles it. He gently tugs Blake forward, tucks a hand underneath his knees, and then places another on his back. Blake feels his whole world lift.

“There we are,” Alfred hums.

Blake grabs onto Alfred’s jacket once the butler takes his first step. He can’t bear to look down, so he closes his eyes. Blake feels every step that Alfred takes. It’s a relief that Alfred’s grip is secure. Blake didn’t want to get dropped.

This is different than how Father held me, Blake recalls. Father had only picked him up maybe about – one – two times? When he did, his hold had been so restrictive, so tight. It was borderline uncomfortable. Blake didn’t even realize it had been uncomfortable until Alfred carried him.

Tim carried me, too, after I fell.

Blake remembers Tim catching him when he’d been thrown off the building. It’d been quick. Blake didn’t have a good memory of what Tim’s arms had felt like. It certainly couldn’t have been comparable to Alfred’s hold. Alfred – who holds him with tenderness – safety – security.

Blake opens his eyes when he feels the descending stop. Alfred helps him down once they’re on even ground.

“I promised you I wouldn’t fall,” Alfred reminds him with a humored voice.

Blake blinks, shakes the memories away from his mind, and then looks up.

Alfred meets his eye.

“I didn’t fall either,” Blake realizes out loud.

“Yes,” Alfred agrees.

“I didn’t fall. I was okay.”

Alfred didn’t drop him, didn’t push him down the stairs, and – oh – it was the memories that had bothered him. Not the stairs. Not Alfred or the ground. Blake had been recalling being pushed off a building, and it’d morphed his entire reality to a concerning degree. It’d warped the stairs as if they could breathe. It expanded them, lengthened them, and stretched them out in his vision.

“You’re okay,” Alfred reassures.

It’s a shattering revelation for him.

Blake had already known that this reality was different from his past. That the people, places, and things were different. Damian had told him plenty of times. Blake had told himself plenty of times. It just hadn’t settled in his heart yet.

It did now.

Chapter Text

It’s nice to be in the sun. Blake didn’t realize how much he needed a stroll until he emerged outside. It sent him back into time.

Blake relives sitting on the curb outside of the restaurant in Utah. He remembers Damian coming out to sit next to him, Jon’s teasing, and an apologetic replacement for Blake’s smoothie. It’d been the calm before the storm. Blake would never have known how that day would turn out. If he had, maybe he would’ve done things differently, and maybe he wouldn’t be here.

“I see the lemongrass is doing well this season,” Alfred says.

Alfred pauses mid-step to admire the garden bed that, not too long ago, Blake remembers weeding. It's now green with life. Alfred’s lemongrass is growing tall, and it spreads out sharp blades. It doesn’t look as attractive as the rest of the grounds. It contrasts the short lawn, and the small budding tulips.

“Lemongrass tea is a favorite of mine,” Alfred continues.

“I didn’t know you could make plants into tea.”

Alfred goes quiet as if perplexed. His eyes leave the lemongrass, land on Blake, and then stay there. Blake blinks up at him innocently. Then, after thinking for a moment, Blake feels himself withdraw back. He didn’t know what part of his sentence had struck Alfred mute, but Blake received the impression that he must have said something stupid.

Alfred frowns.

“You can make tea using many different plants,” he says, “but some are better off being left alone.”

Alfred looks away with a contemplative twist to his face. It wasn’t optimistic.

“I don’t suppose I taught you such in the future?”

“We – uhm – didn’t talk a lot to each other. In the future, I mean.”

Alfred clasps his hands behind his back. Blake starts to mess with the hem of his shirt, quickly taking note that he was picking up a new habit, but he couldn’t find any motivation to stop.

“But it’s okay, we talk to each other now,” Blake says to relieve the tension, “and you’re nice.”

Alfred looks inexplicably sad to the point that Blake thinks he’s said something wrong. The opposite is proven to be true, Blake learns, as Alfred turns to face him. Alfred unclasps his hands, kneels on the hard concrete, and then places his hands on Blake’s shoulders. Blake is stunned as Alfred peers down at him.

“Master Blake,” he starts, “you are a very good boy. I want you to know that.”

Blake sputters out incoherent nonsense until he finally squeaks out, “I – huh?”

“I understand that I must have treated you poorly in the future,” Alfred presses on. “I don’t know why I would have done that, but let it be known that things will be different this time around. I will help you in any way I can.”

“Mr. Alfred,” Blake peeps.

Alfred gives him a small smile. His fingertips give Blake’s shoulders a squeeze, a gesture of reassurance, and Blake tries to glance at them. Alfred was most definitely different than he remembered. In fact, Blake would even say he was a separate person from the one he recalled, and that wasn’t a bad thing.

Blake looks back up at Alfred’s face. “You – You don’t have to go out of your way for me – I don’t want to take you away from more important things.”

“My boy,” Alfred says, smile fading into something serious, “you are a member of this family. Nothing, no tedious task, no hobby, is more important than you."

Blake repeats Alfred’s words in his head.

Alfred thought he was a member of the family?

Alfred thought he was important?

Blake was speechless.

It stays that way even as someone clears their throat. Blake glances away from Alfred, darts his eyes to the left, and settles them on a bulky figure. Blake feels a flush rise to his cheeks as Jason observes them from the side. It was the perfect time for his mind to bring up the throw-up incident. It reminds him that he’d gotten sick, dirtied the carpet, and forced Jason to clean it all up.

“I didn’t want to interrupt anything but,” Jason gestures to Alfred’s knees. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” Alfred answers honestly.

“Mr. Alfred, you don’t have to keep kneeling,” Blake blurts out. “I don’t want you to get any bruises.”

“It will take more than this to give me bruises,” Alfred huffs out before releasing Blake’s shoulders. He raises himself off the ground, dusts his pants off, and then tuts, “I may be old, but I’m not frail.”

Alfred adjusts his suit jacket.

“Blake calls you Mr. Alfred?”

“Yes, and it’s rather endearing,” Alfred says.

“Uh-huh,” Jason comments dryly, “well, endearing or not, it’s Jason to you kid, so none of that mister stuff when you’re talking to me.”

Blake finds himself grabbing onto Alfred’s pants.

“Anyways,” Jason mumbles as he buries his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to apologize. I didn’t mean to drag you downstairs for a round of video games. I thought it’d make you feel better, but I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. I left you something on the coffee table. I hope that –“ Jason stops himself from finishing the thought. Awkwardly, he shuffles into place, and then frees a hand to rub the back of his neck. “It’s fine if you don’t like it. Just – throw it away or something – I won’t be offended.”

Alfred frowns. “Master Jason, you should stay for dinner,” he tests.

“I’ll have to pass,” Jason mumbles. “I’ve got places to be.”

“Mm,” Alfred hums skeptically.

“This is all I stopped by for,” Jason says, “to drop off the… apology.”

“It was a good apology. I’m sure it means a lot to the young master.”

Jason glances in Blake’s direction. Blake stiffens, blushes (it was so embarrassing to remember the previous day), and then hides half of his body behind Alfred’s legs. Jason quickly shifts his eyes off to the side. He stares off at the landscape with a grimace, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth, dropping his hand from his neck.

Jason mumbles something about leaving before turning. Blake watches him stalk off with slumped shoulders, as if the world was weighing down on them, and then realizes that he had something to say. Blake recognizes the feeling of having words in his throat. It’s hard to get them out when he feels like he might regret them, but Blake feels like there’s nothing wrong with announcing his own apology.

“J-Jason!”

Jason pauses.

“I – I’m sorry for throwing up – and – and making you clean it all!”

Jason glances over his shoulder with a raised brow.

“Master Blake,” Alfred sounds in disbelief, “you were sick.”

Blake briefs a look in Alfred’s direction, feeling as if he should acknowledge Alfred’s words, but his priorities were set. Blake gives Jason his attention.

“I had fun playing video games with you!”

Blake watches Jason’s face relax, maybe even brighten a little. Strength returns to his shoulders.

Jason turns away without saying anything in reply. He walks off, raises a hand in the air, and gives a lazy wave.

Alfred stays by Blake’s side as Jason disappears. It takes them a moment to say anything. Alfred is the first to suggest that they go inside and look at what Jason had brought him. Blake agrees. He heads back into the manor, directs himself to the living room, and finds the coffee-table. Blake immediately lays his eyes on a box tin. It had strange creatures printed across the top.

Blake kneels next to the coffee table. Alfred hovers behind him with interest.

Blake starts to tear off the thin plastic that protected the tin. He then pries the top off, peers inside, and finds a pack of decks. Each deck had shiny plastic wrapping, ready to be stripped open, covered in various colorful designs.

“It looks like a trading card game,” Alfred says. It takes him some time to read the tin’s title without his glasses. Alfred squints his eyes. “Super Pets?”

Blake grabs the first pack. He had no idea what the appeal of a trading card game was, but the fact that Jason had gone out of his way to get this for him? It now had sentimental value.

“I’m going to open it,” Blake announces before tearing at the jagged edges of the wrapping. It takes only one tug for the plastic to come loose. Blake pulls out a thin deck of cards with happy looking animals. The first on the deck had a picture of a blue cat without fur, sitting proudly, staring at the viewer with one eye open. It also had a crown on its head.  

“Aquakitty,” Blake reads.

Blake looks at the next card in the deck. It had a picture of a black doe covered with heavy vines.

“Swampdoe?”

Blake puts it aside for the next one. It clicks in his head when he sees a brooding hedgehog, standing on two legs, spikes stabbing through a black cape. It was a trading card game that featured animalized superheroes.

“I don’t know why they’d skip the opportunity to make him into a bat,” Alfred says with amusement.

“Yeah,” Blake agrees mindlessly before setting the card down to the side. He ignores the hedgehog, placing it face-down, and moves onto the next card. It was better not to think about it.

Chapter Text

A sprained ankle, in Dick’s line of work, meant house-arrest.

Dick sighs as he wobbles down to the living room. Alfred had made it clear that he was not to take up vigilante work, aside from monitor duty, while sporting a sprained ankle. Damian was also fiercely protective – a change that Dick wasn’t quite used to – considering Damian’s own self-negligence when it came to injuries. Damian was the last person Dick would think would stress about taking time to heal.

Damian had changed a lot.

Dick was still getting adjusted to it. Damian never ceased to surprise him on patrol. Damian had a new set of moves Dick had never seen before, things that felt inhuman sometimes, and he'd also say the most insightful things. It always caught him off guard. Apparently, even though Jason had been updated on the situation, it puzzled him frequently, too.

Speaking of Jason, he kept asking after Blake, who had healed significantly since he’d initially sustained a concussion, but he refused to visit. Dick kept telling him he was welcome to visit the mansion any time, but Jason dismissed his invitations out of a self-imposed guilt. Jason felt bad for forcing Blake to play video games with him. Although, according to Alfred, that hadn’t been the case.

Don’t worry, Jason had told him after a brief interaction three days prior, I’ll make it up to the kid three times over after the crap I put him through. 

Jason had grappled away after speaking, giving Dick no time to ask for context, and Damian hadn’t looked too amused from the roof-top over. No doubt, eavesdropping through comms.

Damian was Blake's protector in every sense of the word. 

Dick could understand why after what Damian had told him. Blake had apparently been mistreated in the future, by Dick’s family, of all people, and he’d been alone for a long time. It’d been so bad that Blake had run away from home, and somehow that led to him meeting Damian. Damian didn’t expand upon that part of the story. Dick was missing a big chunk of how exactly Blake had saved him via chaos shard.

Dick would like to know how Damian was assassinated, resurrected, brought back to life, and then killed again. It gives him anxiety that he doesn’t know. That he can’t prevent it from happening again in the future.

Dick grimaces at the thought of Blake’s mistreatment.

It made sense.

Blake didn’t have an aversion for Jason without reason. Dick also didn’t have the warmest reception.

Blake was frightened of them.

Dick can only wonder what they’d done to him in the future. Dick doesn’t know why he’d ever mistreat a child, it seems impossible considering his strong morals, but Damian insisted that it was possible.

Damian gave him a hint on patrol.

“Grief can change even the nicest people,” he had mentioned.

Dick wonders if he’d grieved so bad after Damian’s death that he’d lost all sense of morality. It didn’t make much sense, considering how he’d reacted to Jason’s death when he’d first passed, but Damian suggested that something of the nature was possible. Dick had traumatized some poor kid in the future.

Dick emerges into the living room.

Dick stops, pausing in the doorway, taking note of Alfred’s presence on the couch. Alfred had made a comfortable spot for himself with a book in his lap. Dick watches him pull on a pair of reading glasses, and blindly reach out for a steaming cup of tea. At first, Dick questions why Alfred has the TV on if he was going to read, but then his eyes drift. Dick spots Blake at the coffee table.

Blake had his chin set on the table in front of a mess of cards. It looked like he’d been in the middle of sorting them out, row by row, but now his eyes (Dick could only assume since he was wearing sunglasses) were glued to the television screen.

Alfred had put on The Magic School Bus.

Dick observes the scene for a moment longer before limping towards the couch.

Alfred doesn’t make a sound as Dick collapses next to him, but Blake jolts up as if he’d been caught committing a crime. Dick watches him gather up all his cards with haste.

Dick takes pity on him. Blake might be able to hold a conversation with him, but it was clear that he still had some emotional issues.

“Hey,” Dick says, “are those trading cards?”

Blake pauses.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Cool,” Dick says, “can I look at them?”

Blake looks over his shoulder and stares. Dick can see the hesitation in his body language. Blake was bad at hiding his feelings. Really bad.

It was nice.

Dick was tired of pent-up, emotionally constipated, vigilantes.

Blake makes the short nod of his head before gathering up a pile. He makes the effort to stack them up, forming a nice thick deck, handing half back towards Dick.

Dick takes it with a smile.

“Master Jason is to thank for this gift,” Alfred explains without looking up from his book. “I believe he wished to apologize for making Master Blake uncomfortable.”

“Oh?”

Dick starts shuffling through the cards. It’s amusing to look at the silly art. Dick’s not sure why they made Robin a cat, especially when a Robin was a bird, but it was still cute. Dick could see how Robin might be a cat. Damian used to act like one – all hissy and feral – up until he’d returned from the future.

Damian was mellowed out now. He was still passionate, loyal, ruthless, and fierce. However, he was also soft, considerate, and compassionate. Dick had always seen those things in Damian, but now they were more prominent than before. Damian had truly changed. 

“I like this one,” Dick says as he holds out a card for Super-rat. “It’s hilarious.”

Blake looks up at the card in Dick’s hand.

Then, the smallest, most precious smile forms on his face.

Encouraged, Blake looks down at his own deck, and pulls out another card.

“I like this,” he shows, holding out a card for Dick’s taking.

Dick grabs it, holds it up, and traces the art with his eyes.

“Green Parakeet,” he reads aloud. Dick could immediately tell it was supposed to represent Green Lantern. The Green Parakeet was ethereal, like many of Green Lantern’s constructs, and see-through. It also shimmered if Dick turned it the right way.

“I think I like this one, too,” Dick says. “It’s probably one of the best designs I’ve seen.”

Blake’s small smile is stronger now, reminding Dick of the day they’d spent out in the garden, and it lifts his heart. Dick thinks the smile suits Blake’s face.

Dick hands back Blake’s deck, and Blake takes it without stress.

Dick is happy to put him at ease.

“Arnold!” The television screen sighs, calling Blake’s attention again.

Blake is entranced.

Dick watches the episode for a few minutes, but he’s not as entertained as Blake. Dick instead decides to pull out his phone. Just in time – It seemed – to receive a storm warning. Dick’s phone vibrates violently in his hand and rings shrilly.

Alfred’s phone starts up, too, and Blake covers up his hears.

“What is that!?” He cries.

“Looks like we’re getting a nasty storm,” Dick mumbles. “It says it’ll arrive within a few hours.”

“Oh dear,” Alfred says, discarding his book, “I must cover up the vegetable garden!”

Dick starts to rise up as if to help but Alfred gives him a harsh look.

“Not with that ankle,” he tells him.

“I can help you cover up the garden fine with this ankle,” Dick says.

“If you wish to be a hinderance,” Alfred sighs.

Dick shuts his mouth.

Dang, Alfred, just burn me alive why don’t you?

“Rest is the best thing for you right now,” Alfred insists. “I will attend to the gardens myself.”

“Ugh,” Dick groans. “I hate this. I hate ankle injuries.”

Alfred doesn’t acknowledge him and rushes for the backyard. Blake gnaws on his lip with worry. A habit, Dick has noticed in recent days.

“He’ll be fine,” Dick assures, leaning back onto the couch with a sigh, “Alfred can handle himself.”

“He’s so old though,” Blake says.

Dick blinks. Lets the sentence process.

Dick erupts into laughter. 

Blake stares at him cluelessly as Dick busts his guts. Dick leans over himself to grab at his stomach. As if it’d keep all his organs in.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the concern but,” Dick wipes a tear away from the corner of his eye, “he’s quite capable. I’m sure he taught you that after carrying you around the mansion.”

Dick smiles hard, heavily amused. Blake might be from the future, he might not talk like a five-year-old, but he was still young. Dick found it refreshing. It was nice to have some innocence in the household. It lightened up the broody atmosphere.

“I – you – you saw Alfred carrying me around?”

Blake sounds flustered.

“Hey, I might not be around all the time, but I’m pretty observant.” Dick taps the side of his nose. “I know you haven’t been getting down the stairs by yourself.”

Blake looks away to hide the flush on his face and decides to pretend he’s watching the show again. Dick chortles and releases his stomach.

It’s no wonder Damian was so protective.

Blake was the purest little bean.

Chapter Text

Blake’s shoulders jolt with each crackle of lightning. While he was familiar with rain, massive storms like the one outside was new territory for him. The rain was coming down hard, wobbling window glass like aluminum panels, shaking the room with each boom of thunder. It was almost as bad as the howling wind. 

Dick paces the room with restless hands. If they weren’t on his chin, they were on his neck, nose, or arms. Dick eventually settles for a tight self-hug. If it wasn’t the constant self-touching that gave away his feelings, it was the tight lips, or the furrowed brows. Dick was carving a canyon in the carpet with his feet (a wobbly one since he was limping).

Blake doesn’t have time to examine it further, not after another crash of thunder, another jolt of his shoulders, and the bang of something nearby. Dick abruptly pauses mid-pace and lets his hands fall. Quietly, he stands still, tilting his head to the side for confirmation.

“I hate the rain sometimes,” comes a muffled voice that has Dick lurching. 

Dick escapes the room for the entry-hall. Blake doesn’t bother following him because he doesn’t trust his legs. Nevertheless, his irregular heartbeat makes room to settle, all because he’d caught Damian’s voice through the walls. 

Good, he’s okay, Blake thinks. Alfred had left to pick Damian up, after covering the garden, around the time it had started to sprinkle. Blake hadn’t been too concerned until the storm picked up. Any storm that could snap branches in half - that could send garden tools flying - was bound to be dangerous. 

Blake shifts on the floor and puts his arms on the coffee table. Then, he rests his head atop his arms, straining to hear Damian’s muffled words. Blake had picked up his first couple of sentences (something about taking a shower and being soaking wet), but his words blur after his voice lowers in volume. 

Blake tunes everything out when something soft brushes against his head. With a blink, Blake turns his head the other way, and then looks at a fuzzy face. Alfred the cat stares at him without expression.

Blake holds out the staring contest even as the voices pick up in volume. Alfred considers him with steady eyes until, finally, he bumps his head against Blake’s cheek. 

Blake laughs with a wispy breath.

In a house full of hostile people, all who loathed Blake’s very existence, there had been Alfred the cat. Blake hadn’t appreciated him much at the time, but now he understands the precious nature of animals. Alfred had never been repulsed by him. Blake should have never taken his company for granted.

“Hey there,” Blake whispers as he frees a pinned hand. It reaches to pet Alfred at an awkward angle, but Alfred doesn’t seem to have much care. He nudges his head against Blake’s fingers. Twisting himself in such a way to make it more difficult to pet him properly.

“Where have you been while I’ve been sick in bed?” Blake wonders aloud.

“Down in the cave,” Damian answers.

Blake lifts his head with a jolt, looks up, and sees Damian looking down at him inquisitively. Maybe, if it were anyone else, he would have been intimidated. However, this was his brother, Blake wasn’t afraid of him, and the soaking wet clothes didn’t pose for an intimidating picture. Damian was drenched. 

“He’s been giving Titus company, after he broke a bone,” Damian explains. 

Blake had never heard of Titus before, and he opens his mouth in order to inquire after him. However, because of Alfred (the human), Blake doesn’t speak a single word. Damian cries out in surprise when the old man grabs him by the shirt and starts tugging him out of the room. 

“Master Damian, you are sopping wet, and you’re ruining Master Bruce’s rug!”

“Alfred!” 

Damian gets pulled along helplessly looking as if he wanted to wrench himself free. Yet - something was holding him back - Blake could tell by his restraint. Damian was capable of breaking free, but he respected Alfred’s authority. Thus, he submits himself to Alfred’s scolding, giving Blake one last look before disappearing completely. 

Blake stares at the empty archway until realizing someone was standing in his peripheral vision. Dick becomes the center of his attention, and the fond smile on his face is Blake’s point of interest. 

Dick eventually notices Blake’s eyes upon him. 

“Bruce meant a lot to him,” he explains before limping towards the couch, “and Alfred treasures all of his possessions dearly. I guess knowing that he’s alive won’t change that bit.”

Dick sinks down onto the couch. 

“I’ve had to be careful about how to handle his things. I locked most of his stuff in his room, but Alfred wanted to keep a few things around the house.”

Dick carefully leans back to prop his ankle up on the arm. It’s a slow endeavor that involves a lot of hissing and wincing. 

Still, Dick presses on, “I guess we’ll have to start preparing things for when Bruce comes back. I shouldn’t have dismissed Tim’s lead. I just thought he was in mourning.”

Dick pauses and Blake looks away from him. Alfred nudges his head against Blake’s hand, and Blake starts up another petting session. This time, it is not entirely for Alfred’s benefit, and it’s not a mindless distraction. It’s an attempt to get his mind off the inevitable. 

Blake had learned many things from Dick’s few sentences. For one, he hadn’t known that Tim was involved with bringing their father back, and he hadn’t been aware that their father had been perceived dead. Blake had simply thought he was gone. Not dead. Because, having lived in the future, there was no way he was dead. Blake had seen him breathing, living, and eating. Dead people couldn’t do that. 

It was a little concerning how apathetic he felt about it all. He should probably be surprised, yelling out something like, “Wait - you guys thought he was dead?”

Instead, he’s numb, mind drawn upon an eventual meeting. 

Blake knows this is a different life and he knows that his father won’t be the same.

But he’s still scared.

“Hope he’s okay,” Dick mumbles as he reaches out for the remote. “I haven’t seen him in a while. Haven’t found his trail, either, or any clues.”

Dick starts fiddling with the buttons and flips through the channels. Blake doesn’t have the heart to watch, and bathes Alfred in heartless affection. Alfred purrs with a comforting vibration and lays himself down. 

If only Blake could be like Alfred - loving others despite their past - seeing the good in people.

Nothing is stopping you from trying, a voice whispers in his mind, and Blake wants to heed it. Unfortunately, the doubt comes creeping in, and Blake lets it fester in his mind. Allows it to poison anything hopeful and good. 

Blake takes a shaky breath and tries to push out his feelings through a slow exhale. 

I used to be a bad person, he remembers, but now I’m not. 

Blake knows what it’s like to be treated as someone they used to be. It would be unfair of him to judge his father for something he isn’t. Blake knows what that feels like. 

I just need to try, Blake repeats in his mind. I need to give him the chance that I wanted.

“Hey, Blake?” 

Blake stops stroking Alfred’s fur and turns his head towards Dick. 

“Yeah?”

Dick has a serious look on his face.

“I was just thinking,” he says, speaking over the noise in the background (a chef was teaching about cooking), “about what Damian said when we ate together at the dining table. I don’t know what I did to you in the future, but I know that it wasn’t anything good. I’m sorry that I let you down.”

Blake grabs the edge of the coffee table as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

Actually, it is because he can’t believe what he’s hearing, and his heart is racing   over it. 

Dick was apologizing to him. Dick was apologizing for something he hadn’t even done. Blake had made him feel that way - made him feel responsible for something in the future - something that wouldn’t even happen anymore. 

Blake doesn’t want Dick to walk himself into this trap. It’s a pit-fall full of deprecation, loathing, and torment. Blake was still struggling to climb out, but there was no need to pull Dick’s helping hand down. Dick shouldn’t know what it’s like to helplessly feel at fault.

Blake already went down that road and he didn’t want anyone else to tread it. 

“No, please,” Blake blurts out, “don’t apologize. It wasn’t your fault. You - you had nothing to do with it - you’re not him. And, even if you were him, it still made sense . Damian meant everything to you, and then I came along to mock that.”

Dick shifts uncomfortably on the couch. Blake tears his eyes away and puts them back on the coffee table. Alfred mewls at him for more pets, but this time Blake is not eager to comply. Instead, he fists his hands up on his lap, and tries to figure things out in his head.

“Blake?”

Dick’s call triggers more words. 

“Damian had been gone for a long time before I was brought in,” Blake explains. “Father was in mourning which is why he re-created me. I was supposed to replace Damian.”

Dick goes still. 

“I tried to do everything to live in his shoes, but nothing I ever did made anyone happy. I didn’t understand it until later, but that was because I wasn’t Damian. I was a clone.”

Blake feels his heart dip into the pits of darkness. 

“I wasn’t just any clone either,” Blake’s voice falls into a whisper, “I was the clone that killed Damian Wayne.”

Blake stares at the coffee table for a few tics, but Dick’s silence unnerves him to a degree. Blanketed with dread, he lifts his head, and then peeks in Dick’s direction. 

Dick face was like stone. Blake couldn’t read a thing.

“Richard, this is exactly why I told you not to interrogate Blake,” Damian’s voice sweeps in with anger. 

Blake twists his head and watches Damian stride across the room. Damian had sounded angry, but he looked absolutely furious. 

“I don’t care what you think about this information,” Damian states as he zooms in on Dick’s position, “but let it be known,” Damian points a threatening finger in his direction, “I won’t allow further interrogation. Blake wouldn’t hurt a fly let alone anyone in this house.”

Dick looks at Damian and something flickers through his eyes. 

“He didn’t interrogate me,” Blake says, “I was just telling him the truth.”

Damian gives Dick a glare, one that Blake thinks is unfair, and then he spins on his heels.

“And what, pray tell, prompted you to do that?”

“I didn’t want to leave him in the dark. I thought he deserved to know what happened, so that he would know that none of it was his fault.”

Damian's anger doesn’t dissipate, and he opens his mouth to say something. Dick interrupts him by grabbing hold of his wrist. 

“Damian,” Dick says, “calm down.”

“I am not going to submit to your - argh - Richard!”

Dick pulls Damian in with a rough tug and wrestles the boy. Blake watches wide-eyed as Dick pins him to his side. It didn’t look comfortable. Dick had jostled his ankle numerous times throughout the exchange and he winced every time. Yet, he somehow managed to roll over, monkey-hug Damian, and keep him on the couch. 

Dick gives Blake a smile.

“Isn’t he cute?”

Blake had no idea how to reply. 

“Look at him, getting all worked up over you,” Dick laughs, freeing a hand to mess up Damian’s wet hair, even while Damian kicks him with a vengeance. “I don’t think he’d do that just for anyone. I’m guessing there’s more to this situation than meets the eye.”

“Yes,” Damian grits, reaching out to pinch Dick, “there’s a lot more to it.” 

Dick yelps and releases Damian. Damian falls to the floor with a thud.

Damian rubs his head and frowns. 

“I’ve already told Blake that he’s not responsible for anything he’s done, considering he’d been conditioned by Mother to assassinate me, unethically modified from birth to accomplish said task, and brain-washed before he could be given a fair chance. In fact, I thought we were past this stage, but it seems I’ve been mistaken.” 

“No,” Blake blurts out, “I remember what you said about how none of that ever happened now that we’re here. I… I believed it. Still believe it.” Blake takes a breath. “I just didn’t want Dick to think any of this was his fault. I didn’t want him to go through what I did.”

Damian readies himself to say something but Dick beats him to the punch.

“Well!” Dick rests his head on the palm of his hand, digging his elbow into the arm-rest, “I guess I’ll have to thank you for looking out for me! I’m touched.”

Damian crosses his arms grumpily.

“I’m also glad you told me the truth,” Dick continues. “I was getting stressed over not knowing how Damian died. Now that I know Talia is involved, I can plan for her, and I can prevent Damian’s death altogether.”

Dick looked as if a load was taken off his shoulders, but it didn't stay away for long. It returns with tension. 

“Talia must have already started her preparations if Blake is here. I’m guessing he wouldn’t even exist if she didn’t have plans for him.”

Damian unfolds his arms and gets off the ground.

“Mother wasn’t happy when I chose to stay here,” Damian says. “It’s no secret that she disowned me.”

Damian says more but Blake temporarily tunes him out. Blake couldn’t believe this was going over so well. Dick wasn’t freaking out, and Damian’s anger was leaving. Blake didn’t know what he had expected, but he didn’t think Dick would take everything in stride. 

I don’t even know what I’d do if I were in Dick’s shoes, Blake thinks to himself, imagining a world where they switched positions. 

“I wish you would have let me know earlier, about this whole, wanting to kill you thing.” Dick gives Damian a critical look. 

“I thought it would be better if you knew nothing of Blake’s involvement,” Damian says, “which is why I neglected to mention Mother’s actions.” Damian narrows his eyes. “I’m still skeptical about you having any of this information. Blake will be staying here regardless of any conclusions you draw.”

“I’m not going to kick out Blake,” Dick groans, “and I’m not going to blame him for any of this. I don’t think Martian Manhunter would have stayed silent if Blake posed a serious threat, and I don’t think you’d be so fiercely protective if Blake wasn’t a good person. Besides, I’ve seen for myself that he has good intentions, so I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt here.”

Dick runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

Damian considers him haughtily and raises his chin.

“Good,” he says, “Blake has been through enough already, and he doesn’t need anymore nonsense.”

Dick glances in Blake’s direction.

“Right,” he agrees, “I mean, come on, what was Bruce even thinking? It doesn’t even sound real. It’s like some twisted re-enactment of Astro Boy.”

Dick sounded as if he had more to say, but lightning strikes at an inopportune time. Alfred jumps in the air, scrambles, and leaps into Damian’s arms. Damian catches him with a surprised grunt. 

Without further warning, the TV shuts down, the lights flicker off, and the wind howls.

“Nice,” Dick puts out dryly. “It’s like uprooting a few trees isn’t enough.”

“I’ll get the back-up generators online,” Damian says. 

However, before he can get moving, a slam is heard in the entry-hall. 

Dick pulls himself up sharply. Damian stiffens and hardens his eyes. For a silent moment, they make eye-contact, communicating the same thoughts.

“Someone is in the mansion,” Damian growls.

Damian dumps Alfred into Dick’s lap and stalks for the exit.

“Damian - don’t - not without back-up,” Dick pleads. He struggles to pick himself up from the couch. “It could be dangerous.”

“I’m Robin. I'm trained for dangerous.”

“Damian,” Dick stresses as he hobbles up to his feet. Alfred slips off his lap. 

Damian doesn’t listen to him and escapes into the hallway. 

Dick makes a pained noise in his throat. “Would it kill him to listen to me for once?”

“Lilith? I’m putting leftovers in the fridge, and I warned the team not to touch it. It’s all for you!”

“Thank you,” Lilith replies from her bed.

Sitting cross-legged, back facing the door, Lilith had dug her spot in her mattress. It was where she spent most of her time ever since waking up in this world. It was a horrific nightmare that she would have to relive certain things, but it was far more problematic that she’d been brought to the past to begin with. If she was in the past, she had reason to believe that Robin, Superboy, and their little companion were here, too. 

That meant - if her theories were correct - the chaos crystal had returned with them. 

Lilith closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath.

Focus, she tells herself, and lock onto the in-between.

It takes her a while. Lilith doesn’t know how long she stays in her bed - maybe a few hours - judging by how quickly time passed the last time.

Yet, when she feels out Stein’s mind again, she knows she’s got him.

Stein.

Lilith waits.

Then, it’s you again.

Stein didn’t sound happy. 

I should’ve known you were trouble. I don’t know which deity you pissed off up here, but one of them has real anger issues for you.

What?

I can feel it all around me. I don’t know who you angered so badly, but the echoes have traveled through the in-between. It’s going to be bad for you. If they want to get you, even having been bound to Sanctuary, they’ll find a way. I can promise you that. 

Stein sighs.

Now, for the last time, stop trying to contact me! I don’t want anything to do with this!

But, I really need answers, Lilith begs. I need to know more about the chaos shard. 

Chaos shard this, chaos shard that, no wonder you’ve got Sanctuary after you. I bet you made a wish that put a wedge in their plans.

Plans?

To collide universes? To start over? The shtick? Nothing is safe. Not unless you’re here in the in-between. Good luck trying to face their wrath. 

Lilith feels their connection break in a snap.

Light-headed, she leans forward, and rests her forehead on the wall.

Dick instructed Blake to hide under the coffee table as he guarded the exit. 

Blake did as told, keeping his head down, and dragging Alfred down with him. Alfred was not happy to be wrestled, and Blake nearly gets scratched twice. In the end, Blake regretfully releases him, and Alfred sprints away. 

Blake instead settles to hold onto his lucky trading card, the Green Parakeet, and finds comfort in the shiny coating. Blake tries not to bend it as he does so. Blake didn’t want a single crease to be found. Jason’s present needed to be appreciated. Not destroyed.

Blake freezes when he hears wet boots squelch down the tile. Dick looks ready to spring from where he glued himself to the wall, but he also relaxes himself for optimal performance. Dick could pass for looking calm if he wasn’t stuck to the wall. 

Dick makes eye-contact with Blake and raises a finger to his lips. Blake nods. 

Squish, squish, squish. 

A hooded figure, dressed in a heavy black rain coat, centers himself in the archway. Angry thunder booms, shaking the room, upsetting the windows, and scaring Blake half to death. Nevertheless, Blake keeps his eyes on the intruder, dripping like a sponge. 

“Drake, stop being dramatic,” Damian drawls.

Drake reaches up to pull his hood off, and Damian pushes past him with the wrinkle of his nose. 

Dick stumbles away from the wall. 

“Tim!?”

Blake stares at Tim’s face, younger, and worn with exhaustion.

“Hey, Dick,” Tim greets with no energy. “I’ve got some important news for you. Is Alfred here?”

“Yeah,” Dick says, “I’ll call him to come down.”

Tim nods shortly before glancing down at his appearance.

“And,” he clears his throat, “maybe some clean clothes?”

Chapter Text

Tim stares into the depths of his mug. It has lazy floating marshmallows, and a steam that drifts upwards. It wasn’t the coffee that Tim had asked for, but he was in no mood to complain about it. Alfred’s hot chocolate was just as good. 

Nevertheless, he doesn’t take a sip, far too occupied with his thoughts. Dick murmurs something to Alfred in the background, and Alfred holds up a lantern in between them. It was pitch black in the living room. It hadn’t been when the evening sun was still up, but Tim had taken his time getting cleaned up. Now, it was night, and the sun wasn’t anywhere to be seen. It left no light behind. 

Aside from Alfred’s lantern, there are a few candles around the room, and then there was Damian's phone. It was unapologetically bright. 

Damian frowns as he wipes his thumb over the screen.

“It’s flooding downtown,” he announces. 

Dick goes quiet and Damian squints his eyes. 

“It also looks like we’re not the only ones with a power outage.”

It’d been a surprise to everyone that the back-up generators weren’t working. Dick had gotten out another generator that used propane, but even that generator had mysteriously malfunctioned. It left everyone feeling apprehensive, suspicious, and walled-up. Blake didn’t understand why until Damian had given him an explanation. Apparently, everyone suspected tampering, but they weren’t certain. Dick had looked at the security cameras and found nothing. Tim investigated the area, but came up with zero evidence. 

Damian removes his eyes from his phone and looks over at Dick.

“I hope this is just a nasty storm,” Dick says. 

Blake finds himself nodding in agreement, but then lightning strikes in a commotion. It roars with noise. Blake had never heard it so close, and it scares him badly. Blake shrinks and wraps his arms around himself, eyes wide with fright, and thinks about heading back up to his room. Maybe hiding under the bed would be safer than this, being exposed in a wide open room, or maybe hiding in the closet would give him a sense of security. 

Dick sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and then puts it at his side. 

Dick leaves Alfred to sit down at the coffee table. It gives him a good view of his little brother, Tim, and of the other two sitting on the ground. 

“Well, the power might be out,” he says, “but there’s no reason we can’t catch up. I’ve been worried about you, Tim, and I’m glad you’re back. I… I’ve missed you.”

Tim’s eyes clear of any fog, and he blinks with clarity.

“Yeah,” he whispers, staring at Dick as if he were a ghost, “I’ve missed you too.”

“I didn’t mean to drive you away,” Dick says, “or to put a wedge between us. I’m sorry I never believed you about Bruce.”

“No,” Tim puts a hand out, “don’t apologize. I’m the one who was pushing you away. I wasn’t in the best place or mind. I mean, who looks at someone’s dead body, does a DNA test, and still thinks it isn’t enough evidence for death?” 

Tim rubs a hand over his chin and slides it off with a grimace.

“I was running on pure faith. I didn’t have any evidence that he was alive."

Dick leans forward and links his fingers together diplomatically. 

“It was that faith that brought him back,” Dick says. However, after speaking, he takes a pause. Dick corrects himself quickly, “That will bring him back.”

Tim blinks at Dick and then glances towards Damian.

Damian doesn’t say anything, leaning back against the couch, and Blake purposely avoids his gaze.

Alfred drapes a blanket around Blake’s shoulders while he cowers. He had seen Blake's earlier fright. 

Tim turns back to Dick.

“Damian told you everything?”

Dick raises his brows. 

“Tim is from the future,” Damian opts to explain.

Dick’s brows disappear into his hairline. 

“I think it was because of how close I was to the chaos shard,” Tim theorizes. “It sent everyone within a close proximity into the past.”

“It must have,” Damian agrees, “seeing as to the fact that you and Cassandra remember everything.”

Dick looks even more struck. “Cass?” He repeats.

Tim continues on without addressing Dick’s astonishment. “I’ve already informed the Justice League of Bruce’s situation. I don’t think it’ll be long before he’s back.”

Damian folds his arms with a frown. Blake plays with the threads on their father’s rug. 

Tim doesn’t look all that excited either, and he glances at Blake’s direction. 

“He won’t be the same,” Tim says, making sure his voice is clear for all to hear. “Damian won’t die, Bruce will never go mad, and we’ll all keep an eye on him. I won’t let him spiral again. I shouldn’t have stood aside in the first place.”

Damian lowers his head.

“He won’t even care for me as he did in the future,” Damian mumbles. “I’ll make it impossible for him to ruin himself over my death.”

Blake feels his heart skip.

“No,” he gasps, “don’t do that. Please. You need to give him a chance. You’re his son.”

“He hurt you,” Damian strains, looking over at Blake with a face full of hurt, “and he didn’t stop hurting you.”

“He missed you,” Blake is near-desperate, “and he loved you so much. I can’t let you take that away from him. From you."

“He only loved me after I died,” Damian bites out. 

Blake feels as if he’d stepped upon a touchy subject. Blake physically withdraws from Damian as if scolded. 

Damian’s face adopts an expression of tight regret.

Dick decides to come in, softly, “Damian. I think you should take Blake’s advice and give him a chance. I bet he really did love you, and that he was drowning himself in guilt. Like he did with Jason."

“Except, when Jason died,” Damian growls, “he didn’t resurrect his dead clone and pretend he was me.”

Blake bites his cheek. 

“I wasn’t enough for him,” Damian whispers, glaring hard at the ground, “I was never enough. Blake wasn’t enough, either, and now we’re here.”

“Which is a good thing,” Tim jumps in. “We can change things. We’ve already changed things. You got Blake out of the League of Assassins. You’re here, alive, and Talia won’t be touching you. Not on my watch.”

Damian looks up sharply. 

“What?”

“That’s the news I was going to share,” Tim says, face solid and unmoving, “I’m the leader of the League of Assassins now.”

Damian doesn’t blink and stares at him. 

Tim stares back at him, but something must bother him. Tim sounds hesitant when he next speaks.

“If you want to take your rightful place, I’ll happily hand it to you.”

Damian snorts and looks away.

“You can keep it,” he grumbles. “I don’t want anything to do with my mother. Not after what she did to me or what she did to Blake.”

Tim relaxes. 

“Good,” he says. “I exiled Talia from the League. I’ve burned all of her resources, contacts, and black-listed her. She doesn’t have any power anymore. No assassin can kill you unless she comes for you, herself, which is unlikely.”

Dick's jaw was slack. Damian had taken Tim's information in stride, but Dick seemed as if he was just catching on. It took him a while to properly understand what was being said.

Dick straightens himself and rubs at his eyes. Then, after regaining his composure, he moves to stand up.

“Tim,” he says mournfully, “I didn’t get to see you grow up.”

Tim barely gets out a what? before Dick is grabbing Tim and pulling him upward. Tim’s eyes go wide in surprise when Dick brings him into a bear hug. Tim struggles not to drop his hot chocolate, but Alfred steps in to take away his burden. 

“I never thought you’d do something like this for Damian, not on this scale, and the way you speak,” he pulls Tim in tighter, as if his hug wasn’t constricting enough already, “it’s like you’ve become a different person.”

“I am, of a sort,” Tim says, bringing up his arms to hug Dick just as tightly, “but you’ll always be the same. I should have been there with you when Bruce was trying to resurrect Blake. I should have stopped him. Like you tried.”

Tim stays in Dick’s embrace for a few seconds, but then he pulls back with a small smile. 

“But then Blake wouldn’t have had his second chance,” he says. “I guess Bruce’s plan didn’t end as terribly as I thought.”

Damian stares at the two as if he’d just received a new perspective. Blake likes Tim’s way of thinking because it brightens his horizon in a way he hadn’t considered. 

“Damian told me he didn’t treat Blake all that well,” Dick says, releasing his arms, “I guess you can offer the same witness?”

Tim winces. 

He clears his throat. “I - we - were pretty upset with Bruce. Blake - he - he wasn’t exactly a - “ Tim struggles. “It felt like…” Tim didn’t want to speak, it was clear, not with Blake in the room. 

“I murdered Damian,” Blake says. “It was probably sick watching me walk around acting like him.”

Tim slowly approaches the coffee table and lowers himself down. 

“Yeah,” Tim admits. “It was disturbing.”

Blake hides his face away from his family. 

“But I didn’t realize that you were your own person, not until I saw that you had your own interests,” Tim continues. “I realized that what Bruce was doing was messed up on two levels. For one, he was desecrating Damian’s memory, and two, he was trying to force another human being to masquerade as his son. I felt horrible for avoiding you. I know you never asked for any of this.”

Tim swallows.

“And, if you think about it, it wasn’t as if you had much choice in Damian’s death. Talia forced you to age up, gave you a lot of information you couldn’t handle, and brought you up for only one purpose. It wasn’t as if she was much better in that department.”

Tim hides his eyes in the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for not being there for you.”

Blake peers up reluctantly. Tim’s posture was hunched over and his shoulders were heavy. It seemed that Blake’s situation had bothered him far more than originally thought. 

Blake looks back down.

“It’s okay,” he decides.

Tim looks up, speechless, and Dick smiles.

“It’s not,” Tim insists, puzzled, “I treated you terribly.”

“We all did some not-so-great things,” Blake says, “but you’re right about things changing. If we want to change, then we’ll have to move on, otherwise it’ll just stay the same.”

Tim was once again, at a loss for words, but Dick wasn’t.

“Blake is the peace-maker we always needed,” he laughs. “I wish he’d been around sooner.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Tim pushes out in confusion. “I can’t just be forgiven without doing something in return.”

“It’s easier than you think it is, Tim,” Dick chuckles, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “but now I think you just have to forgive yourself.”

Right, Blake thinks, exhaling out of his nose, that was his problem, too.

It’s late into the night when they finally decided to go to bed. 

Blake didn’t know how that translated into a sleepover in the living room. Nevertheless, he had no complaints, finding humor in their situation. Blake had never slept with so many people around him before. It felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Tim takes up the couch and Dick is assigned to the recliner (by Alfred). Blake chooses to sleep on the floor, next to Damian, even though he still feels hurt from being snapped at. It wasn’t often that Damian could make him feel this way, and Blake knew that Damian hadn’t meant it. Still. Blake couldn’t erase what he was feeling. 

Blake’s mind is occupied with the issue even as he lays himself down on a futon. Alfred bids everyone a good night, Dick returns it loudly, and Tim gives him a quiet farewell. Damian makes a grumble of some kind. 

It takes a while for everyone to settle down into silence. Then, and only then, does Blake feel like talking. It was impossible to sleep when he felt as if he’d wronged Damian. Blake wanted to make sure everything was alright. 

Blake rolls to the other side and meets face-to-face with Damian. 

Damian’s eyes were wide open in the dark, but Blake could barely see his precious green. Blake imagines his own red eyes, uncovered by sunglasses, were probably piercing the dark. It must be unnerving. Yet, Damian makes no comment, and Blake wills himself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,”  he whispers.

Damian shifts.

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Blake says. 

Damian shifts again, getting his head in a comfortable position atop his pillow, before saying anything in return. 

“I know,” he finally says. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you because of how I was feeling. It wasn’t right.”

Blake feels his heart slow to a comfortable pace. It's ten times better than before.

Because good. Things were okay between them. Blake hadn't ruined everything by stepping on an emotional landmine. 

“I was frustrated,” Damian mumbles. “It shouldn’t have been expressed to you like that.”

Blake curls his fingers into his blanket.

“So, you still like me, right?”

Damian goes silent in a flabbergasted kind of way. Finally, after pulling his arm out of the confines of his blanket, he flicks Blake’s forehead.

“Yes, Blake, I still like you.”

Blake grabs Damian’s head before it can pull back and holds it tight. 

“Good,” he whispers, “I don’t want you to hate me.”

Damian scoffs but his hand grips Blake’s. 

“Hating you,” he snorts, “what a ridiculous notion."

Blake goes to sleep finding comfort in Damian’s hand. 

It’s nice to have someone he can rely on, someone he can trust, no matter the situation. Damian might have been a little upset, but that didn’t change his feelings for Blake. They were still brothers. Nothing could alter that. 

Blake feels peaceful in his sleep, content to be surrounded by family, but such feelings do not last forever.

Blake is woken abruptly.

It happens without warning. Blake is shaken from sleep and lifted from the ground. Fingers dig into his arms painfully and a strange voice laughs. Damian shouts from the floor, leaps, and gets flung away by an invisible barrier. 

Blake’s heart stops completely and he ceases breathing. 

This - this man - he knows him. 

There’s just enough sun to see his face.

“You thought you could get away,” he sneers, “but here you are. In my hands.”

“Blake!?” Dick cries out. 

“It’s the Herald!” Damian shouts out. “He’s dangerous! Get Blake away from him!”

“How did he even get in here?” Tim asks but no one answers him. Dick throws a lamp at the herald’s head, but that is also deflected by his ethereal shield. 

“It’s mine now,” the Herald says gleefully, “I see it in your eyes. I will please my makers and… and…”

The Herald stares into Blake’s eyes, star-struck, and Blake stays frozen in his grasp. 

Then, it all hits him, and he starts to panic.

“Let - let go!” Blake kicks. “Let go!”

The Herald doesn’t reply to him and looks into his very soul. Blake feels the bruises underneath his fingertips. 

Oddly, the Herald relaxes his fingers, and looks at Blake in a different light.

“Mine…” he whispers, eyes glazed with want. “I have you now, my boy, my sweetling.”

Blake feels a shiver travel down his body.

“It’s okay,” the Herald croones, “I’m here. I won’t let you stay here any longer.”

“Release him!” Damian cries. It’s strange to hear him so desperate. It sounded more like a plea. “I will strangle you if you do not put him down!”

The Herald laughs, delighted, and pulls Blake into a cradle. Blake has never felt more uncomfortable in his existence. 

“Poor, poor, little human,” he cackles, “weak and pitiful in every sense.”

Damian snarls at him. “I’ll show you weak.” 

Damian throws himself at the barrier and Tim shouts at him. “Damian! Stop! You’re just going to hurt yourself.”

Damian ignores him, slams himself against the barrier again, again, and again. The Herald laughs at him in endless amusement until a crack travels through the air before him. It was vivid and colorful unlike the translucent bubble. 

The Herald widens his eyes. “That is not possible,” he says, and yet Damian continues. He slams himself against the shield until he falls through. 

The Herald takes a step back. 

“No, no,” he sounds in a panic, “you will not take the child away from me. He is mine to care for, mine to cherish.”

“Return him, at once,” Damian demands, charging forward.

The Herald does not give him the opportunity to engage. One minute, he’s standing inches away from Damian’s body, and the next?

Blake hears the sound of traffic. 

A gentle breeze brushes past his hair, seagulls caw, and someone yells out of their car. 

“Hey, Mister, get out of the road!”

The Herald smiles triumphantly.

Chapter Text

“-and think of all the things we can do. I think we’d make a good team. I mean, it’ll be difficult for you to keep up with me, what with being human and all, but that’s of no consequence. I can easily make up the difference. In fact, we could just find a ritual to transplant your soul into a far superior body, much like the one I came across all those years ago, but… ah. I’m jumping ahead of myself. That requires the skills of the one that has been banished from our organization for many centuries.”

Blake doesn’t speak as The Herald bustles around the ratty kitchen, acting as if there was something domestic about this situation, and speaking with no regard for Blake’s participation in the conversation. It didn’t matter much in the end. Blake was in no mood to speak – not after having been ripped from his family – not when he was engrossed in his thoughts.

It’s bittersweet – his thoughts – that is.

Blake remembers his last moments with Damian, feeling safe and warm, like he was wanted, and that everything would be alright. It was unfair to have that torn from him. Blake was utterly defeated, shot down before he could even walk, and it vacuumed his heart into a whorl-eating abyss.

“But enough about that,” The Herald continues without a care in the world, “did you see the looks on their faces? I do love it when humans are alarmed. It makes everything so delightfully entertaining! I must have surprised them a great deal! I bet they thought they had gotten rid of me, but little did they know that I remember everything. I remember what happened. I remember how the shard was stolen from me through trickery. I stole the essence from that boy. It was in my hands before it’d been ripped from me.”

Blake hears The Herald make a clutter in the kitchen – it sounded as if though he’d opened the oven – pulling out old metal trays caked in food dust.

Blake hoped he wasn’t trying to make a meal. The kitchen was in no state for food preparation. Just looking at it made Blake want to run outside for some fresh air. The counter was covered with sticky puddles of goop, the stove was chipping with rust and grease, and the fridge was yellowing after years (of what Blake could only assume) of neglect. Then there was the matter of the tile beneath The Herald’s feet, chipped and cracked with a layer of dust. The Herald kicked bits and pieces up when he walked around the room. He didn’t seem to care much for the condition of his kitchen. Blake wondered if he even lived here. He’d just teleported them into the house without much explanation. Blake had thought it belonged to him until he gave it further examination.

“And if it hadn’t been for that girl,” The Herald groans, “I would have had it. I would have completed my mission and returned to my makers.”

Blake roots his eyes on his shoes and the filthy carpet beneath.

“So imagine my delight when I caught whiff of her little mind’s reach,” he giggles with a maniacal touch. “I wonder what I should do with her. Do you think this oven is big enough for one her size?”

Blake’s head snaps up, he tips off the couch, and stands up on his feet.

“No!” He shouts out before he can think twice. “You can’t!”

“Oh?” The Herald turns to look him in the eye. Blake swallows. The Herald might think they’re family now, and he might not be willing to do anything to him, but he still had an irrational fear that something could happen. The Herald could snap within a moment’s notice and take everything away from him. “Do you have an opinion on the matter?”

“Leave her alone,” Blake begs.

"Son,” The Herald sighs, turning his gaze away thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. I can’t risk her using those powers of hers. Besides. She’s already within my possession.” The Herald adopts a proud look. “Would you like to see her?”

Blake doesn’t get a word in before The Herald is snapping her into existence. Blake’s eyes widen a fraction when spots the woman in question. It’d been a while since he’d last seen her, but Blake remembers her green cloak. It was battered and torn. Dirtied and ragged. Her hair wasn’t better off, rolling down her shoulders with matted fringe, speckled with the red taint of blood.

Omen’s defeated appearance suggested she’d been in a bad fight, but whatever happened to her hadn’t removed the strength in her eyes. They were fierce. Angry. Up until Omen lays eyes on Blake. Then, they morph into something horrified.

“She tried her hardest to resist my powers,” The Herald explains while grabbing a fistful of her hair and tugging it upward. Omen grits her teeth and bites her tongue. “But the victory was mine. As it had been from the very beginning.”

“You’re a sick pile of garbage,” Omen wrenches with a cracked voice.

The Herald rolls his eyes. “This is why I had her teleported to my pocket dimension. She speaks too much.”

Omen ignores his statement as if he’d said nothing. Instead, she roots her eyes on Blake’s, narrowing them in concentration. It takes Blake a moment to realize what’s happening. In a panic, he averts his gaze, but Omen’s doom is cemented.

“Blake,” she calls out dazedly.

“Shut up, girl.”

Blake trembles as Omen cries out in pain, probably because of the hair fisted up in The Herald’s grip, and his stomach swirls as he thinks of what he’d done. It had been a careless thing on his part. Blake hadn’t even taken Omen’s presence into consideration, and he’d just let her look into his eyes. It was the dumbest thing he could do. And it had all happened within the split of a second. 

“I should just kill her,” The Herald sighs. “I see no use of keeping her around. It’s a wonder I even considered presenting her to my makers.”

Blake’s heart pounds as he dares to peek at Omen – who stares fixedly in his direction – mind racing over The Herald’s threats.

“And after I’m done with her, I’ll have to return to the other one,” The Herald muses as he lifts Omen slightly with the strength of his pull. “I enjoyed watching the life leave his eyes the first time. I would like to see it again.”

Blake takes a trembling step forward. “What?” He whispers. The implication of The Herald’s words were not lost on him. “What did you say?”

“I’ll bleed his life force out,” The Herald revisits, “and I’ll drain it from his limp body.”

Damian, Blake realizes without needed explanation, he’s talking about Damian.

“I’ll take inch by inch as he watches me,” The Herald chuckles darkly, “and I’ll present his head to the priests of Sanctuary. I’m certain The Matriarch would be pleased with my offering.”

“No,” Blake finds himself saying before he can stop himself. He stumbles forward once more in approach. “No. You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“I am your father, boy,” The Herald reminds. “I’m doing this for the both of us. For the glory of our dawn.”

“You’re not going to touch him,” Blake says with a newfound conviction, and his next step is not as tricky as the last. It’s well-placed. Confident, even. “You’re not going to touch him, or any of my friends, and you’re not going to hurt Omen again. I won’t let you. I won’t let you.”

“I don’t recall giving you say on such matters,” The Herald growls out. “Submit yourself to better judgment and clean your mind of such thoughts.”

Blake doesn’t say anything as the air in his lungs turn into steam, the blood underneath his skin surges with red, bleeding out through the barriers the keep it contained, and it rushes to his eyes as they emit a vicious light. The Herald stares at Blake quizzically.

“Come now,” The Herald scoffs, “this is no time for a tantrum.”

He doesn’t get another word in before heat pierces the distance between them. The Herald chokes out a single noise before glancing downward. Right at the hole in his chest. The center of his human frame. Blake stares apathetically as his kidnapper registers the mortality of his weak body. It takes him a moment to realize what had happened. When he does, he glances upward, and he moves his mouth to say something. All that comes out is a puddle of blood.

“Ah,” The Herald manages before he falls to his knees.

Blake doesn’t move as The Herald collapses onto his side. He stands in place for some time before he even thinks to understand what he’d done. Blake’s eyes linger on The Herald’s empty vessel. He watches blood pool out of his mouth and chest. His heart picks up a stuttering beat in dawning realization. In shock, he inhales sharply, and then he bumbles backwards into the couch. Omen continues to stare at him all the while with a goofy grin on her face. It’s most disconcerting considering the sight next to her broken form.

Blake’s hands scramble for his eyes.

He’d just killed a man because of his eyes. They’d done something to him. Shot a hole through his chest. Murdered him.

Blake slides towards the ground with a pacing heart. It felt as if he were on the brink of a heart attack. He couldn’t breathe. When did it get so hard to breathe? Why weren’t his lungs working?

“Blake,” Omen hums dreamily.

Blake’s eyes don’t dare drift towards her – not after knowing what they were capable of – remaining buried in the cushion of his palm.

Blake had no strength in his legs. But he knew he had to get up. For Omen’s sake. Otherwise, who knew how long she’d be like this. Hypnotized? Blake had to leave the room before she was convinced that they were family.

Why did I make that stupid wish?

Blake struggles to pick himself back up and falters a couple of times. His muscles decide to cooperate on his third attempt, but not very well. Blake gets up to his feet, wobbles for wherever the exit was, and bumps himself into every object standing in his way. A lamp topples off an end-table and crashes to the ground. It’s the least of his worries.

“My eyes, my eyes,” he grieves as they burn.

Blake blindly searches for the front door, swings it open, and then falls off the porch steps. He doesn’t give himself time to think about his rough landing on the concrete or the bruises on his knees. Blake gets back up and stumbles for somewhere else. A place that didn’t have The Herald in it. Or Omen.

It feels only right that his feet fail him and send him tumbling into a ravine. Blake takes a rough roll down the concrete slope, and the gritty texture scrapes up his exposed skin. His hands fly away from his eyes and try to compensate. However, they could do nothing to stop his violent collision with the bottom, and even pressing them against his chest didn’t help the pressure in his lungs. Blake opens his mouth to take a breath, but nothing goes in. His lungs don’t expand or release. Blake gasps for nothing. It was as if all his air had been taken from him.

After a terrifying moment of time, Blake’s lungs rattle, and he takes in a deep gulping breath. He heaves while his lungs restrict painfully.

It takes him some time to find even a semblance of breath control, but that all goes to shambles when tears roll down his cheeks. Blake curls up and sobs miserably. The patter of raindrops doesn’t help. They prick at his skin and remind him that things would be worse. No matter what he did.

“Damian,” he gasps out between sobs, “Damian.”

No one hears him.

Chapter Text

Blake endures the violent rain for who knows how long, and he doesn't really care at this point. He hadn’t been counting the seconds, let alone the minutes, so who was to say he hadn’t been curled up for a number of hours? Blake hadn’t budged an inch since he’d hit the ground, the rain had soaked up his clothes, and the clouds showed no signs of clearing up. It was a sign that he ought to get himself to shelter, but Blake didn’t feel like getting up again. Besides, the slope was far too steep, and Blake would’ve fallen back down if he’d tried to scale it.

It doesn’t occur to him that this might be the end. Blake’s mind is devoid of all thought, hopelessly indifferent, as the rain builds up around him.

I killed someone.

His fingers are numb even as he curls them into his shirt. The rain sears his skin with every drop. It hurts the scrapes on his knees, hands, and arms. Reminds him that he’s alive even though it might not be that way for long. His eyes were burning in his skull and his face was hot. Everything hurt and all he wanted was to rest. He deserved a little sleep.

“-ake!”

Blake squeezes his fingers.

“Blake!”

Hands grab at him and turn him over. Blake whimpers. His back was throbbing. Probably from the nasty trip he’d taken at the porch – if not the slope.

“Hey, hey,” a feminine voice sounds in desperation, “you can’t do this to me. I don’t have the spirit for it. I need you to tell me you’re okay and…” A cool hand presses against his forehead. His friend hisses. “Hera. You’re burning up.”

Blake is pulled into a pair of arms that props his head up against a lap. Things start to make sense when he hears a voice in his mind.

Save your strength. Think about where it hurts. I’ll hear it.

No words. Silence.

Your back?

Throbbing pain.

Damn it. Shouldn’t have moved you then. Basic first aid, Lilith. You’re an idiot sometimes.

Omen composes herself mentally and takes a moment to breathe.

Okay. How bad is the pain? Can you move your limbs?

Blake remembers moving his fingers and his arms. His head had been fine too. Didn’t hurt as bad as the concussion did when he'd gotten it. But it still hurt bad.

Yeah, I got a concussion once, too. Hard to do anything with that kind of pain. Anyways. Glad to hear you can still move your fingers. Think you could show me some neck movement? Squeeze my hand a bit?

Lilith slips her hand into his, waits patiently, and Blake does exactly as she’d asked. He rolls his head and squeezes her hand.

Okay. Great. Good signs. Yeah. What do I do from here?

Lilith huddles over him to protect him from the rain.

Probably get you out of this rain. You don’t look so good. I wonder who I could call on? I don’t exactly have your family on speed dial. Well. Red Robin maybe. But he won’t get here fast enough.

Lilith clears her throat, wipes the rain off of Blake’s face, and then makes a hoarse yell. It sounds as if she hadn’t had any water for some time. It was a wonder that she had the energy to worry about him when she didn’t sound all that great.

“Conner! It’s Lilith! I need your help! It’s an emergency!”

It’s quiet for a short span of time. Lilith hesitates in that brief second, Blake could sense it through her mind connected to his own, but then there was a surge of relief. Lilith lifts her head weakly and exposes Blake’s face to the elements.

“Lilith? We’ve been looking everywhere for you! We saw that you were taken from your quarters but there wasn’t any trail to follow. I was beginning to think the…” Conner’s voice falls mute, and Blake can’t make out what’s happening. Not until he speaks again, with a darkened tone. “Who did this to you?”

“Never mind me,” Lilith begs, “help the kid, please.”

Conner squats down to inspect the situation. Lilith tries to wipe the rain off Blake’s face again. Even though it’s pointless.

“He needs medical attention now,” she says. “No hospitals. He’s a special case.”

Conner puts on a grim face, nods shortly, and then everything shifts. Lilith’s hands slip away as another pair digs underneath Blake’s body. Conner lifts him off the ground as if he were a paper weight, and the grip he applies is tight enough to press into Blake’s skin. It was clear he wouldn’t risk letting him fall.

“I’ll be back for you,” Conner promises.

“Just go, Conner, and try to get clearance for the watchtower if you can. I don’t think he’ll do well on the island.”

“I’ll take him to a place better than the watchtower,” Conner swears before floating off the ground.

Lilith doesn’t say anything as Conner shoots off, but Blake hears a whisper in the back of his mind.

You’ll be okay. Conner will take care of you.

Blake has his doubts as he feels the wind lash violently around him, but then the rain abruptly stops without a hint’s warning. Everything speeds around him until it’s only a blur. Suddenly, Blake is reminded of his friend Jon, and how fast he’d showed up when Blake had called him.

“Hang in there, little dude.”

Blake’s strength melts away and spills at his sides. Conner speaks to him, but he can’t hear anything. Just howling wind and the air rushing around him.

It’s only right – he thinks – after all those days of trying – that he finally gives up.

Blake doesn’t think after that because there’s no thoughts to be had in darkness. There’s a lapse of time when there’s nothing that exists. No energy. No pain. No suffering. No memories and no past. Blake didn’t have to worry about himself anymore, and he didn’t have to think about what he’d done. How easy it was to kill someone because he’d been mad at them.

That’s what that was?

His first thought comes to him in a jumble of confusion. Voices pick up around him but they’re too faint to be received. Blake doesn’t bother and tries to focus on what little he comprehended.

I thought anger was different than that.

Blake remembers Dick getting angry at his father in the hallway – Jason approaching him when he’d been roller-skating – the argument on the rooftop after he’d been pushed. It had always seemed powerful and strong. Not quiet and unimposing. Blake didn’t even know what he’d been doing until after it’d be done. That’s when he saw The Herald hit the ground. After he’d given his actions some thought.  

Had I been angry?

Blake hears clutter the more his thoughts gather and come alive. Occasionally, everything will fade out again, but then it’ll all come swarming back. Each wave is stronger and more prominent than the last. It keeps happening. Until it all comes to an abrupt halt. Blake weakly opens his eyes and wheezes through his mouth. Something was stuffing up his nose and it made breathing a difficult chore.  

“Master Kal-El, it would seem the patient has woken up,” a robotic voice informs.

Blake hears nothing for a short period of time, but then there’s the soft landing of feet in the distance. Blake blinks blearily as a person joins his side. Big and blue. With a wobbly symbol on his chest. It never settles even after it closes in.  

“Hm, well, would you look at that? Right when I was about to put you in the pod too.”

The scraping of a chair. A soft sigh.

“Really scared us there, kiddo,” his visitor mumbles. “I thought you’d given up on us.”

His chair creaks.

“You’ve got a lot of people waiting for you to get better and beat this nasty fever of yours. Damian was here just a moment ago. Hasn’t left your side since he found out you were being kept here. Jon told me that you were important to him. Could’ve figured from the way Damian was acting.” A pause. “Damian isn’t the only one waiting. Jon’s been reading you stories. Dick has come around a few times to talk to you. I think he’s worried about Damian, too, but don’t let Damian hear that. Yeah? He’s a handful. It’s hard just to keep him out of the weapon’s bay. Too antsy, you see. Can’t keep himself still.”

Another pause and a thoughtful respite. It takes his visitor some time to start speaking again. In that time, Blake slowly closes his eyes, and listens dazedly.

“Your father wants to meet you,” he lowers his voice.

Blake’s hazy mind tries to grasp onto his visitor’s words, and he knows that what he’d said was important. It just wasn’t registering. His body was trying to send him back to sleep. Even though warning bells were going off in his head.

“I know he’ll take good care of you. Damian is nervous about it, I can hear it in his heartbeat, but he’s got nothing to worry about. I won’t let anything happen to you. Bruce is a good man, I trust he’ll do what’s right, but if he doesn’t? Well, that’s where you’ve got back-up, buddy. Conner’s all about protecting your rights. And I’m right there with you.”

“I apologize for interrupting, Master Kal-El, but the pod has been prepared and sanitized.”

“Thanks, Ned.”

Movement. Blake feels hands dig underneath his body again. His head flops against a muscular chest. Whoever carries him does so with a gentle touch. Taking great care of his fragile, small, body.

“This is your last dip in the pod,” his companion mentions. “That stubborn fever is going break eventually, yeah? Hang on until then.”

Blake is sat down onto a cushioned surface, supported from the back, and adjusted until his head was comfortably. His companion removes his hands and takes a step back. Blake hears the faintest of hisses.

“Sweet dreams, Blake.”

It all falls back into darkness.

Blake is surprised to wake up – having remembered closing his eyes for the last time – fading away in the arms of a flying metahuman. It hadn’t been within his intentions to wake up again. Blake had thought himself physically incapable of it, after feeling the life slip away from him, but now he was awake again. It was surreal to return to proper consciousness.

It comes back to him in increments.

“I can’t believe you just reversed my reverse.”

Blake cracks opens his eyes, blinks them like the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings, and then lets them clear up without assistance. The ceiling is the first thing he sees. Huge and massive and blue. Like ice. Or crystals? Blake has no idea what he’s looking at.

“It’s a viable strategy.”

“I’m not going to argue Uno strategy.”

Blake’s fingers twitch on his stomach, where one of his hands had been rested, and then he rolls his head to the side. It’s impossible to miss to the two children playing card games on his bed. Blake first focuses on Jon, who had been biting his lip in concentration, but Blake’s movement hadn’t escaped his senses. Jon’s eyes snapped towards Blake’s.

Damian doesn’t bother giving Blake a moment to register their appearances, shooting up from his chair to the point of knocking it over, and staring at Blake as if he’d grown an extra hand.

Blake takes a moment to digest Damian’s face – exhausted and rugged – narrowing his vision on those circles underneath Damian’s eyes. It reminded Blake of the circles he’d seen underneath their father’s eyes when he’d been an ignorant replacement. 

Eyes. Blake’s heart picks up in pace like a panicked rabbit. My eyes.

Blake wrenches himself upward, averts his gaze, and makes a desperate beg. “No, no, don’t look at me. Don’t look at me!”

“Blake?” Jon asks timidly.

“Don’t look, don’t look.”

“What nonsense is this?” Damian questions. “Do your eyes hurt?”

“No, no they don’t hurt,” Blake says, “but they’ll hurt you. They’ll kill you.”

Damian is silent for a moment, Jon is too, and Blake doesn’t dare turn to peek at them. It was beyond him as to what they could be doing behind his back. Regardless, he was dead set on keeping his gaze away, but maybe he should have focused more on his frantic breathing. It was making him light-headed.

“Blake, you’re being ridiculous,” Damian huffs.

Blake feels a weight press into the mattress, shift because of distribution, and then stop after fingers wrap around his arm. Blake tries to snap his arm away with a frightened pull. The hand only grabs his arm tighter because of the struggle.

“Stop, stop,” Blake begs as the hands slide to his wrists.

“Blake, look at me,” Damian says sternly.

“I can’t, I can’t, don’t make me do it, please,” Blake pleads. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Damian swears as he attempts to pry Blake’s hands away from his face. “I’ve already seen your eyes before.”

“No, it’s not like you think it is,” Blake denies as his hands are finally wrestled away from his face. It doesn’t stop him from squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s dangerous this time. I killed someone with them.”

“Blake,” Damian grounds out, “If you were capable of hurting someone, you would’ve already done it when you were conscious.”

Blake’s hands shake and tears leak down his cheeks.

“Damian, try being gentler,” Jon says.

“I am being gentle.”

“No, you’re scaring him,” Jon complains.

“I’m proving a point.”

“In the wrong way,” Jon groans. “Just, be soft about it.”

Damian sighs through his nose, slowly releases Blake’s wrists, and then places his hands on his cheeks. They’re placed upon his face with a light pressure. Almost as if there weren’t hands on Blake’s cheeks to begin with.

“Blake, look at me,” Damian tries again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I realize that my methods are not… always the correct ones.”

“I can’t look at you Damian,” Blake says. “I already told you.”

“And I told you that this isn’t the first time you’ve been awake,” Damian lays out. “Superman would’ve told us something if you were dangerous.”

Hesitance. “I was… awake?”

More pressure is added to his cheeks. It feels as if he’s being rooted back into reality. His heart slowly comes to a steadier pace.

“You were,” Damian’s murmurs.

Blake takes a moment to think over Damian’s words, realizes that his eyes weren’t burning, not like they had been before, and reluctantly cracks open his eyes. Damian’s stoic face is the first thing his vision centers on. Damian’s features soften a fraction once Blake looks him in the eye.

“Damian?”

He gives a short nod.

Blake drinks his face in, cements those green eyes into his mind, and then sobs. Blake lurches for his older brother and grabs onto him. Damian doesn’t even think about wrapping his arms around Blake’s trembling frame.

“I would revive that man and kill him ten times over for what he did to you,” Damian growls as he presses Blake against him.

“Damian, I was so scared,” Blake weeps. “I thought I wasn’t going to see you again. I thought I’d never be able to fix anything.”

“Idiot,” Damian grumbles, “of course we’d see each other again. I wouldn’t let it happen any other way.”

Damian grumbles a few more words under his breath, tucks Blake’s head into his neck, and then continues to speak. “I don’t know what you mean by trying to fix things."

“I…” Blake didn’t know where to begin with that. “I wanted everyone to be happy.”

Damian doesn’t even think before replying. “You’re not responsible for other people’s happiness. That’s not your problem to fix. It’s theirs.”

Blake opens his eyes, makes eye-contact with Jon, and looks at the boy’s hopeful smile.

“If I hadn’t ruined everything…” Blake tries.

Damian groans, pulls away, and slaps his hands on Blake’s shoulders.

“Blake, it’s time to forgive yourself,” he says. “The best way you can make other people happy is if you’re happy. And I’m not talking about the superficial kind of happiness. I’m talking about being at peace with yourself and taking care of your spirit.”

Blake didn’t know what to say to that. It sounded so easy when Damian put it that way.

Damian exhales, relaxes his shoulders, and then gently pulls Blake back in.

“Just put yourself first for once, would you?”

Blake squeezes his eyes shut, grabs onto his brother’s shirt, and then cries all over again.

Chapter Text

Blake didn’t let Damian go, even when his cries had faded into sniffles, and after Damian had begun conversation with Jon over his head. It made him feel better that Damian wasn’t in a rush to separate, too, and it pulled some pressure off of his shoulders. Blake didn’t know how long he was going to hold onto Damian, but he’d like to be close to him for a while. It was all he wanted to do after having been away. Stuck in that man’s house for longer than he’d like.

“I’m just warning you, Damian, so that you’re prepared for it when it happens. I’m not telling you that my dad is going to come marching in here and kick you out. I’m just saying that he’s going to have to check over Blake one final time before he’s released from the fortress.”

“He kicked me out the last three times,” Damian scowls.

“That’s because you weren’t being much help,” Jon snorts.

“I wasn’t going to let him do whatever he wanted with Blake. I needed to be there with him.”

“You’re acting as if my dad was going to dissect him,” Jon deadpans.

“I didn’t trust that he was competent in the medical field.”

“Dude, my dad has x-ray vision, and he’s got a bunch of tech that diagnoses diseases we haven’t even heard about. I think he knows a thing or two about how to take care of someone. I mean, come on, do you ever wonder how my dad recovers from his injuries so fast?”

“I imagined it had something to do with accelerated healing.”

“I… okay… accelerated healing has got some part to do with it, but my dad’s got some pretty high-tech that can revive someone from near-death.”

“I don’t know how that’s even relevant to your father’s knowledge on medical techniques.”

“I’m saying that the technology takes care of everything.”

“Jon, that has zero relation to his knowledge on the matter,” Damian huffs with the roll of his eyes. “I feel as though my wariness was well-placed when your father has no practice with basic medicine. I doubt he had anything to do with the creation of the technology he has on hand, too, and I question his ability to keep proper maintenance on them.”

“Damian, the robots do the maintenance for him,” Jon says.

“Okay, who does maintenance on the robots?”

“The other robots,” Jon explains.

Damian stares at Jon over Blake’s head, which was tucked underneath his chin, and gives him a dead look.

Blake, unlike his brother, was quite entertained. It was… nice to hear his brother bicker with Jon again. It was almost as if they were out on the road. Trying to put the universe back into place.

“Anyways,” Jon sighs with a groan, “I’m not trying to argue with you. I just wanted to talk about what’s going to happen after my dad thinks Blake is fit for going home. I know a lot has happened in the past couple of days.”

Damian hesitates, Blake can tell by the shift in his grip, but his voice is steady.

“I may ask your father to hold custody of Blake for a while longer,” he confesses his thoughts on the matter, “but I’m not sure if that will abate my father’s curiosity.”

“Damian,” Blake asks, drawing away, “is something wrong?”

Damian face is impassive, a strong front for whatever he was feeling inside, but something in his eyes is soft.

“I’m going to be curt with you, Blake,” he says bluntly, “and it’s important that you know what’s going to happen. I don’t know how long you’re going to stay here, but you’ll eventually have to return to the mansion. I…” Damian’s façade slowly fades, and he struggles to find his next words, “I know that we haven’t discussed Father’s return in detail but…”

Blake feels his heart skip a beat. His arms pull away from Damian and he looks at Jon.

Jon presses his eyebrows together with concern.

“He’s back,” Blake realizes without much context.

Damian doesn’t say anything, Jon leans back in his chair in a slump, and Blake sits on his bed. Unfeeling. Closed off and devoid of any thought.

“He’s back,” Damian finally agrees.

Blake looks down at his lap. No one says anything as the atmosphere grows thick with contemplation. Damian’s features adopt frustration. Jon looks defeated. Nothing happens for that short length of time. It’s so quiet that Blake can hear his heartbeat – quite literally – on the alien-looking monitor nearby. It was deceptively slow and steady. Aside from that one skip it’d made when he’d realized the truth.

“I won’t let him do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” Damian blurts out after the silence grew tiring, “and I’m not going to let him hurt you again. I… saw what it was like through your eyes when… when you were… I… it’s not going to happen again.”

“Damian, I’ve never heard you at such a loss for words,” Jon says.

“What did you see?” Blake finds himself asking. “A lot happened when I first woke up as… as your replacement.”

“I saw him push you off the roof, Blake,” Damian answers. “I saw him looking down at you with expectations that you could never fulfill." A frown. "I couldn't believe what he'd done. I never would have conceived it."

Blake feels something desperate bubble up in his chest. He didn't want Damian to remember his father in this way.

“He loved you, Damian. He loved you so much. He just wanted you back.”

Damian’s face twists. “Is it love if you attempt to revive someone and… and force someone else to take their place? I don’t know how you can even think that he was anything but selfish.”

“Damian,” Blake finds himself grabbing onto his sleeve with a plea, “you have to give him a chance. Please. He… You…. You were everything to him. Everything to your family.”

“Blake,” Damian disapproves wearily. 

“He missed you so much,” Blake tightens his grip, “and he was willing to do anything to see you again. I know that it seems messed up, but it’s like you said. This isn’t our timeline anymore. Nothing is the same. It doesn’t have go down like it did.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me,” Damian admits.

“I’m not promising that I’ll be okay after I see him,” Blake confesses, “but I don’t want you to throw away your relationship with him. I want us all to try again. I want you to let him care about you.”

Damian stares at him, searches his eyes, and continues to do so until he comes to terms with Blake’s desires. His answer results with a sigh. He turns his face away and looks off at the wall.

“I don’t know how you’re so forgiving, Blake,” Jon says as he straightens himself up on his seat. “I don’t think I’d be able to look at my dad the same if he did that to me, but then again… I can’t even imagine he’d ever do something like that. Anyways. I just think that that this going to be hard for you, and that what you want isn’t going to be easy.” Jon lowers his eyes to gaze at Blake’s mattress. “But whatever you decide. I’ll help you through it. I know Damian feels the same way.”

Jon gazes upon the mattress for a thoughtful moment, lightens his features, and then looks up again.

It only occurs to Blake after the fact of meeting Jon’s eyes that the boy had not fallen for his trance. It gave him a stupor of bewilderment.

“We’ll figure it out,” Jon promises with an optimistic smile.

Blake gives him a small smile back. Seemed only right.

“I have such a pacifist for a little brother,” Damian releases a loud groan as he hooks an arm around Blake’s neck. Blake blinks with surprise as his head is pressed against Damian’s side. “I can’t believe Mother thought you were ever capable of violence.”

“I must have been, at one point,” Blake thinks aloud.

“At one point,” Damian agrees, “but not anymore.”

It was supposed to be a sobering thought but Blake smiles. It was one of the rare moments he felt like he was himself instead of something else someone wanted him to be.

“Uh, were you hoping to get into a huge fight with your dad, or something?” Jon asks. “It’s like you were expecting a different outcome.”

“I considered the prospect. I was prepared to fight for Blake’s honor, and I’m still prepared to do so.”

Jon huffs out of his nose good-naturedly and opens his mouth to say more. It’s hard to get any words out, however, when a stranger steps foot into the room. Jon flips his gaze away to check out the intruder, Damian tenses, and Blake peeks up curiously. Jon is the only one who doesn't look surprised. 

Damian releases Blake, scrambles for his sunglasses, and sets them hastily onto his face.

“Jon, you didn’t tell me that Blake was awake,” Clark says as he approaches the trio. “Ned neglected to mention anything, either.” Clark glances around for his robot companion. “Where is he?”

“I… have no idea,” Jon admits.

Clark looks down at his son, his eyes soften, and he plops down a hand on his head.

“I think it’s bedtime for you, mister,” he says. “I’m proud of you for keeping your friend’s company, but it’s getting far too late for you.”

Jon shoots a glance at Damian, a silent look of guess what happened to me after I got de-aged?, and Damian smirks.

“Dad,” Jon whines, as if he were truly his age, “but I can’t just leave.”

“We’ll leave together,” Clark promises, “but only after Dick comes back to watch over the boys.”

“But Blake is awake,” Jon complains.

“I see that,” Clark observes as he returns his attention to the subject of the room. “How are you feeling, young man? You had a bad fever for the past few days.”

“I feel… good?” Blake isn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t remember having a fever.”

Clark frowns. “What do you remember?”

Blake opens his mouth, closes it, and shivers.

“Omen,” he realizes, “is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Damian answers.

Clark nods. “She’s been worried about you, mostly. Conner’s been bugging about you on her behalf. He told me a little bit about your situation. I’m sorry about what happened to you.” Clark frowns. “No one should have to go through what you did.”

Blake finds his hands reaching up for his eyes before he can think twice about it.

“I’m glad that your fever broke, though,” Clark continues. “I think I’ll keep you here one more night, just to make sure you’re completely recovered, and then I’ll send you off with your brothers.”

“Ok,” Blake says.

“Dick will be here soon,” Clark says, “I have a feeling he’ll be delighted to see that you’re awake. I know Damian’s concern might make everyone else’s pale in comparison, considering the fact that he never left your side without some force involved, but that doesn’t mean your family wasn’t worried about you. It was difficult to keep up with their demands.”

Blake tries to imagine Dick, someone who once despised the sight of him, worry about him.

It was a surreal thought. It reminded him that this wasn’t the past anymore. He’d had this thought plenty of times, but it was always mind-smacking when it came. 

“Alright, you’ve done your duty, you may leave now,” Damian dismisses as he moves to bodily block Blake.

“Damian,” Jon gawks.

“You’re crowding him and it’s overwhelming him,” Damian grounds out.

“Damian, that’s my dad you’re talking to,” Jon stresses.

Clark snorts, looks Damian in the eye, and gauges his stern expression.

“Come on, son,” Clark relents with the quirk of his brow, “let’s give the two some space.”

“Dad, Dick isn’t here yet,” Jon says.

“We’ll wait nearby,” Clark says.

“I want to stay though,” Jon begs.

“Son, we need to be ready to leave when Dick arrives, or else your mother will be inconsolable.”

Jon erupts into more complaints as his father guides him up out of his seat, out of the room, and outside into the massive frozen hallway. Blake watches them go with amusement. 

“You can be mean sometimes, Damian,” he speaks aloud.

He slaps his hand over his mouth.

“What?”

Blake doesn’t try to defend himself or explain what he’d just said. He keeps his hand over his mouth with disbelief that he'd just blurted out his feelings.

“Did you just say I’m mean?” Damian scoffs.

Blake shakes his head. Then he nods his head.

Damian stares at him blankly.

Then, “I’ll show you mean.”

Blake squeals when Damian lunges to attack him and wrestle with him. Blake erupts into laughter he’d never even heard himself make before. Not like this. Hysterical and surprised.

“D-Damian,” he cries out as he tries to break free.

“Surrender, Blake,” Damian demands.

“What am I surrendering for!?” Blake laughs.

“For disrespecting your elders.”

Blake laughs again and rolls around to avoid Damian’s attacking hands. Damian only takes pause when a ping is heard nearby. Ned, woken from sleeping mode, drops out of the ceiling, and takes a good look at the situation.

“Please do not wrestle with the patient,” Ned says.

Damian rolls his eyes, grabs the empty uno cardholder, and throws it at Ned. It bonks the robot in the head delicately and falls to the ground without noise. 

“Ow,” Ned feigns monotonously.

Chapter Text

“I like the sound of that one,” Blake says, peering over Damian’s arm, pointing at the video playing on his phone. “I remember listening to it a while ago, but I forgot what the title of the song is.”

Damian was sitting cross-legged, looking not the least bit winded from their wrestling match, and Blake wondered how one could be so sturdy. Blake’s face was flushed with heat, a little bit of sweat, and his heart was still trying to hit a steady pace. Damian's body held no similarities. 

“It’s called Moanin’,” Damian reads off the description, “and it’s by Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers.” Damian frowns. “It’s the only one I could stand.”

Blake briefs a glance upward.

“I listened to some jazz while you were gone,” Damian admits.

Blake makes a sound somewhere in his throat – something akin to acknowledgment – that would have turned into words if the door didn’t hiss open. Damian had a frown when he glanced up from his phone. It faded when he laid eyes on their guest.

Dick Grayson, who looked tired, weary, and exhausted, pulled himself into the room. It was clear in his face and body-language. Blake wouldn’t have been able to guess from his clothing, simply because Dick was well-groomed, and consistently attentive to his appearance. He had a knack for making casual clothing look sharp.

“Richard,” Damian calls out, “you look wretched.”

“Thanks,” his older brother sighs.

Dick makes eye-contact with Blake, gives him a shaky smile, and then collapses in Jon’s deserted seat.

“Blake,” he says, softly, “how are you feeling?”

Blake studies Dick’s eyes, hopeful, and yet simultaneously fatigued.

“I’m feeling better now,” Blake says.

“Good, that’s good,” Dick breathes out.

Damian scrutinizes Dick as silence takes over the conversation. Blake, feeling somewhat awkward, averts his gaze to fiddle with his blanket, and wrinkles it up in his fingers. It was clear that something was on Dick’s mind, but he didn’t know how to go about addressing it.

Damian’s heavy stare is unwavering. Dick flicks his attention to Damian and grimaces.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to go quiet on everyone, I’m just stressed,” Dick admits. “I have a few questions I want to ask Blake, but I know it isn't the appropriate time.” Dick looks down at his hands, interlocked together in his lap. He leans forward in thought. “I also don’t know how to go about the situation at home. I… I don’t think I’m going to be staying in Gotham for much longer after…”

Damian hardens his eyes.

“But I didn’t come here to offload my worries,” Dick sighs.

Dick smiles weakly, looks up, and tries to lighten up his face.

“I brought a gift from Jason,” he changes topics.

Dick reaches into his messenger bag, pulls out a tin, wrapped in plastic, and hands it over to Blake.

“It’s the recent edition of Super Pets.”

Blake settles the tin in his lap, runs his hand over the smooth plastic. He fights a smile.

“Jason dropped everything to help us figure out where you were,” Dick explains, “but he probably won’t admit it if you ask him directly.”

“He’s emotionally incompetent,” Damian expands.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“He runs away at even a hint of emotion,” Damian insists.

“I remember a time when you’d threaten to stab someone if they got mushy on you.”

Damian’s ears tint with red.

“I’ve changed.”

“I know,” Dick gushes, face lighting up, “and it makes me so happy that I can hold you without getting several death threats.”

“Richard, shut up,” Damian grumbles.

“Look,” Dick points out, “you don’t even want to continue the conversation because you’re embarrassed. I don’t think you can call Jason emotionally incompetent.”

Damian riles up. “Are you implying that I’m the one who’s emotionally incompetent?”

Dick laughs, leans backward, and puts on a charming grin.

“No, I’m implying that you’re cute,” he diverts.

Damian opens his mouth, lets a strange noise escape, and then makes himself mute. Blake can’t believe someone had the ability to put Damian at a loss for words. It was fascinating that Dick could make him like this. Damian never had an end of things to say, but Dick’s teasing rendered him speechless.

Damian finally collects himself and his expression twists in irritation.

“I’m not cute.”

Dick barks a laugh.

“Is that all you have to say? I thought you were the king of sharp comebacks.”

“I want you out of this room.”

“Sorry, I’m going to be staying here for a while,” Dick sings, leaning forward to extend his arm out, and ruffle Damian’s hair. Damian smacks his arm away grumpily. “Blake’s got to have a responsible adult looking after him.”

“I am responsible!”

Damian erupts into bickering with Dick, though it seemed mostly one-sided, and Blake puffs out of his nose in amusement. Blake tries to listen to them go back and forth, but eventually he grows tired of zero participation. In the end, his attention returns to the gift in his hand, and the thin plastic that bars him from his prize. Blake rips it off with only a few tugs.

Blake excitedly pries the top off the box, scans his eyes over the contents, and contemplates opening up the concealed decks.

Damian’s voice anchors him back into the conversation.

“Richard, you should be resting instead of bothering us with your pretentious presence,” his concern was poorly veiled. “I know you haven’t slept in days.”

Dick goes quiet as he considers Damian’s words. Blake glances up just in time to see his pained features. It fades quickly.

“I guess you’re right,” he admits.

Damian looks triumphant for a moment.

Dick wipes the look off his face as he reaches for Blake’s tin, gently pulls it out of his hands, and then sets it aside. Blake was left confused because Dick had just taken his gift back, but it started to make sense once Dick started to climb into the bed.

“Hold on,” Damian demands, “don’t climb up here! It’s too small for you!”

“I’ll fit,” Dick seems sure.

“Richard,” Damian protests as the man grabs him.

“C’mere,” he croons, shifting himself around to lean back, “stop squirming around.”

Damian looked absolutely mortified to be snuggled atop Dick’s chest. In fact, he refused to make eye-contact with anyone.

Dick opens his right arm.

“Blake,” he beckons.

Blake blinks, tries to figure out what Dick was asking, and then scoots closer to his side. Dick hums as he helps Blake out the rest of the way, curling his arm around the boy, and tucking him in close to his body.

Blake can’t say he’s ever felt this small before.

“Nap time,” Dick announces.

Damian doesn’t say anything, probably because he’s too embarrassed to speak, and Blake doesn’t want to tell Dick that he just woke up from a nap. Blake even thinks about opting out, even though he liked the warmth that Dick gave off, but Dick surprises them all with how quickly he falls asleep.

Damian scoffs and presses his cheek on Dick’s collarbone.

“Idiot,” he grumbles.

It was too late to opt out.

Blake supposes that this wasn’t a bad thing, though, and that there was something comforting in Dick’s embrace. It didn’t matter that Damian fell asleep before him (after much struggle), and Blake can’t say he minded staying awake the entirety of their nap.

It was nice to just be held.

Clark returns the next day.

Blake was shy as the man checked him over, going quiet because, well, this was Jon’s dad, and it was just hitting Blake now that this person had taken care of him. It also didn’t help that Clark had brought along an additional guest. Blake was feeling extra reserved as Conner, the teenager that rescued him, stood to the side while chewing on a strip of gum.

“It looks like you're fit for departure,” Clark decides.

“Good job, little man!” Conner cheers. “You made it!”

Blake blushes, turns his face away, and hides it in Dick’s arm.

It doesn’t occur to him, until after he’d done it, that he was initiating physical contact with Dick. It surprises him only because he’d meant to hide in Damian’s sleeve.

Blake feels as if he made the wrong choice as Dick’s arm slips away. His heart skips a bit, mostly in panic. Dick chases his stress away when he ends up wrapping Blake’s shoulders. Blake is tucked back into his side, like the day previous, and welcomed to bury his face in his shirt.

“Dick, make sure he takes it easy,” Clark addresses. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, but we don’t want the fever coming back. Keep the stress off if you can.”

“Of course,” Dick agrees.

“That means no interrogations, not until he’s situated,” Clark’s voice is stern.

“I was going to get Omen’s report, first, anyways,” Dick mentions. “I wasn’t going to interview Blake until after the Bruce issue.”

Clark nods as Dick gives Blake a reassuring squeeze.

“Dude, if he pulls anything, you better give me a call,” Conner speaks up. “I know from personal experience that it can be tough.”

“I don’t think he’ll do anything bad,” Dick says, “but thanks for the invitation.”

“Bruce is a good man,” Clark agrees. “Blake will be okay.”

Damian scoffs, turns swiftly, and leaves the room.

Dick gives Clark an apologetic smile.

“I guess that’s my cue to get going,” he says. “I’ll make sure to repay you for taking care of Blake.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Clark warns as Dick rises.

Blake scrambles to hide his face in his pants as he rises with him.

Dick’s smooth, soft, chuckle makes his heart flip.

“Don’t forget your trading cards,” he teases.

Blake jolts, turns, and gathers the tin up from the bed. It was hard to hang on to Dick afterwards because he was hugging the tin to his chest. It didn’t stop him from pressing close, though, and hanging behind him to avoid Conner’s humored gaze.

Dick escorts Blake out of the room, leaving two supers behind, and hums cheerfully, tickled by Blake’s aversion. “Conner isn’t that scary,” he laughs. “He’s just a dork.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Blake says.

“Oh, right, of course,” Dick teases, “how could I suggest so?”

“I wasn’t.” Blake says again.

“Richard, hurry up,” Damian demands from the on-board ramp, connected to the bat-jet. It had been landed inside of the fortress.

Damian enters before they do. Dick wasn't in a rush, though, not like Damian, who sits himself at the very front. 

Dick gently ushers Blake down in a seat, shows him how to buckle up, with slow and deliberate movements, and takes his time instructing Blake over the basics. Dick didn't leave until he was certain Blake was properly situated. Once he was done, he straightens himself up and claps loudly. 

"Let's get this thing going," he says. 

Dick approaches the front. He physically removes Damian from the pilot’s seat. Damian squawks and protests. Dick doesn’t pay him any mind. “I’m piloting," he grounds out. 

Dick doesn’t lift off the ground until he’s certain everyone’s buckled in tight. Damian broods in the co-pilot’s chair, like a child who couldn’t win their way, and Blake sits behind them with his eyes glued to the sky. It doesn’t occur to him, until they’re hundreds of feet up into the air, that maybe he didn’t like flying in a plane all too much. It reminded him too much of when the prototype jet had been overrun with Sanctuary’s influence.

Blake feels sick to his stomach.

Damian glances at him.

“Richard,” he says, “put on some jazz.”

Dick blinks.

“Jazz,” he repeats. “Damian. You don’t like jazz.”

“Some of it,” he corrects.

Wait, Blake realizes, Damian’s been dealing with my obsession with jazz when he doesn’t even care for it?

Dick shrugs, tugs out his phone, and tosses it to Damian.

Damian knows the passcode by heart, judging by the way he quickly types it in. He connects the phone to the jet speakers. The first song that comes on is calming, like a lullaby. Blake’s sick feeling dims a bit as the music drifts around. Slowly dances, like a couple pressed together in peace.

Thanks, Damian.

Chapter Text

Blake hides himself behind Damian as they offboard the jet.

It makes his heart race, returning to the bat cave like this, knowing that his father was nearby, and that he’d have to confront him soon. Blake knows that this is a different timeline, that nothing will ever be the same again, having gone about preaching about this very thing to Damian, but his chest was squeezing in on him. Making him anxious, regardless. Stupid, he knows. But he can't stop it. 

“Blake,” Damian mutters as they climbed up the stairs, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Blake reaches out for comfort, grabs onto Damian’s hand for a sense of security, and then swiftly second-guesses his choice of action.

Blake nearly retrieves his hand until Damian’s tightens his grip and pulls him along.

“You’re just in time,” a voice claims.

Blake didn’t dare look past Damian, knowing full-well who owned that voice, even though it was younger than he remembered, and unburdened by depressive mourning.

“Bruce, I didn’t hear anything about a meeting,” Dick speaks up from the front.

“It was a sudden arrangement,” Bruce admits.

Blake follows Damian until the boy sits himself down, encouraging his little brother to do the same to his right, and only then was Blake given a view of the situation.

It was strange to see the family gathered like this.

Tim sat across the table with a serious array of features on his face, and his posture was curved as he rested his arms on the table. Dick sat himself near the head of the table with a tightly concealed expression, and Damian himself was frowning considerably as he eyed the man standing over them. 

Cass makes eye-contact with Blake when he spots her, and he fights a smile as memories flood into his mind. Blake reaches up his hand awkwardly to wave at her, and something about it surprises Cass. It is only then that Blake rethinks his actions. It doesn’t occur to him, until after he’d greeted her, that she might not even know who he was, and that his wave could possibly be misplaced.

Blake lowers his hand, smile dying in the pits of his soul, and that’s when Cass straightens herself to wave back at him. Cass’ lips take on a genuine upturn.

“I don’t remember hearing anything about this cutie,” a stranger to Damian’s left begins.

“Brown, stop doing that,” Damian demands as the girl, leaning back in her chair, tries to get a good look at Blake.

“Barbara couldn’t make it today,” Bruce’s words wash over the conversation, gathering everyone’s attention once more, “but she’s listening in on our discussion. I’m going to cut straight to the chase.”

Bruce bows his head.

“Thank you for taking care of Gotham in my absence,” he begins humbly. “I know that I left all of you in a tough spot. It was never my intent to leave everyone without direction, and I imagine that it was a struggle to adjust your roles. I didn’t mean to leave this burden on your shoulders. I also didn’t mean to leave as suddenly as I did. I’m sorry.”

Bruce allows a moment of silence to fall on the moment. It gives him the time to look over all his children. Blake, not daring to meet his eye, immediately averts his gaze, roots it to his lap, and pretends that he’s not present at the table.

“Dick,” Bruce calls out, “thank you for putting on the cowl when Gotham needed you.”

“I just did what I thought was best,” Dick says.

“It wasn’t something you had to do,” Bruce says, “but you did it anyways. It was never your responsibility to bear, but you took it upon yourself without prompting. What you did was impressive. I owe you a debt, Dick. No one else could have pulled off what you've done."

Dick goes quiet – turns his head away – wipes at his damp eyes with the back of his hand.

“I'm just glad to have you back Bruce,” he croaks.

Bruce doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything, but he makes a sound of appreciation.

“Tim,” he continues, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here today.”

Tim says nothing besides nodding his head in disconnected acknowledgment.

“Stephanie, Cassandra, I’ve seen the work you’ve done, and I know that you’ve been keeping this city together in my absence. I couldn’t have asked for better associates, comrades, family, and I’m honored that you would continue to fight with my insignia.”

Cass shares a smile with Stephanie.

“Damian,” Bruce begins without faltering, “it was my duty to guide you into adulthood. I failed you. I left you before you ever had a chance to know your father, and I sent you away because of my poor judgment. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I am, however, thankful that you’ve worked closely with Dick to protect this city, and that you stayed even when there was no reason for you to. I would like to work with you in the future – have you at my side – if you would have me.”

Damian says nothing, pinching his eyebrows together, folding his arms against his chest, and frowning deeply.

“Just give him some time to think it over Bruce,” Dick advocates.

“Of course,” Bruce agrees.

Bruce then speaks aloud, for the participant who wasn’t present, and yet was listening in on their conversation. “Barbara, your assistance has been invaluable, and without you, this city would have already fallen apart.”

Blake couldn’t hear her reply.

“Jason,” Bruce goes on after some silence, “if you’re tapping in onto this discussion, please, come home. I want you at my side. I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

“That’s a tall order,” Stephanie snorts. “Jason lives for family drama.”

“He’s just figuring it out,” Dick argues.

Tim sighs, picks his arms off the table, and leans back in his seat.

“Now,” Bruce breaks up with his voice, “as for how we are going to continue from this moment on.”

Blake is surprised that Bruce hadn’t addressed him, so he looks up to risk a peek for clarification. Blake freezes when he makes eye-contact with the man, and his muscles stiffen up as dread washes down his spine. Blake didn’t know what he was expecting, but it obviously couldn't be anything good.

Bruce looks away.

Blake blinks, listens to him speak as if the interaction hadn’t happened, and tries to interpret the strange results. 

Damian was in a foul mood as the group dispersed, sketching out his anger with the furious drag of his pencil, and Blake felt misplaced as he sat cross-legged on Damian’s bed. It probably would have been a better idea to find a different room. Damian, as much as Blake loved being with him, looked as if he needed some alone time, and Blake felt as if he was intruding upon him.

“Damian,” Blake speaks up quietly, “I can leave if you need to be alone.”

“Don’t,” Damian snaps.

Blake shuts his mouth.

Damian opens his own, struggles for a moment, and then spins his chair.

“Don’t,” he repeats, anger fading, “I want you here.”

Damian leans forward and interlocks his fingers in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I didn’t mean to get sharp with you.”

“It’s fine,” Blake says gently, then coaxing, “what’s wrong?”

Damian sighs through his nose, glares at the ground, and puts on a frown that digs into his chin.

“I’ve been through this before,” he admits, “to some extent. It’s different than the first time around, which is only to be expected since a lot has changed, but I’m having some trouble reliving certain moments. I…” Damian raises his hands to rest his forehead. “It was hard when Richard left the first time. Richard is leaving again. I must figure out my relationship with my father once more, and I’m not looking forward to spending time with him.”

Blake tries to protest before Damian stops him with a look.

“I’ve taken what you’ve said into consideration,” he says, “and I’m willing to give him a chance again only because it’s important to you.”

Damian goes quiet, abruptly halting before he can continue, and Blake quickly figures out why. It most likely had to do something with his wobbling lip. Damian was struggling to keep his emotions in.

“I’m going to miss him though,” he whispers.

Blake instantly knew that Damian was not referring to their father, and that he was talking about the man who’d mentored him from day one.

Blake’s heart wept for his brother, knowing full-well that Dick cherished him deeply, and that Damian did so in kind. It was clear that they meant a lot to one another, and that Damian was not looking forward to another departure.

Blake gets up from the bed, Damian watches him head for the door, and says nothing as Blake takes a half-step into the hallway. Blake imagines that Damian probably thought he was leaving him in his moment of need – maybe to give him some space – to let him cry without the burden of vulnerability.

Blake does the opposite by doing something he’d never done – yelling at the top of his lungs – which is something he’s so unused to – so amateur – that his voice cracks mid-call.

“Dick,” he cries out.

“Blake,” Damian gapes.

“Dick,” Blake tries again, “Damian’s upset that you’re leaving!”

“Blake,” Damian barks as he scrambles out of his chair. “What are you doing!?”

“He’s even crying," Blake announces, "you need to come here and-"

Damian slaps a hand over his mouth and drags him back into the room. 

“Blake, what is wrong with you,” Damian sounds angry and… yet… Blake detects a small hint of nervousness. “Why are you announcing my weakness to the entire mansion?”

Blake suddenly feels bad for betraying Damian’s trust like this, and he realizes that maybe he shouldn’t have approached the situation in this way.

“Are you trying to make a mockery out of me?” Damian’s voice wavers with genuine hurt.

Wow, Blake thinks with a pang in his heart, I should never do this again.

Damian removes his hand in disappointment, turns to bury his face into his hands, and to just stand there in misery. Blake reaches out to touch him, but he hesitates. His hand is left hovering as he thinks over what he’d just done. He had no idea where his boldness had come from, but now he was regretting his burst of courage. He shouldn’t have acted on it. Shouldn’t have jumped up without thinking twice.

“Damian,” a soft voice comes from the entrance.

Damian stiffens his shoulders. Blake turns to address their guest with a grimace.

Dick stands in the doorway with soft features, and yet they were simultaneously slackened with sadness.

Damian says nothing, refuses to speak a word, and Dick takes that as a sign to step into the room. He makes eye-contact with Blake. Gives him a small smile before gently requesting, “Could you give us some time alone? I think Alfred wouldn’t mind having you join him in the library.”

“Okay,” Blake agrees with some reluctance. He gives Damian one last glance before passing Dick and exiting into the hallway. Dick closes the door behind him. Leaves the rest of the situation in mystery.

Blake clutches at his heart, inwardly cursing himself for being so insensitive. He knew what it felt like when someone was insensitive. Why had he done the same thing?

He stands in the hallway dejectedly. Only finding the will to move when he’d been standing in place for too long.

Blake ignores Dick’s suggestion, wanders around, and finds the piano again.

Its appearance remains unchanging. Blake remembers it looking the same as the version in his memories. What’s more, it hadn’t budged an inch from where it’d been placed. It was still covered with a tarp, too.

Blake stares at the piano for a lonely minute and then lowers himself down. He crawls underneath the tarp. Scootches the bench in so that it blocks off the extra space. He then pulls his legs up and… sits there. Feels a bit better after hiding himself in a secure area. Small and hidden. A perfect place to think about what he’d done.

Oh, and about his future.

It was almost as uncertain as the first time around, when he’d just done as he was told, and yet felt disjointed all the same.

Blake sighs shakily. Stares into darkness. 

It scares the soul out of him when something fuzzy brushes across his leg.

“Alfred?”

Blake can’t believe it when he feels the cat nuzzle up to him.

“Alfred, I haven’t seen you in forever,” he whispers.

Alfred curves into his hand as he pets the cat down the spine.

“Woah,” he can hardly believe it. “I’m back where I started.”

It was all catching up to him – his past – recent events – his eyes – running away – hiding – getting kidnapped – oh. Blake clutches at his heart again. It hurt. Why did it hurt? He didn’t have a reason to be hurt. He should be happy with what he’s been given.

Alfred purrs as Blake half-heartedly pets him, but even an action as basic as petting becomes weary. Blake’s hand loses strength, he tucks himself further back into the piano, (even with the petals sticking at him in awkward angles) and closes his eyes in a tireless chase for rest. It wasn’t within Blake’s intentions to fall asleep. It seemed impossible when he was as pained as he was, and yet his mind eventually drifts away into the abyss. Time passes by. The sun sets and the clocks tick. Somewhere in the distance, a grandfather clock chimes. Ringing seven times before falling silent.

Footsteps. Damian. Dread in his voice. “In here?”

“Cameras spotted him coming in,” Dick says.

“Hm,” another voice.

Blake slowly wakes up when light penetrates his space and the tarp lifts. A presence blocks him in, big and bulky. Two pairs of eyes try to peek past the hulking body.

Blake opens his eyes and meets Bruce Wayne’s.

Blake is rendered mute. Shocked out of his wits.

“Father-” Damian attempts to interrupt.

Dick grabs hold of his shoulder to stop him from moving forward. Keeps him back from intervening.

Bruce says nothing, just holds out his hand – a gesture that speaks more than anything that he could ever say in the future, or in the present. A symbolic choice. A decision to be made between two parties. Something that would determine everything from that time forward.

Blake stares at the hand for some time and thinks about how that same hand pushed him off a rooftop.

Call him foolish, for tentatively reaching back out. Building a bridge with meager offerings. For wanting to forgive and love.

Bruce helps him get out from underneath the piano. Blake stands himself up and rubs his eyes sleepily.

“If you’d wanted to sleep, there were other, less concealed places,” Damian complains.

Dick laughs as he gently pushes Blake forward, lets him lead the way out of the ballroom. Damian follows behind with no end of grumblings.

Bruce lingers. Pondering.

Alfred mrows and rubs against his legs. 

Chapter Text

Blake tries to avoid Damian for the rest of the evening, maybe even for the rest of his life if he could manage it, but it’s difficult to avoid someone you share a room with.

It was the first time Blake ever wanted to have his own room, and that was for the sole reason of hiding in shame. Damian’s voice still echoed in his mind, hurt, betrayed, and miserable. Blake hadn’t meant to draw such a reaction out of his older brother, and having done so was sending him on a never-ending guilt trip. Blake couldn’t stop reliving the moment, couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done, and cursed himself for how thoughtless he’d been. It would’ve been better if he’d stopped to pause. Blake could’ve avoided the shame if he’d just given his words some thought before speaking.

Blake doesn’t look Damian in the eyes when they got ready for bed. Unfortunately, Damian was in no mood to tolerate avoidance.

“Blake,” he calls out, with that stern tone of his, “stop acting like a kicked puppy.”

Blake glances upward from the bed, wide-eyed, and dressed in his own set of pajamas. 

Damian grimaces before clearing his throat.

Damian takes a breath, re-evaluates the situation, and then gently presses his weight into the bed. He sits right next to Blake. Didn’t look at him once he was settled, thank goodness. Blake wasn’t sure if he could handle prolonged eye-contact. No. Damian wasn’t in the business of staring him down, not right now. He interlocks his fingers and rests them in his lap. Stares at the door across from them, debating something within his mind. Blake endures the silence before his older brother finally speaks.

“I apologize for being quick to offend.”

Blake mentally reels because – hold on a second – he’s the one who should be apologizing. Damian had no reason to apologize. He had every reason to be hurt. Blake had crossed a line with his trust.

“I shouldn’t have been in a rush to get angry,” Damian continues, “and I knew you were just trying to help me. I couldn’t think straight in the thick of it, but I calmed down after having a talk with Richard. It helped me realize that, ahem,” he clears his throat again, “maybe you had the right of it.”

“Damian,” Blake protests, “those were your private feelings. I had no right acting on them for you. I don’t need your apology. I’m the one who should be sorry right now.”

Blake takes a breath. 

“I think it would be better if we had separate rooms,” Blake proposes after pause. 

Damian surprises him with the sharp turn of his head.

“No,” he cuts off, “that’s not a good idea.”

“I can’t do this with you,” Blake confesses. “I can’t be with you when I can’t control my words. I imagine you’d want your own space, anyways, and to get you room back.”

It strikes Blake as odd that Damian is quick to refute his observation.

“Blake, we’re all prone to mistakes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you around. I want you here.” Damian’s face shifts into one of reluctance. “Besides. This is a rather poor time to separate. I don’t want you to be by yourself when…” He swallows. “Stay here, it’s for the best.”

Blake pinches his brows in confusion.

“Remain for a little while longer,” Damian begs. Blake has never seen him like this. Desperate to keep him. “Just until we know everything’s okay.”

Blake tries to figure out why Damian wanted him around. Mulls over it until it hits him. Strikes him.

Damian wanted to keep him around because he was afraid for him – afraid because of past events – maybe even afraid because of recent events. Blake recalls his kidnapping and feels a shiver run up his whole body. He gnaws on his bottom lip and sees images behind each blink of his eyes. Prior to this conversation, he’d be all for giving up his shared space with Damian, but now he was remembering how vulnerable he was. How easy it’d been to be torn apart from his family.

Blake anxiously grabs onto his shirt. Twists it up in his fingers.

“Blake,” Damian pleads, “promise me you’ll stay.”

Blake’s heart aches in emotional pain. It wasn’t just his kidnapping – it was how cruel he’d been – it was his past – the unfairness of it all. Blake wants to stay, yes, but he also wants to leave. It’s a tug-of-war that prevents him from making any proper decisions.

“I was so mean to you,” Blake says.

Damian's face twists. 

“I don’t want to be mean; I hate being mean, I hate hurting people,” Blake says. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings again. I just want to dig a hole, bury myself with sand, and hide away. I want to go back in time and stop myself from ever betraying your feelings. For thinking I knew better when I obviously didn’t.”

“Blake,” Damian tries.

“I don’t want to burden you. I don’t want to burden anyone. I just want to be a good boy and… and… I’m not. I never have been.”

Blake searches Damian’s eyes. Finds out that his older brother is searching his, too.

“Blake,” Damian scoffs, “that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Blake startles. 

“Do you know what I did, first thing, when I woke up in the past?” Damian asks.

“What?”

“I looked for you.”

Blake wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, or what to make of what Damian was implying. Blake realizes that he doesn’t really know where Damian is going with this.

“You looked for me? First thing?”

“I did, and I was going to get you back, no matter what. Because I just wasn’t going to let Mother do whatever she wanted with you. Not to you, Blake. She had no right, manipulating such a pure heart. For taking away your childhood. I was going to fight for you. I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure you got your happy ending. It was the least you deserved.”

“Besides,” Damian adds, pulling on the collar of his shirt nervously, “I only have one little brother and… and… I’m not willing to give up." His hands fall. "We may have misunderstood each other’s feelings, but that doesn’t mean I want our relationship to end. Family sticks together, no matter what. Father should have taught you that, instead of doing the opposite.”

Damian turns his body to face Blake’s. His face is strewn with seriousness. He meant every word he said. Blake knew that Damian never lied, and that's what made it special. It also made him realize something critical about his older brother's personality. 

“Damian,” Blake he couldn't help but examine, “you’re probably the kindest person I’ve ever met.”

Damian blinks at him. Processes his words. Then, suddenly, he barks out a laugh. Grabs onto his stomach as if he’d just witnessed something hilarious.

“I’ve never heard that before.”

“It’s true,” Blake defends. It offends him that Damian isn’t taking him seriously.

“I’m not the kind one,” Damian insists, “I’ve never known anyone more charitable and forgiving than you.”

“Except, you are all those things,” Blake insists. “You’re so special. I can see why everyone loved you. Why they still love you. And I… I love you too.”

Damian stops laughing. Falls quiet just as quick.

Blake starts to feel nervous again, having once again become victim to Damian’s heavy gaze. He thinks about looking away. About turning from those green eyes that seemed to see everything. That carry knowledge that he’d never conceive of sharing. He doesn’t.

“No one has ever said that they loved me before,” Damian whispers.

Blake’s mind comes to a pause because – no – that can’t be true. Everyone loved Damian. Why else would they have reacted so badly when Blake came along? Why would his own father try to replicate him? Try everything to bring him back?

Blake feels compelled to open his arms, to slowly wrap them around Damian’s waist (just so he could have the time to pull away if he wanted to), and then keeps his grip lax just in case the hug was too much. Damian stays still, frozen in place, but then his arms are shooting upward. Blake, though having initiated the hug, becomes the receiving end, and Damian squeezes him tight with fierce gratitude.

Blake nearly misses Damian’s murmuring words, but when he catches it, he smiles with a warm feeling in his heart.

Damian loved him too.

Damian told Blake that he’d had a good conversation with Dick, that the two had shared a tender moment together, before Dick, having been freed from the Batman mantle, began to pack his things, and prepared for his journey back to Bludhaven.

Blake offered to help him which rewarded him with a chuckle, a ruffle on the hair, and then a request for retrieve his water bottle in the kitchen. Blake readily agreed, far too bored with Damian off at school, and thus he set off to complete his important mission.

It was not his intention to come across his father who, duh, lived here now, and Blake wondered why he’d been so quick to forget it.

“Ah, Master Blake,” Alfred greets warmly from the stove.

Bruce doesn’t say anything from the breakfast bar, but he does pause mid-session on his laptop. Bruce glances upward, spots Blake, and stares at him. Blake looks everywhere except his father and goes mute.

“I hope you’re not here for a snack,” Alfred says. “It’s almost lunch time. I’ll have a meal out for you in twenty minutes.”

“I’m here for Dick’s water bottle,” Blake whispers shyly.