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When people saw Dick and Damian together now, in their softest moments – when Damian would let Dick carry him to bed after a movie night or after long night of patrol in which he curled sleepily in Dick’s arm, or when he would draw or read with his head on Dick’s lap or hold Dick’s hand when he was sick –, they tended to forget it hasn’t always been like that.
They tended to ignore all the months of cutting insults and barbed words, all the mistrust and attacks, all the many setbacks and relapses Dick and Damian had gone through.
They saw Damian glued to Dick’s side after a bad night, and thought he had it easy with Damian. They ignored the attempts at hair ruffles that ended with Dick’s back on the floor or the knife buried in the door beside Dick’s head, after he startled him.
They didn’t know about Dick’s mistakes, about his careless words that sounded innocent in Dick’s head, but had had led Damian to run off or to lock himself in his room at the penthouse, thinking he would be shipped back to Nanda Parbat. Or about the time Damian thought Dick would kill the little bird he was nursing back to health, because it was what Ra's would do.
They didn' see all the reassurances, the compromises, the long conversations, the boundaries they established and respected… all the time and effort they made to get to know each other, to overcome misconstructed expectations… All the times Dick had proven himself to really be there for Damian. All the times he misunderstood something and Damian had forgiven him. It was all brushed aside as if they never existed.
As if their close relationship was not born from all those experiences. As if Damian just randomly chose to love Dick out of the blue, to spite the others, as if Dick had it easy from the start. As if Damian hadn't had resented Dick for being chosen by Bruce just as much as he resented the others.
As if Damian hadn’t been a traumatized ten year old coming from an abusive home – if you could call the League of Assassins a home. As if Dick wasn’t a grieving young man thrusted into roles he had never wanted to play. As if there was anyone else to be there for them, but one another (and Alfred – but sometimes he would be all stoic and distant, too proper to really be there all the time).
They didn’t want to admit that they hadn’t made any effort to see Damian as a child and not only as an assassin. They wanted to see him as an impossible, hateful child, when he was actually a good kid, a kind boy who just needed a little patience. He just needed to be and to feel loved and for the people around him to show him they trusted him, so he could trust them back. He needed to be seen and treated as the child was, not as an enemy or a mindless assassin.
***
When he first arrived in Gotham, Damian wouldn’t let anyone close enough to touch him. He also wouldn’t let anyone out of his line of sign in any room he entered. He still had the mindset of the League of Assassins, where someone would certainly strike you to maim or to kill, if you ever let your guard down.
Every single one of Dick’s attempts at showing affection was met with violence, because Damian was conditioned to equate someone getting close to touching with an attack.
Dick understood that and tried different forms of showing his appreciation – with words of praise and without hiding the pride in his eyes at every new accomplishment as Robin or as Damian Wayne.
It took time and many tries to find a rhythm, but Dick wouldn’t give up on that kid. He and Alfred – and later Steph – were all Damian had as family. Bruce was dead – and before that he never gave Damian an honesty chance. Jason, Tim and Cass were away. He wouldn’t even start with Talia, much less with Ra’s.
***
The fact that Damian didn’t seem to have any hobbies worried Dick. He had been living with Damian in the penthouse for almost two months and he hadn’t seen the boy do anything unrelated to training or to school.
He seemed to like reading well enough, but all the books Dick saw Damian with had something to do with weapon’s, martial arts, strategy and whatnot. Or they were school assignments. It couldn’t be healthy to Damian. Dick was seriously considering an intervention, until one glorious morning, when he had woken up earlier than normal and had decided he had enough time to do a little yoga on the balcony.
And there was Damian, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice Dick’s arrival. Which was unexpected.
Damian was always hyper aware of everything – so much so, that I made Dick sad, because it had to be a consequence of his upbringing in a hostile environment. But that morning he hadn’t noticed Dick entering the balcony.
“Hi, Dami!” Damian turned his head so fast that Dick’s neck felt sorry for Damian’s in sympathy. Just as quickly, he closed the sketchbook that was in his lap, dropping his pencil case in the process.
“Grayson,” he nodded once, acknowledging Dick’s presence and trying to look casual. He was failing greatly. Dick rarely got to see him look so much his age as he did that moment, all wide eyes and nervous shifting – as if he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You are up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to do some yoga in the fresh air.”
“I would not call it fresh,” Damian scoffed. "No one with common sense would."
“It is a stretch, isn’t it?” Dick wanted to hug him. He looked adorably offended at hearing of someone dare to call Gotham’s air fresh. “What are you drawing?” He thought it was a relatively safe question, but Damian’s demeanor immediately became defensive, and not in the caught with the cookie jar cutesy way.
“Drawing is not a useful skill for a fighter, Grayson. I don’t see why you would deem it important to know about it. It’s a mindless activity I should be able to abandon.” He was all blank face and toneless voice, but his shoulders were hunched in shame and anxiety, as if he thought Dick would punish him for liking something outside of training. His small hands tightened on the sketchbook, in what was probably fear that it would be forcibly taken from him.
Dick should have known. Stupid League of Assassins. Damn Talia and Ra’s. He wanted to throttle them.
Instead, he tried to conceal his anger before Damian saw it. Because his boy would think it was aimed at him and Dick would not make that mistake again. He still remembered how hard it was to coach Damian out of his room and to make him believe he would not be punished or be sent back to the League. Damian didn't trust that he had a permanent place at Dick's side and heart.
“I think it’s wonderful. I wish I knew how to draw or paint. And I’d really love to see your art, if you ever want to show it to me.”
***
Every night they went out as Batman and Robin, Dick always wondered how he managed to not have a heart attack with all the close calls they had and all the trouble his Robin got into. He wondered how Bruce hadn’t had a heart attack, because he knew all of the Robins were trouble magnets.
Sometimes, he thought about how different the fifth Robin was, compared to the others – to Dick himself when he was Robin.
But he mostly thought about how much progress they had made. About how much Dami has learned and has taught him. They weren’t perfect, but they were trying, and they were improving.
“I’m proud of you, kiddo.” Dick would say, at the end of patrol, even if Damian was sulking about letting a henchman get away from them. Because he had chosen to stay with the little girl they had rescued, instead of going after the criminal. And he was learning to show the kindness Dick knew he had, but had learned to hide, lest it’d be used against him. And Dick would make sure hi little Robin knew that his effort and progress were noticed, valued and cherished.
He knew Damian didn’t understand yet why he was so keen on giving praise and voicing his pride. He knew the boy might not believe him, and that Damian still looked for hidden meanings in every single one of Dick’s words. But he would keep repeating them until his little Robin started seeing the truth in them.
***
Damian didn’t hide under Dick’s cape like Dick himself had done countless times under Bruce’s. He still tried to hide his injuries, and refused to tell Dick directly when something was bothering him.
But he has started letting Dick ruffle his hair, still threatening violence pretending to be annoyed – Dick could see the softening of his eyes, even if his boy insisted on scowling.
It was also increasingly common to find his sketchbook on his favorite armchair in the living room, when before he would keep it hidden at all cost, even after Dick had learned of its existence.
Dick knew it was a show of trust, but it was a test too. To make sure the trust given wouldn't be abused. He wouldn't touch it until Damian himself explicitly granted permission.
It was all about respecting boundaries and taking baby steps.
While Dick might not have seen one single sketch or doodle yet, Dami wouldn’t stop drawing when Dick was in the same room as him anymore. And there were days in which his baby would purposefully sit right beside Dick to sketch.
***
Their relationship was never very traditional, never easily labeled. But somewhere along the line, Dick realised he had been thinking about Damian as his kid for a while.
He thought that maybe Damian was starting to see him as someone he could trust not to harm him deliberately.
***
Dick couldn’t recall how, when or why, but he and Damian started to trade traditions and lessons in Arabic and Romani.
Maybe it had begun on one of Alfred’s days off, when Dick decided to try cooking, instead of ordering takeout. He had made an adapted version of a stew he had seen the old fortune teller at Haly’s cook a million times as a kid.
Damian liked it enough to offer a compliment in that formal manner of his, and Dick told him not only where he learned it, but all about Irina and about how she was like his Grandma.
It evolved to them oiling each other’s hair some nights, to Dick’s humming the lullaby his parents used to sing to him when Damian got a fever, to Damian giving Dick one of the portraits he had made. To many other little things and to new traditions they created together.
It also included Dick giving Dami trapeze lessons and teaching him some of the aerialist routines he used to do with his parents.
***
One night, after getting hit with fear toxin, Dick found himself leaning on Dami's door, trying to listen for signs that his baby was alive and peacefully sleeping.
He knew he shouldn't enter the room unannounced, but he was feeling the aftereffects of the toxin, even with the antidote, and he couldn't help it. He had to be sure his kid was okay
His Dami woke up as soon as he opened the door, being a really light sleeper, and softly called Dick's name, slowly sitting up. Some months ago, he would have thrown a knife at Dick's head out of reflex. He had made so much progress. Dick was so proud of him.
"It's okay, little D. I just needed to see you for a bit. You can go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you." The boy looked ready to fall asleep, but he made no move to lie down again, just kept on looking at Dick, head tilted to the side.
"Crane?", he asked, meaning the toxin. Dick nodded. Dami hesitated for a few seconds, before gesturing Dick to come closer.
"Would you like to sleep here tonight?" Dick loved this kid. "As your Robin, I shall guard you and protect you while you sleep."
Dick smiled and accepted the offer, but insisted that he would feel better if Dami slept too. Despite that, none of them really went back to sleep until dawn.
***
After the incident with Crane, it took Dami another month to go to Dick when he had a nightmare. They cuddled in the living room with hot chocolate and watched old cartoons until the sunrise.
This happened a few times before Damian felt comfortable enough to slip into Dick's bed and bury himself under Dick's arm after a bad dream or a bad night.
Then it never stopped and they would seek the presence of the other for reassurance even in the daylight.
***
The first time Dami called him baba, with his huge green eyes and his round cheeks, saying the word reverently and like someone who expected to be scolded, Dick could only hold him and think he was the luckiest person alive, to have such a brilliant, perfect kid as his son.