Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On the plane from the UAE to the USA, Talia al Ghul gives Damian a crash course on his father.

“The Batman operates differently than the League of Assassins,” she says in English, easing the transition into the language of his future home. “The most important difference is that he does not kill.”

Damian’s brow twitches. Why would a fierce hero like the Batman refuse to kill? Did he lack the resolve? If so, training under him would be a waste. Emotions only cloud judgment— and Damian had no interest in being slowed down by a man who couldn’t control his own.

Talia notices his disappointment. “Damian,” she says— not habibi, so she must be serious. “Take this as an opportunity to learn. Lethality is easy. Precision, the ability to injure without maiming? That takes far more skill.”

She looks out the window, eyes tracking the endless Atlantic below. The sunlight glints off the waves, cold and clear.

“Yes, Mother.” Damian nods slightly. He still doesn’t understand— but perhaps his father’s refusal to kill is a kind of challenge. A way to push his own limits. That, Damian can respect. “Are there any other rules I should know?” he asks after a beat. Best to know the terrain before entering the battlefield. He doesn’t want to disappoint the man his mother and grandfather speak of with such reluctant reverence.

Talia blinks slowly, still watching the water. “Your father is… an empathetic man.” A small, almost wistful smile tugs at her lips before disappearing. “In the League, empathy is a weakness. Somehow, your father makes it a strength. You are superior to your peers, we both know that, but your father will not tolerate gloating. Be humble around him, habibi.”

“Yes, Mother,” Damian repeats.

He looks down at his hands— scarred, even after the Lazarus Pit. Reminders of every mistake, every lesson, etched into his skin. Humility is not something he’s ever been taught. But he can learn.

Nothing is too difficult for Damian al Ghul.

Talia places her hands on Damian’s shoulders after she rings the doorbell. The touch is gentler than usual, and it makes his skin crawl. When he looks up, her expression is one he can only describe as bittersweet.

It’s golden hour outside Wayne Manor. The sun sets behind another mansion in the distance, casting long shadows across the lawn. Damian stands still, feeling an unfamiliar dread curl in his stomach. Some part of him hopes no one answers the door— and he doesn’t know why. He’s meeting his father, isn’t he supposed to be excited?

The large wooden doors swing open before he can sort through his thoughts. An older man— early sixties, Damian guesses— eyes them with deepening crow’s feet and barely concealed disapproval.

“I’ll go get Master Wayne,” he says stiffly, before disappearing into the house, leaving the doors open behind him.

Damian’s shoulders drop. Of course that man isn’t his father— he’s far too old. His mother had told him he was a miracle. But even miracles could be mistakes. He knows he was the product of impulsive, youthful passion, and yet he was sculpted into perfection by the League. That had to count for something.

A small nudge to his back breaks his focus. Talia, guiding him forward. He doesn’t stumble— his training wouldn’t allow it— but it’s a close thing. He walks in. His mother follows silently behind him.

The manor is grand in a traditional, Victorian kind of way. It can’t compare to the halls of Nanda Parbat or ‘Eth Alth’eban, but it will do— for now.

Uncertain where his mother expects him to go, Damian leads her to the nearest sitting room. She takes a seat with regal poise, and he stands behind her, hands folded behind his back. They do not fidget— but just barely.

It isn’t long before the older man returns— this time, with someone else. The man beside him is tall, broad-shouldered, with eyes like sharpened winter glass. Damian knows immediately: this is Bruce Wayne.

“Talia,” Bruce says, his voice calm— too calm. “What are you doing here-” He stops short as his eyes land on Damian. “-with a child?”

“Beloved,” Talia hums, her voice cool and composed. When Damian risks a glance at her, her eyes are softer than he’s ever seen them. “I’d like you to meet your child. Damian.”

“…What?”

“Your child,” she repeats, voice hardening.

Damian keeps perfectly still. He didn’t expect joy. He didn’t expect warmth. But this— unacceptance— hits harder than he anticipated. Does his father not want him?

“I understand that, Talia,” Bruce says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and Damian feels something sink low in his chest. “I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have told me sooner.”

“My father,” Talia replies simply. “He feared you’d make Damian soft. I convinced him otherwise— that training under you would sharpen the League’s heir in ways we never could.” There’s something hidden in her words. Damian can’t read it. Subtext has never been his strength.

Bruce’s posture shifts, shoulders relaxing under the weight of something inevitable. “You could’ve told me I had a child,” he mutters. Then, with a sigh: “Whatever. I’ll take him.”

“I knew you would.” A real smile touches her lips. It’s the first Damian has seen in a long, long time.

Damian Wayne-Al Guhl stands pensively outside the dark wooden door of Duke Thomas’ bedroom. His fist hovers inches from knocking, but he hesitates— wondering if this is really the best idea.

Here’s the thing: Duke Thomas is Bruce’s foster child. He arrived at the manor only a few months before Damian. Despite having living parents— though chronically insane— and no blood relation to the family, Bruce insists that Duke is family. At first, Damian was confused. How could someone with no biological connection be considered kin? But when he voiced that thought, his father launched into an hour-long lecture about how bio-family supremacy would not be tolerated under his roof.

It still unsettles Damian to be placed on the same pedestal as a lowly Gothamite from the Narrows, but he remembers his promise to his mother: to stay humble. So he keeps his mouth shut, buries his ‘unkind’— rational— thoughts, and makes a point to be pleasant to Duke. The boy is only eight, after all, and would absolutely tattle if Damian so much as looked at him sideways.

Despite the constant irritation of having a little— illegitimate— brother, Damian needs Duke’s abilities. Duke is a meta with the power of photokinesis: the ability to control light. In his case, he can generate, absorb, and manipulate it. A very useful skill, especially for someone who prefers to lurk in the shadows. Damian makes a mental note to pitch the idea to Grandfather— metas in the League of Assassins would be a tactical advantage. Then again, Ra’s al Ghul is nothing if not a traditionalist— he would’ve acquired superpowered assassins centuries ago if he wished for it. Damian sighs and discards the thought.

He finally musters the resolve to knock— three sharp, deliberate raps on the door. He’s tense. Does he really need Duke for the stunt he wants to pull off? He’s confident he could manage it alone if he tried hard enough. But his mother always warned him: never underestimate the Batman. Having Duke as a contingency wouldn’t hurt.

As Damian broods, the door swings open. Duke stands there, framed by the sunset blazing through his window, and the sudden light nearly blinds Damian. Eugh. Solar-powered people.

“Damian?” Duke’s small voice breaks through his daze. “Do you need something?”

“No,” Damian snaps automatically, caught off guard. “I mean- yes. I have a favor to ask.”

“Is Bruce making you hang out with me again?” Duke folds his arms, unimpressed. “Because it’s really awkward when you pretend to like me even though you don’t.”

“What?” Damian blinks. He thought he’d done a decent job being courteous these past three months. He definitely didn’t hate the kid. “I like you well enough.”

“Bet Bruce made you say that, too,” Duke mutters, shaking his head. “Whatever. You don’t need to like me. I’ll be back with my parents soon anyway.”

Damian holds back a sharp retort— one about how Duke’s parents would never recover from their mania. That would be cruel. Even he knows how it feels to have parents just out of reach: Bruce, unknown for his entire life; Talia, always controlling her distance like a strategy.

“I do like you,” Damian says again, more firmly this time. “Or else I wouldn’t be inviting you on this important mission.”

“Mission?” Duke raises an eyebrow. “Are you secretly part of the Odd Squad or something?”

Damian vaguely remembers the show— kids in suits working in a weird building, solving anomalies. He guesses it’s not too far off from the League.

“Something better,” Damian replies, smirking.

“Like?” Duke presses, eyes narrowing in impatience.

“Inside,” Damian says, glancing around the hallway to make sure Bruce isn’t lurking. “It’s a secret.”

“Do you have a girlfriend or something?” Duke snorts but steps aside to let Damian in, dutifully closing the door behind him.

“What? No!” Damian recoils at the suggestion, scandalized. “Father is Batman! That’s what I was going to tell you.”

“Bruce is Batman?” Duke squints at him like he’s trying to x-ray the truth from his face. “But rich people never do anything good without an… evil motive?” He trails off, like he’s quoting a phrase he doesn’t understand.

“That’s true,” Damian mutters, thinking back on all the other Gotham elites he’s had the misfortune of meeting. “But Father’s different. He took you in, didn’t he?”

“Hm.” Duke glances up at the popcorn ceiling, thoughtful. “I guess if any rich guy were to do it, it’d be Bruce.”

Damian shoots him a look. He doesn’t have the patience to wait for Duke to connect all the dots.

“No matter. You’ll see tonight.” A wicked grin creeps across his face. “We’re going to find out where Father hides his alter ego.”

The plan is simple: they’ll meet in Duke’s room at 9:15 P.M.— a solid amount of time after Pennyworth tucks them into bed. Then, they’ll sneak to Bruce’s private office and wait for him to reveal where he keeps his vigilante uniform. Duke’s role comes into play here— they’ll need to stay hidden as they follow Bruce, and while Damian is confident in his own stealth, his mother had been very clear: never underestimate the Batman.

The first part of the operation goes off without a hitch. The two boys wait outside Bruce’s office, passing the time with rock-paper-scissors. Duke enjoys the game; Damian uses it to sharpen his body language reading. Unsurprisingly, he wins the majority of the matches.

“You’re cheating!” Duke whisper-shouts after Damian claims victory for the fifty-third time out of sixty-nine.

Damian shoots him a glare and puts a finger to his lips. Duke puffs out his cheeks in frustration but says nothing as he lifts his fist to play again.

They don’t get the chance.

Bruce chooses that exact moment to push his chair back from the desk. Damian reacts instantly, grabbing Duke and dragging him toward the crack between the double doors. They peer through as Bruce stretches, groaning. He’s only twenty-eight. Why is he groaning like an old man? Damian cringes in secondhand embarrassment.

Bruce doesn’t head for the door as Damian predicted. Instead, he strolls to the grandfather clock in the far right corner of the room. They watch as he adjusts the hands— Damian squints. 10:47, if his eyes aren’t mistaken.

Suddenly, the wooden frame swings open. Duke gasps, and Damian quickly kicks him in the shin to shut him up, again pressing a finger to his lips as Bruce disappears behind the clock. The secret door swings shut.

“On me,” Damian whispers, cracking the double doors open just enough to slip through. The two sneak into the office, rarely visited by either of them. Damian can tell by the wide-eyed way Duke stares at the bookshelves.

“We don’t have time to look around, Thomas,” Damian hisses, eyeing the closed entrance in the clock. He’s not tall enough to reach the hands— and Duke is shorter than he is. “Get me Father’s chair.”

Duke obliges, pushing the heavy seat across the carpeted floor. Damian’s thankful for the rug; if it were wood or tile, the sound would’ve alerted Pennyworth for sure.

Once the chair’s in place, Damian climbs up and stretches for the clock. His fingers barely reach the hands. Gritting his teeth, he manages to tug the hour hand forward by one, then forces the minute hand up fifteen.

Eventually, it clicks into place— because of course he succeeds. He’s literally Damian Wayne-Al Guhl. The grandfather clock swings open again, revealing a cold, spiraling staircase descending into darkness.

It looks almost ominous from where they stand.

“Are you ready?” Damian asks, turning to Duke. As the older and more competent one, it falls on him to take the lead. “There’s no going back after this.”

“Yeah,” Duke says with a nod, eyes full of determination and absolutely no self-preservation. “This is the part where I use my powers, right?”

Damian nods, grabs Duke’s hand, and tugs him into the stairwell. “Make us turn into darkness,” he whispers as the clock swings shut behind them, sealing them in dim silence.

The stairs spiral on forever— each turn feels like the same gray stone and cold draft. Damian nearly loses his mind before they reach the bottom. When they do, he halts abruptly, and Duke bumps into him. He doesn’t fall, but it’s a close call.

The cave is… a dream. Massive computers, glass cases housing every Bat-suit imaginable. Damian can’t help but think— this must be the Batman Mother warned me about.

They stick to the edges of the cave, weaving from shadow to shadow. Damian’s careful to stay in areas Duke’s powers can conceal them. He’s seen what happens when Duke tries to blend into a bright spot— he’d rather not get caught by appearing as a glowing yellow blob.

Bruce sits at the largest computer setup in the cave— three massive monitors, practically billboard-sized. He’s scanning profiles of Gotham’s colorful criminal population. Damian assumes those are the targets for tonight’s patrol.

Damian leads Duke away from the man, instead exploring the glass cases that contain the batsuits and even the weaponry, where they both snatch a batarang for a souvenir. It’s a nice weighted feeling in Damian’s hand as they sit in a corner, watching his father finally change into his armor..

When Bruce puts on the cowl, it’s almost like watching him disappear and something else take his place. His back straightens, his expression hardens. He becomes dangerous— at least, the illusion of danger. Damian knows better. There’s nothing dangerous about a man who refuses to kill.

Still, Bruce’s transformation is so convincing that Damian glances at Duke to make sure they’re still hidden.

Duke’s face is lit up like he just met Barney the Dinosaur. It’s honestly a little concerning.

While Damian shares the thrill, he also worries Duke is turning them into a walking flashlight rather than a shadow.

They watch as Batman climbs into the sleek, black car and drives out of the cave.

Once he’s gone, the boys leap from their hiding place, grinning ear to ear.

“I told you so, Thomas,” Damian says proudly as he marches to the massive computer. “Father is Batman.”

Duke rolls his eyes, but the smile sneaking onto his face betrays him. “Yeah, yeah.”

“There are two rules you must follow absolutely,” Batman growls from where he sulks near the computer. Damian however, feels very delighted. 

After months of sneaking around the batcave and secretly training Duke, father found out and had no choice but to let Damian come with him on patrols. Duke… isn’t quite ready yet, but under the watchful eye of Damian, he will be soon. His meta powers definitely sped up the process.

“One: no killing,” Batman actually turns his head to squint at Damian. The boy stands taller, and this moment seems reminiscent of every time he was around his grandfather. “I know the League taught you differently, but you must not kill or maim anybody.”

“Yes, Father.” Damain nods. Mother said that learning non-lethality would challenge him. He is up to it. 

Bruce seems to relax after that. “Two: follow all my orders. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like them. You’ll become a liability if you steer off course,” Batman leaves the computer, his cape sweeping through the air as he turns. “Failure to follow orders will result in getting benched.” 

“Yes, Father.” That one he didn’t need to learn. Grandfather only tolerated obedience, anything less would result in harsh punishment that often left Damian in need of a Lazarus Pit. He could follow directions, that was the easy part.

“Okay,” Batman sighed, and a glimpse of a tired Bruce Wayne appeared. “Please don’t make me regret this Shadow.” 

Shadow was Damian’s chosen vigilante pseudonym. It not only reminded him of home, but also of Batman and Duke, which made it the perfect fit. “I won’t let you down, Batman.” 

Batman’s scowl softens. “I really hope so.” 

Chapter Text

It’s only been a year since Damian Wayne arrived in Gotham, and already his heart has softened more than he ever thought possible. He doesn’t know whether that should disappoint him— or make him proud.

With growth comes regret. And tonight, that regret is heavy.

He sits alone in the Batwing, a backpack resting against his side. The guilt has been simmering for months now— low, steady— and Damian knows better than to ignore it. Let it fester, and it’ll detonate, hurting not just him, but the people he’s somehow learned to care about.

So he does the only thing an eleven-year-old trained assassin knows how to do: he makes a plan. He redeems himself. Quietly. Secretly.

He draws a breath, fingers hovering over the controls, and exhales only when the plane powers on without a rumble. No alarms. No footsteps. If Bruce— or even Duke— were to come check, he knows he wouldn’t go through with it. His resolve isn’t absolute yet.

But it will be. Once he leaves, it has to be.

And so, he goes.

Through the waterfall, the Batwing glides into the night. Behind him, New Jersey disappears in the shadows, and Damian’s shoulders fall— either from relief that he’s gone, or sorrow that he had to leave at all.

He’s high above the Atlantic when he finally dares to look back.

Gotham is nothing more than a speck of light swallowed by the horizon— a cursed city he once protected at Batman’s side. The sight pulls at something deep in his chest, something he tries not to name. It reminds him of Duke and the strange, steadfast companionship they’ve built over the past year. Hopefully, when he returns, he’ll be better— for Duke. A stronger partner. A better older brother.

He wonders if Bruce will look for him.

Probably. He doubts his father would risk leaving a trained assassin loose in the world— not without suspicion, not without fear of what he could become. Even now, even after a year of restraint, Damian knows he’s still seen as a liability.

Some part of Bruce will always be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Whatever. Let him.

Damian’s not running away. He’s atoning. On his own terms.

The first time Damian meets Maya Ducard, she’s out to kill him.

He recognizes her instantly— Nobody, a trained assassin. But that doesn’t make sense. He’d killed Nobody during the Year of Blood. He remembered the final blow. The silence that followed.

So how was he still alive?

No. Not a he.

This Nobody was smaller. Faster. Eyes not like Morgan’s, but sharper— burning. Feminine. The mask was the same. The voice modulator, identical. But Damian knew how people moved. This was someone new.

Their first encounter is chaos: the Temple Guardian goes haywire the moment it’s revived, and Goliath refuses to follow orders. There’s no time for a proper confrontation. But after Damian and the ancient spirit talk it out, she presses a knife to his throat.

“You’re still here?” he asks, unfazed. He just fought a giant stone statue. A second-rate doppelgänger of someone he already killed doesn’t rattle him. “What do you want?”

The venom in her voice is familiar— too familiar.

“Besides the chumps of the world to stop calling you a hero? Watching you take your last breath at the end of my blade would be a pretty rad start.”

He clicks his tongue. “Tt. Tough talk,” he mutters, turning to face her. “You ever actually killed anybody, Nobody?”

Silence.

He turns away. “Didn’t think so.”

“I’m looking forward to making you the first,” Maya hisses behind him. “You killed my dad. I’m a nobody because of you.”

Damian pauses. Morgan’s daughter. He turns his head, not surprised to feel her blade press a line of red into his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, remorse threading through him before he can stop it.

“What? You think that’s gonna absolve you of your sins?” Nobody laughs bitterly, eyes narrowing. She doesn’t believe him. Damian doesn’t blame her. He killed her father, after all.

“You are unforgiven, Damian al Ghul.”

He meets her gaze. “So be it.”

Friendship comes slow between them.

Maya watches from a distance as Damian retraces his steps across the Eastern world, returning what was stolen during the Year of Blood. Sometimes, she helps him. Sometimes, she’s an obstacle.

It’s confusing— for someone like Damian, who can admit he isn’t great with social or psychological things. She constantly threatens him, hurls insults, and occasionally throws punches. But she also keeps him alive, and sometimes, in rare moments, she shows something that looks like compassion.

She always plays it off— says she wants to be the one to kill him— but there’s something else beneath the surface. A message he can’t quite decipher.

When Damian finally escapes his mother’s pampering, he finds Maya in a boat at the edge of Al Ghul Island, a dossier of everything Gotham pulled up on the screen— Batman, Shadow, Signal, the Rogues.

“You didn’t tell me you had a little brother,” she says.

“Yes…” Damian huffs from where he’s perched on the top of the boat. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You left him-" Maya turns around, voice sounding hurt even through the voice changer, “— for this? For some weird, stupid guilt-complex thing?”

“I have to set an example for him!” Damian hisses. “If he figures out I’m some kind of… monster-” he almost chokes on the word “-I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.”

“Are you okay?” Maya’s voice softens, her shoulders drooping as she glances back at the screen.

“No,” Damian admits. “All the work in this Year of Atonement has only left things in ashes, so gloat all you want.” He looks toward the sky, the constellations his mother once taught him barely visible through the light-polluted night. “I know now I can’t undo the things I’ve done. The only thing this stupid bat does is remind me of what I can’t live up to.” He taps the dark blue symbol on his chest.

“Your brother doesn’t seem to think so.” She nods toward the screen— an image of Duke, smiling in his Signal uniform.

“Shut that off,” Damian snaps, unable to bear the sight of his innocent brother while he— while he’s killed hundreds of people.

“Shadow has stopped countless villains from hurting Signal,” Maya continues, like she knows anything about what Duke means to him. “From hurting other Gothamites.”

“I said shut that off!” He flicks a batarang at her. She dodges, and it stabs the screen instead.

“Signal didn’t paint a yellow bat on his chest to atone!” she yells as he lunges. She fires her ultrasonic hand blasters, making him recoil at the noise. “He fights for the one little brat that showed him love! Didn’t you see that?”

“I saw where it got him-” Damian starts, before the sound knocks him to his knees. He clamps his gloved hands over his head, gritting his teeth through the ringing in his ears, then swings a kick at her mask.

“Listen to me!” she shouts, dodging to the left easily. “Are you too thick-headed to hear what I’m saying? I get it now!”

He punches her hard enough to cut off the end of her sentence— but before he can give her the beating of her life, a monstrous red claw yanks him up by the hood, lifting him into the air. Across the boat, he sees Goliath has also grabbed Maya in his paws.

Unfortunately, this gives her a perfect chance to finish her speech.

“I believe in Shadow too!”

His world crashes.

“What are you-”

Goliath gives him a look— those piercing yellow eyes— and Damian shuts up. All the fight leaves his body as the bat-dragon finally lets him go and flies away. His heart aches watching him disappear into the mountains.

“I found him up there, you know,” Damian blurts before his brain catches up.

Maya looks at him through the six pink lenses of her mask. “Found?”

“Took…” he admits, and suddenly it’s all coming out— everything. He tells her how he never understood how Goliath could forgive him for killing the beast’s entire species. How he didn’t see her father as anything but a target that needed eliminating. How it wasn’t Maya’s fault she’s so full of anger and resentment— it was his. He planted it in her.

The last thing to tumble out is a pathetic: “…Will you forgive me, Maya?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“When I was looking into the waters that almost took you,” she says, calm and distant, “I saw my father. He tried to tell me dark things. But I also… I saw my mother. And she repeated something you said, Damian. That I didn’t have to be a Nobody. That I could come into the light… if I wanted it bad enough.”

She looks up at the sky, shoulders sagging. “That’s when I knew I’d changed. And that being Shadow… wasn’t just some act you were playing. It was real.”

She turns back to him and jabs her finger at the titanium bat on his chest.

“This bat doesn’t have to represent what you can’t be. It represents what you can be- because you opened that door. Shadow isn’t really a shadow. It’s a light at the end of the tunnel- your tunnel, and it saved you from yourself.”

Damian doesn’t speak— not because he’s upset, but because he doesn’t know what to say. Is she right? Or is this just false hope? Her false hope? His?

“My mom once told me, ‘Forgiveness isn’t forgetting; it’s giving the other person freedom to make new choices.’”

She unclips her mask and lets it fall. Damian’s eyes go wet the moment he sees her face— how soft she looks beneath all the armor.

“I think she was right. For both of us.”

“Maya-” he begins, a hiccup breaking his voice.

She shushes him gently and pulls him into a hug. His arms hang limp at his sides as he cries into her shoulder.

“I think you should know,” she whispers, “even if it feels like you’re alone in this Year of Atonement because your family isn’t here with you…”

She cups his face in her gloved hands, and somehow it’s the gentlest thing he’s felt in forever.

“You’ve gained a sister.”

She smiles through her own pain.

“You are forgiven, Damian Wayne.”

When Suren Durga finally collapses, Damian feels dizzy.

It was the most mentally draining battle he’s ever fought. He’s more than ready for a nap. Slumped against a tree, Maya beside him, he struggles to keep his eyes open while his parents argue over the fate of the Prince of Lu’un Darga.

“I’m saying he’s a liability,” Talia says, almost bored. “He should be disposed of before he causes any more trouble.”

“He’s a kid, Talia,” Bruce hisses— low and sharp, the way his voice always is when he’s under the cowl, even now. “You can’t just kill him because he was manipulated by his father.”

Damian’s head dips forward, but he forces himself to stay awake. He doesn’t want to miss this. Not after everything.

“Tch.” Talia clicks her tongue, folding her arms. “You’re so predictable, Beloved. Spare the child, raise him as your own, hope he doesn’t stab you in your sleep ten years later.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. “It’s what you and Ra’s did with Damian.”

The silence that follows cuts sharper than any blade. Even Maya flinches beside him.

Damian straightens, legs weak but voice firm. “Enough.”

Both parents look at him.

“I didn’t go through all of this- this stupid Year of Atonement to watch my parents bicker over some kid that isn’t even me.” His gaze flicks between them, steady and unblinking. “Suren was manipulated.”— Like I was, he doesn’t say.— "He deserves a chance.”

Talia raises a brow. “And if he becomes the next Den Darga?”

“Then we deal with it,” Damian says coldly. “But you told me to follow Batman’s rules, Mother. And I will not kill a child for a crime he hasn’t yet committed.”

He thinks of what Maya told him— about opening the door to change his own destiny. Maybe Suren could walk through it too.

Bruce steps forward, voice softer now. “You’re sure?”

It stings, that doubt. But Damian is too tired to be disappointed.

He nods. “He’ll be my responsibility.”

“You’re exhausted,” Talia says, almost amused. “You can barely stand. How do you expect to take care of another?”

“This is temporary,” Damian says. “I’ve trained assassins twice my age in the League. Even trained Signal. Another protégé won’t be a problem.”

Talia opens her mouth— probably to argue— but something in his expression stops her. After a long beat, she exhales and turns away.

“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Bruce doesn’t speak. Just kneels beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. There’s no approval in his expression— only understanding.

And somehow, that feels better.

Damian lets himself slump again, back against the tree. Maya leans her head against his shoulder.

“We’re not monsters,” he murmurs.

“No,” she says. “We’re just kids trying not to become them.”

And for the first time in a long time, Damian closes his eyes.

Not at peace.

But closer.

Chapter Text

Damian sits atop a crumbling rooftop in Old Gotham, the first rays of sun stretching over the Atlantic behind him. A half-eaten Batburger rests in his hand, grease glinting faintly in the light.

Beside him, Colin Wilkes slumps— mud-smeared, bloodied, and breathing hard. His own burger sits untouched in his lap.

“We beat him,” Colin says, voice hoarse. “He’s gone.”

“Of course,” Damian mutters, though his shoulders sag with a relief he won’t name. “I’ve beaten Scarecrow a million times. With you here, it just ended faster.”

Colin lets out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “You really know how to give a guy a compliment.”

Damian doesn’t answer. It wasn’t supposed to be a compliment. 

He takes another bite of his burger instead, chewing like the conversation doesn’t matter.

They sit in silence for a while. Below them, Gotham stirs— sirens wail in the distance, a dog barks somewhere, and the city begins its slow crawl back to life.

Colin finally picks up his burger but still doesn’t eat. “You think he’s really gone? For good this time?”

Damian swallows. “No.” He wipes his fingers on a napkin and stares straight ahead. “People like Crane never stay in Arkham. They rot underground and wait for the next excuse to crawl out.”

Colin doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “We’ll just put him back when he does.”

Damian glances at him. It’s the most certain he’s sounded all night.

 corner of Damian’s mouth twitches. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “We will.”

Within his three years in Gotham, Damian had collected plenty of fond memories as Shadow.

This would not be one of them.

Currently, Damian sits cross-legged on the Batcave’s training mats, glowering across the cavern at the very specific alien violating Batman’s sacred No Metas in Gotham Unless Your Name Is Duke Thomas rule.

Beside the intruder stands a fun-sized Superman— officially called Superboy, though Damian refuses to dignify such a pathetic title with recognition.

The so-called Boy of Steel rocks back and forth on the heels of his red Converse.

Red. Converse.

With a hero uniform.

If you can even call it that. A merch hoodie and jeans? In combat? In his cave?

What in the name of Ra’s al Ghul was that?

Damian feels his eye twitch.

Sure, you could excuse the lack of Kevlar because the boy was an invulnerable half-alien, but it still makes Damian’s temper simmer. He has to wear a full tactical suit with lead-lined armor and a custom-fitted domino mask just to keep his identity secret. Meanwhile, the Kryptonians waltz around in hoodies and somehow retain their secret identities?

Damian scowl deepens.

Broke, unknown people apparently didn’t get recognized that easily.

“Shadow.” Batman’s gruff voice cuts through the Batcave, pulling Damian’s glower away from the walking wardrobe malfunction across the room.

Damian is at his side in an instant, posture rigid, hands clasped tightly behind his back.

“I’d like you to meet Superman and Superboy,” Bruce says lamely, as if Damian hasn’t already read an entire fifty-page dossier on Clark Kent and his spawn.

With Batman trying— and mostly failing, much to Damian’s embarrassment— to harness enough superheroes to form a new team (completely unnecessary when he had Duke and Damian), they are expected to be civil to every so-called ally they had the pleasure— bad luck— of meeting.

He gives the elder Kryptonian a curt nod. Out of obligation, not respect. Then, he shifts his gaze to the smaller one. The so-called Superboy.

Jonathan Kent grins at him— bright, open, and ridiculously friendly. Like they aren’t standing in the most sacred stronghold in Gotham. Like this is some casual social call and not a strategic meeting between potential allies.

Damian narrows his eyes.

Superboy rocks on his heels again, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. “Uh, hey!” Jon says, voice cracking just slightly with adolescence. He sticks out a hand toward Damian like they’re old friends. “I’m, uh… Superboy. I guess you already knew that, though.”

Damian stares at the outstretched hand like it was a ticking bomb.

Bruce coughs pointedly.

Tt.

Fine.

Damian reaches out and clasps Jon’s hand in a quick, firm shake— just enough to satisfy decorum. He immediately drops it like it’s contaminated.

Jon doesn’t seem to notice. If anything, he beamed brighter. “I like your suit!” He blurts out.

Damian blinks.

“You look, like, so cool, dude. Like a real ninja knight or something!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Damian deadpans at him.

“…Yes,” he mutters stiffly. “Well observed.”

From the shadows near the training mats, Maya and Duke both snort loudly. Bruce says nothing— but Damian catches the corner of his mouth twitch.

Superboy is still grinning like an idiot. Damian scowls, turning sharply on his heel before his dignity suffers any further.

This was going to be a long partnership.

When he wasn’t entertaining Jonathan Kent’s shenanigans, Damian was at Gotham Academy.

Duke also attended the school, but he was two years below Damian, so their paths rarely crossed.

Who Damian did have the displeasure of running into far too often was none other than Mia “Maps” Mizoguchi.

President of the— not very well-kept— Secret Detective Club of Gotham Academy, and someone who seemed to think Damian was a member.

He had never signed up.

“So- Damian,” Maps says, trailing him as he makes his way to Honors Geometry, “Kyle, Olive, and I are planning to hit the North Hall tonight. Rumor is, there’s been a ghost sighting. Wanna come?”

“No,” Damian answers flatly, not even glancing back as he enters his classroom.

“Come on! Pomeline said she heard Kelly say she saw a pair of yellow eyes while making out with Joshua over there.” Maps rattles off her gossip to uninterested ears. “Apparently, they looked reptilian.”

Yellow, reptilian eyes…

Big enough for a girl to notice while kissing some fool.

That only led to one conclusion: Killer Croc.

The humanoid crocodile had been on the loose for a while now, but since he wasn’t doing much besides lurking in Gotham’s sewers— presumably— he wasn’t high on the Bats’ priority list.

But if he’s hiding in a school full of unassuming children— possibly planning an attack— it would do Damian no good to leave him there.

Damian sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What time?”

Maps brightens instantly. “8:30 P.M.! You’re really coming?”

“No.”

It wasn’t true— but it wasn’t entirely a lie, either.

Damian Wayne would not make an appearance at Gotham Academy’s North Hall tonight.

But Shadow would.

When the clock struck 8:30 P.M., Shadow had already checked every nook and cranny in the school. He hadn’t found anything until he spotted Maps leading the Detective Club towards the blocked entrance of the North Hall. He watches as the group plants small fireworks near it and watches them explode.

How did they get fireworks?

Whatever. Damian follows them silently.

The group climbs up to the second floor of North Hall, talking loudly before suddenly, the man of the hour emerges from the deeper shadows— and surprisingly, Killer Croc doesn’t attack them.

Damian shifts closer from where he watches above, every sense on alert.

“Croc!” Olive yells toward him. “We brought food.”

The mutant relaxes, and the group starts to sit down, chatting while Croc munches on a slab of meat they brought him.

That’s when Shadow decides it’s time to make his entrance.

“Guys!” Maps squeals as she drops to the floor. Damian ignores her, making a beeline to Croc before any of the students can react.

“Shadow!” Killer Croc roars, but he can’t do anything before Damian lands a dropkick to his snout, sending him crashing into the nearby stairwell.

Damian continues to pummel the rogue, giving him no room to counter. The students scatter, arguing over whether to leave or not. Damian doesn’t pay it any mind until Olive Silverlock yells, “Stay away from him! Haven’t you and Batman done enough?”

That’s all he hears before a barrage of fireworks goes off, and he clamps his hands to his ears as the building shakes.

That night, he loses both Killer Croc and the group of teenagers— but he gains a new curiosity for Olive Silverlock, and why she was so keen on defending a felon.

Damian sat at the Batcomputer, the sharp, bluish light of the screen casting shadows across his face. His fingers moved with practiced precision, gliding through files with ease.

A new entry popped up in the database: Sybil Silverlock, aka Calamity.

He leans in, the image of a woman filling the screen. Long, white hair. An expression that radiated danger, even in a still photograph. The name lingers in his mind— he vaguely remembers hearing it in passing, his father’s quiet muttering about the rogue he put away years ago.

Sybil Silverlock hadn’t been a name Damian had given much thought until now. Olive’s mother. A dangerous villain who’d nearly burned an entire block in the Narrows using her pyrokinesis. She’d also cooked her husband into a crisp, leaving Olive half an orphan and currently in foster care.

Damian taps his fingers gently on the keyboard, his focus narrowing as he digs deeper into the Silverlock name. The only other thing he can pull up is a historical newspaper article from Old Gotham, detailing how a Silverlock ancestor— Amity Silverlock— had been burned at the stake under suspicion of witchcraft.

Nothing important, he concludes, closing out all the windows he’d opened. He starts researching Calamity— Sybil’s villain name.

It turns out Sybil isn’t the only Calamity. Since Amity, there have been about a dozen others throughout history. Each one sought to destroy Gotham, but none had managed to succeed.

Damian can’t find the names of the Calamities, even with the best computer system in the world.

“Whatcha doing?”

A sudden voice.

Damian doesn’t jump. Totally.

“Something.” Damian swivels the chair around— and comes face to face with Duke, who looks like he just rolled out of bed. Figures. “What are you doing up?”

“I think Suren’s having a nightmare,” Duke says, biting his lip. “Maya told me to get you.”

Damian sighs and stands, lifting a hand. Duke takes it without hesitation, and together they leave the cave.

Ever since Damian brought Maya, Suren, and Goliath back to Gotham, Suren had been plagued by nightmares about his father and Lu’un Darga.

It seemed like Damian was the only one who could ever calm him down— probably because of the talk they had during their final battle where Damian had explained how they were more alike than Suren had ever realized.

It made Suren more comfortable with him than anyone else in the house— even Alfred, which was a discrepancy.

The two wander up the east wing, where most of the occupied bedrooms lay close to the master bedroom.

As they near Suren’s room, Damian starts to hear muffled groans of pain.

He squeezes Duke’s hand as they enter.

Maya sits beside Suren’s bed, her head resting on the mattress, clutching one of his hands.

Suren looked… pained, like the dream was physically hurting him.

Damian hands Duke off to Maya before sitting on the bed.

“Suren,” he says softly, but only a low moan answers him. He tries again, his voice sharper this time as he shakes Suren’s shoulders gently. “Suren.”

“Dad-" Suren chokes out, a tremble rattling through his whole body.

Damian bites his lip, pulling out his phone and switching on the flashlight. He leans in closer, shining the beam into Suren’s eyes. “Your dad isn’t here, Suren. Wake up.”

Suren’s whole body flinches. He goes still for a moment— then his eyes snap open, and he bolts upright.

His breathing turns erratic the instant he wakes, his disoriented pupils scanning the room in frantic, jerky motions.

Before Damian can react, Suren suddenly throws a punch at him.

“Damian!” Maya shouts, but he shakes his head at her as he catches the fist. Suren isn’t a danger to him— not like this.

“Suren,” Damian says gently, pulling him closer until he can wrap the boy in an awkward but firm hug. “You’re safe now. You’re not in the Lu’un Darga anymore. Your dad can’t hurt you.”

Suren’s breathing is still erratic, and his pupils remain dilated, but when his head drops onto Damian’s shoulder, Damian’s chest tightens. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just pulls Suren in a little more, raising a hand to softly stroke his dark hair. A wet spot soaks through his shirt, but Damian doesn’t pull away.

“You’re okay here,” Damian whispers, his voice softer than usual, as both Maya and Duke move onto the bed, wrapping their arms around the shivering boy. “No one will hurt you here.”

Damian observes Olive, and by extension, the rest of the Detective Club, as the weeks pass. The change in her is hard to ignore. She’s become more aggressive, more withdrawn, her anxious, shy demeanor replaced by something darker— something more bitter. She lashes out more often now, especially when she feels cornered. It’s troubling.

Her shift is so dramatic, so stark, that it unsettles Damian. What’s happening to her? Is she losing herself? Or worse— is she becoming something she can’t control?

During the winter holidays, when he’s away training Suren and patrolling with Maya, he can’t shake the nagging thought of Olive. What if she’s getting into something dangerous? What if, like her mother before her, she’s drifting toward the wrong side of things?

His worst fears are confirmed one night when a new Calamity burns Gotham. It’s a Wednesday— the one day Damian isn’t allowed to patrol— and he’s asleep before he wakes up to see Gotham set ablaze outside his window. He sits there in shock for only a moment before he rushes outside.

He’s about to run down the stairs when he sees Maps Mizoguchi, Colton Rivera, and Pomeline Frisch— three-fifths of Gotham’s Detective Club— enter his house. He’s about to confront them when Colton and Pomeline are suddenly whisked away by two… Two-Face goons?

What in the name of Batman is happening?

Maps belatedly realizes her friends have disappeared and is about to yell for them when Damian quickly slides down the stairwell and puts a hand to her mouth. “Quiet!” he hisses. “You’re about to ruin everything!”

She licks his hand. He recoils.

“Eugh! Who does this? Lick someone else’s hand?” He wipes it on her cardigan before continuing. “I was about to become Sh— I mean call the cops when you barged in with your friends.”

“Shut up, Damian!” Maps snaps, looking panicked. “Listen, I’ve got to tell you something. My friends-"

“Have been taken hostage by those evil-doers and we need to team up and save them,” Damian finishes for her, unimpressed. “I know.”

He drags her to a grandfather clock— not the one that leads to the Batcave— and pushes it open, revealing a secret entrance.

“Get out! Secret passage?” She whisper-shouts as a smile breaks out on her face. It seems like even jeopardizing situations cannot hold Maps’ curious excitement.

“Wayne Manor is full of them,” he explains as they hurry down the stone stairs. “Apparently, it was designed by some wacked-out European who built a bunch of houses around Gotham.”

“Ambroos Lydecker,” Maps fills in the gaps. Damian is surprised she knows. “He designed the academy and Arkham Asylum as well.” She mutters something that Damian thinks sounds suspiciously like “everything is related to Olive.” As they finally make it to the armory.

Suddenly, her mood is completely different as she gawks at the weapons. “Why are you surprised?” Damian asks sarcastically. “Aren’t all manors laid out like this: living room; dining room; arsenal?”

“Arsenal of my dreams,” Maps fawns over a katana. “This one’s mine.”

“You don’t even have the first clue how to use a katana,” Damian says as he grabs a bo-staff from a higher shelf, testing its weight in his hands.

“Yes I do,” Maps grins. “The pointy bit goes into the villains.”

By the time they start their search for Colton and Pomeline, Damian is holding the sword, and Maps’ complaints about the staff go in one ear, and out the next.

“You should be honored to even breathe the same air as this staff,” Damian snaps when she’s reached his last nerve.

“Sticks don’t breathe.”

“Tt. Give that to me.”

Damian kicks the trio out right after they defeat Two-Face and his thugs, but not before he hears Maps complain about needing Millie Jane Cobblepot’s diary from the Wayne Manor Vault.

Damian sighs as he drags the suitcase engraved with the initials M.J.C on it with him as he covertly shadows the trio as they leave, but he almost changes his mind to give it to them when he hears Pomeline ramble on about how she hates his family.

“I bet Loosy-Brucey only put Olive through the Academy as a tax write-off.” The girl rambles angrily as she kicks a stray rock off the trail. Damian grinds his teeth at both the absurd nickname and her ignorance. Bruce was a good man, and even Damian could admit that.

“Let Batman deal with Olive,” Maps’ discouraged voice snaps Damian out of his rage. “I’m done. I couldn’t even get one simple treasure on a quest.”

Damian’s glad she’s becoming self-aware.

“I’m not cut out to be the hero.”

That thought disappears.

“That’s not what I hear.” He jumps out of the tree he’d been observing them from.

“Shadow!” Maps shouts, suddenly happy again. Man, is this woman bipolar?

Whatever. Damian comes up with some story about how Bruce Wayne is in the house and is thankful for her help in defeating Two-Face while he shoves the suitcase into her hands. She looks conflicted though, but Damian didn’t break into his father’s vault for nothing.

“You’re trying to save that Silverlock girl, aren’t you?” He inquires as the two examine the contents of Millie Jane’s suitcase.

“We need to bring her down before she hurts anyone else,” Maps looks determined, but a subtle sadness escapes from her tone. She looks down. “She’s beyond saving.”

Damian sighs, digging through his belt with one hand as he reads a diary page. “I used to think that until-"

“Oh crap,” he looks up at Maps’ exclamation. Gotham’s almost entirely engulfed in flames now, and the warm colors of the fire seep into the sky. He’s flabbergasted for a moment before he regains his bearings. What was he trying to say again?

“This is your time, Maps- that’s your call to action. Now all you have to decide is whether you’re willing to sit back and leave Olive Silverlock to be consumed by the Evil inside her-” he finds what he was looking for and holds it out to her. “-or whether you’re ready to step up and save her. Are you prepared to fight for your friendship, Maps?”

“This is-“ Maps takes the domino mask from his hands. She looks at it for a moment before her resolve visibly hardens, and she puts it on. “Shadow is right, gang.”

“Olive is out there.”

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne, Duke Thomas, Jonathan Kent, Maya Ducard, Kathy Branden, Colin Wilkes, Suren Darga, Maps Mizoguchi, and Olive Silverlock all sit in the Batcave, every eye fixed on the Batcomputer.

Damian doesn’t even bother putting on a domino mask. His identity is obvious down here, underneath Wayne Manor. He sits cross-legged on a pillow, watching the live body cam feeds of various superheroes.

There is an alien invasion in Star City, and both Batman and Superman have forbidden any younger heroes from going west. So now, all of them are gathered here, stuck watching like helpless spectators. It’s pathetic, and Damian knows it.

“This is boring,” Maps supplies, flopping onto her stomach. She’s stretched out across the training mats they dragged closer to the screen, next to Olive, who looks just as unimpressed. “I mean, these blobs don’t even look scary enough for this to feel like some sort of action movie.”

Damian doesn’t respond, though he agrees. Watching a live invasion from a safe distance feels wrong— almost like a spectator sport. There’s a heavy disconnect between the chaos happening in Star City and their own passive role in it. Still, they’re stuck here, like every other “younger” hero ordered out of the fight.

He glances sideways at Olive, who’s gone back to being quiet and reserved since they helped her exorcise Amity Silverlock: the vengeful spirit who had been possessing the Calamities and driving them to try to burn Gotham. Olive seems indifferent about being benched. Then again, Damian doubts she wants anything to do with gooey alien monsters.

Maps props herself up on her elbows, her face scrunched in frustration. “I mean, c’mon. If I had just one chance, I’d-"

“You’d what?” Damian interrupts, raising an eyebrow.

She grins, rolling her eyes. “You know. Actually do something. Instead of just watching. Ugh, this is so boring!”

Damian’s lips twitch into the barest hint of a smirk. He glances at Duke, who’s leaning against him, still completely absorbed by the screen with a starstruck look. Duke’s focus never wavers. Even though he’s a hero himself, he still looks at the League like they’re gods. Sometimes Damian finds it endearing. Right now, it’s annoying.

Jonathan’s voice cuts through the tension, bright as always. “Maybe this isn’t about what we can do. Maybe it’s about learning. Watching how the adults handle things, understanding how they make decisions.”

“That’s what we’re doing here?” Maya scoffs, folding her arms tightly. “Waiting for the Justice League to teach us how to be heroes? Nah. This isn’t school. We’re more than just kids. I don’t get why they won’t let us help.”

“Because they underestimate us,” Suren murmurs, curled up next to Duke. “They think just because we’re young, we can’t be capable.”

“That’s so not fair!” Maps bursts out, jumping to her feet and drawing every eye. “I think… the Justice League can’t decide what we do. Which means we should make our own superhero team!”

“Superhero team?” Kathy laughs, crossing her arms. She’s one of Jonathan’s friends from Metropolis, and honestly, pretty cool so far. “Girl, we all know they’d never let us do that,” 

Maps crosses her arms, pouting. “You guys have no imagination.”

“No,” Colin corrects flatly from where he lays next to Jonathan. “we have self-preservation instincts.”

Maps ignores him, a spark lighting behind her eyes. She spins toward the group. “We could totally do it! Right here, right now! Think about it-" she throws her arms out wide, “— we’ve got fighters, flyers, stealth, tech people…”

“And a complete disregard for rules,” Damian mutters under his breath.

“Exactly!” Maps beams, taking it as a compliment. “We could call ourselves… I dunno, something cool. Like the Justice League 2.0!”

Kathy snickers. “Yeah, good luck getting that trademark past Wonder Woman.”

“But seriously,” Jonathan says, sitting up straighter, “maybe it’s not a bad idea. Not an official team or anything, but… something we can call ours. If we train together, plan missions, be ready-" he looks around at them, eyes earnest, “— we wouldn’t just be kids waiting around anymore. We’d be ready when America— or anywhere— needs us.”

For the first time, the cave feels a little less heavy.

Olive leans against Maps’ shoulder and murmurs, “What would we even call ourselves?”

Everyone falls silent, considering.

Then, Maps grins. “Easy. We’re the Outsiders.”

Everyone exchanges glances.

“That… actually sounds kind of cool,” Kathy says, tilting her head.

Damian folds his arms, unimpressed. “Originality is dead.”

“But it’s fitting,” Duke points out. “We are outsiders. To the Justice League. To everything.”

Maps beams like she’s won the lottery.

Against all odds— and mostly because Bruce Wayne knew he couldn’t actually stop them once they decided— they managed to get reluctant approval to form a team. Funded, low-key supervised, but real.

Jump City becomes their new base of operations, mainly because it’s far enough from Gotham that Batman can plausibly deny accountability for anything they do.

The skyscraper idea, though? That’s one Batman fought. Hard.

“What possible tactical advantage could a giant ‘O’ shaped building offer?” Bruce asks Maps during the first planning meeting.

“It’s inspirational!” she insists, slamming her hands on the blueprint. “People will see it and know: the Outsiders are here. Hope is here!”

Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose, visibly aging five years in that moment.

Somehow… somehow… it happens anyway.

The ‘O’ Tower becomes real— gleaming, massive, absurdly expensive— and the Outsiders have their new home.

Superboy— still a stupid name with a stupid costume, if you ask Damian— Beacon, Meridian, Calamity— turned good— , Nobody, Signal, Beasteater, Abuse, and Shadow all spent their summer goofing off in the ‘Outside’— the name of their base— and sometimes fighting nobody supervillains.

Maps would frequently organize impromptu “team bonding” activities that ended up being anything but. There was the time they attempted to do a scavenger hunt around Jump City that somehow devolved into a high-speed chase between Beacon and Meridian, with Calamity tagging along just to see what would happen. Nobody ended up ‘winning’ the scavenger hunt by virtue of being the only one who didn’t participate in the chaos.

Then there were the movie marathons that turned into philosophical debates about superheroes and their responsibilities, thanks to Colin, who never failed to bring the conversation to “how much better Gotham’s justice system would be if they actually arrested people before they committed crimes.”

But at least they weren’t getting into full-blown world-ending crises… yet.

Damian, for his part, spent a large portion of his time avoiding the madness. Between helping train the less experienced members of the team and his frequent missions to track down the usual rogues who kept showing up for some reason, the summer passed in a blur of boredom and annoyance. The last thing he wanted to do was get tangled up in Maps’ idea of ‘fun.’

But every now and then, just for the sake of not being entirely insufferable, he’d throw on his mask and join in on the “big fight of the week.” It wasn’t anything impressive, mostly punching generic supervillains or stopping some local gang from being stupid enough to try and mess with them.

“Nice job, Shadow,” Jon says, tossing him a thumb’s up after Damian takes down yet another nameless villain. “You’re like a ninja, dude.”

Damian doesn’t bother acknowledging the praise. Instead, he eyes the others, noting how they all had their own way of interacting with the world now, their own identities they’d begun to carve out.

It was strange. Watching the Outsiders in action, with all their less-than-perfect quirks, made him realize something— something he hated to admit.

They weren’t as useless as he’d initially thought.

Unfortunately, good things don’t last.

Damian kills someone for the first time in five years.

It wasn’t planned. But when a low-life Joker Thug shoots Duke in the stomach one rainy night in Gotham, Damian sees nothing but red. His fury takes over as he throws himself at the man, using the sharp edge of his blade for the first time since he arrived in Gotham.

The thug doesn’t even see it coming. The knife slices through his throat in a fluid motion, cutting off the scream before it even leaves his mouth. The goon’s body crumples to the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around his neck, draining the life out of him in an instant.

Damian freezes. His heart hammers in his chest, the pulse of rage still throbbing in his veins.

He didn’t mean for it to go this far. The attack was fueled by the red-hot anger of seeing Duke hurt— Duke, who had become his brother over five years of trial and error. And in that moment, everything else blurs. The thug was too close, too dangerous. Damian’s instincts took over. The next thing he knows, the man is dead.

For a moment, he stands there, staring at the body. His breath comes in shallow gasps. Then, he slowly turns toward Duke, who’s barely conscious.

Damian stumbles toward him, his uniform stained with the thug’s blood. He falls to his knees beside Duke. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, but he doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to.

He sits there, lost in a daze, repeating the words like a mantra. That’s when the Batmobile screeches to a halt, and Batman is there, rushing toward them.

Batman. The man with a no-kill rule. The man who’s always been the line between justice and chaos.

Batman drags both Damian and Duke into the car, his gaze colder than usual. Damian doesn’t need to look at him to know what’s coming. He’s a liability now.

As they drive back, Damian’s mind churns. Is he really sorry?

That man wouldn’t have spared Duke if Damian had hesitated. That man… hurt his little brother. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do the same to someone else? He could’ve killed many others if Damian had let him go.

Batman’s no-kill rule has always felt like a second-hand glove to Damian. He understands the philosophy and sentiment behind it, but sometimes, when faced with a criminal so utterly evil, it’s hard not to think the world would be better off without them.

He’s stuck trying to justify his reasons to himself for so long that he barely registers they’ve made it back to the Cave— not until Alfred gently pulls Duke out of his arms.

Damian almost whimpers at the loss of Duke’s dead weight, and the consoling look Alfred gives him somehow submerges him the fog drowning his mind.

He thinks he hears Bruce urging him out of the car— probably to yell at him— but his brain is too muddled to process it. Eventually, Bruce gives up, leaving Damian alone to wallow in the wreckage of his own making.

By the time he musters the energy to leave the Batmobile at 3 A.M., he’s figured out one thing: he needs to leave.

Damian can’t bear to even glance at the medbay, can’t stand to see Duke lying there, so he bolts from the Cave, heading for his room as fast as he can, desperate to avoid Alfred, Bruce, anyone who might try to stop him.

He slams his bedroom door behind him and locks it, even though he knows if Batman really wanted to, he could break in without a second thought.

Damian slumps against the door, his breathing ragged as a thousand frantic thoughts race through his mind.

Call his mother. Yes— she would accept him. The League would take him back. They didn’t care about the deaths on his hands— in fact, they’d probably praise him.

But does he leave a note? Say goodbye personally? Maybe it’s better to get yelled at by Bruce than to leave without a word. Will Duke even be awake by the time Damian leaves?

Damian doesn’t have time to think through his escape plan any longer.

A loud banging snaps him out of his trance.

He looks up, not even motivated to move into a defensive position. Outside his window, hovering with a worried expression, is Jonathan Kent.

Damian sluggishly pushes himself off the floor and opens the window.

Jonathan’s pajamas are soaked through— he’s probably been here for a while.

“What do you want?” Damian snaps, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“Are you okay?” Jonathan floats inside, dripping water all over Damian’s desk.

Damian barely notices. He slumps into Jon’s embrace.

“Your heartbeat’s been going crazy for hours,” Jon murmurs. “Batman wouldn’t let me see you, so I’ve been waiting out here.”

He tucks his hands behind Damian’s ears, pulling their foreheads together.

Damian lets out a shaky breath.

Jon has always ran warm, even when he’s soaked to the bone.

“Jon,” Damian whispers, “am I a good person?”

Jon doesn’t say anything for a moment.

Good. That means he’s thinking about it.

“What really defines a good person?” he asks instead of answering.

Damian closes his eyes.

Would he really even know? His own morals have been split down the middle by his parents for as long as he can remember. Sometimes his mind feels like a rope in a game of tug-of-war— constantly yanked toward one side, then the other, until it frays at the edges. 

“Duke,” Damian says aloud.

He’s the only person Damian can think of who fits the definition of a good person, no matter which perspective you look from.

Jon huffs a small laugh— quiet, almost bitter— nothing like the bright, happy-go-lucky Jonathan Kent Damian knows so well.

“Well,” Jon says, voice low, “you’re not Duke.”

Damian flinches. He doesn’t mean to, but the words hit harder than any punch he’s ever taken.

He pulls back slightly, breaking their forehead touch, but Jon’s hands stay, gently grounding him.

“I know I’m not Duke,” Damian mutters, voice small. “I’m not like him. I’m not… a good person like him.”

Jon shakes his head, not letting him drift away further.

“You don’t have to be another person to be good,” Jon says, firmer now. “You’re you. You’re Damian Wayne. You’re stubborn and reckless and brilliant and-"

He pauses, swallowing like he’s trying to find the right words.

“-and you love people so much it scares you.”

Damian blinks, stunned into silence.

“Maybe you’re not the kind of good that’s easy to see,” Jon says softly. “But it’s there. I see it. Duke sees it. Everyone on the team sees it.”

Damian breathes out a shaky, broken noise— it might be a laugh or a sob; he’s not sure anymore.

Jon pulls him closer again, wrapping his arms fully around him this time.

“You know,” he murmurs as he strokes Damian’s hair, “this is the first time you let me hug you.”

Probably the last, Damian thinks as he buries his head in Jonathan’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

Damian spends the rest of his teenage years back in the UAE.

It’s lonely, but manageable— most days.

There’s no Duke Thomas to drag him to social gatherings instead of letting him isolate himself. No Maya Ducard to bully him back to his senses when he’s being stupid. No Colin Wilkes to remind him of his mission. No Suren Darga to make him feel understood. No Jonathan Kent to make him laugh no matter the circumstance. No Maps Mizoguchi to keep him sharp, no Olive Silverlock to steady him, no Kathy Beacon to share common sense.

There’s only Damian.

And his distant mother.

And his cruel grandfather.

“Habibi,” Talia calls as he wipes blood from his hands, the thick drip of it pattering against the palace’s intricate tiles. He’s just wiped out an entire terrorist group by himself, but she doesn’t look at him as they pass each other in the hallway. “Tomorrow’s a new day,” she says lightly. “There’s a mission file on your bed.”

“Yes, Mother,” Damian mutters, the words feeling heavy on his tongue.

The routine is mechanical now. Wake early. Mission debrief. Execute. Return. Train the new assassins until nightfall. Sleep. Repeat.

His room is grander than anything he ever had in Gotham, but stepping inside makes his stomach turn. There’s nothing here that feels like it belongs to him— no easels stacked against the walls, no bulletin boards cluttered with Polaroids from hangouts with the Outsiders or even lazy Gotham afternoons. No fingerprints of a life once lived.

The only thing that’s truly his is the sword propped against the lone window, its steel gleaming under the moonlight. The Arabic engraving on its blade reads: New Wings.

He thinks back to his old sword, the one that said Grandson of the Demon on one side and Son of the Bat on the other. He was once proud of his lineage, but realized he was being defined by it. He didn’t want that. On his thirteenth birthday, he asked Bruce for a new one— simple, clean, his own.

That was five years ago.

Times had felt simpler then, when he was thirteen. 

Maybe he had been simpler, too. 

Not anymore.

Tomorrow, he turns eighteen.

Three years without his father. Three years without Alfred. Three years without the Outsiders.

Three years since he walked away from the only life where he might have been more than a weapon.

He tells himself he had no choice, but that’s a lie he stopped believing a long time ago.

Bruce would have fought for him. Protected him. But Damian had been too scared to let him. Too scared that their morals would always clash, that he would always be a burden. Too scared to believe he could belong in the world of heroes in the world who would never dream of killing someone.

Now it’s too late.

Tomorrow, he’ll undergo his coming-of-age ceremony— a tradition no one will explain to him. If he fails, if he steps wrong, his body will be dumped into the Lazarus Pit and he will start the next day slightly more insane.

He collapses onto his bed, blood soaking into the silk sheets. He doesn’t bother stripping off his uniform. By the time he gets out of the shower, the servants will have replaced the linens anyway.

Nothing is permanent here.

Not the rooms.

Not the people. 

Not even life itself.

The assassins who served the League long before his birth? Dead.

The assassins he trained when he was ten? Dead.

The assassins who’d only come after he left? Dead.

Everyone dies in the League.

And since death is just a temporary setback for the few deemed ‘worthy’ enough for the Lazarus Pit, no one cares.

The rest are discarded like trash.

Sometimes Damian wishes he was too.

His time in Gotham left scars Ra’s can’t burn away, no matter how hard he tries.

He can still feel it— humanity clinging to his ribs like a stubborn wound that refuses to heal.

Every time his assassins dispose of an innocent witness— someone undeserving of death— something inside him twists and breaks a little further.

Sometimes, he wishes he didn’t feel anything at all.

Most of the time, he’s grateful he still does.

For now, though, he just needs a shower.

Damian is running for his life.

His lungs burn with each breath as he cuts through the winding corridors, boots sliding against the slick marble. Behind him, metal scrapes against stone— a blade missing his side by inches.

He twists mid-stride. Instinct, not thought. There’s no time to counter, no room to breathe. His body moves the way it was shaped— fast, brutal, unhesitating.

A shadow lunges from the side hall. Damian ducks low, momentum carrying him forward as the spear catches the back of his shoulder, slicing shallow. He barely feels it. He doesn’t slow down.

The thunder of boots grows louder behind him— steady, merciless. His heart pounds harder than the sound of his own footsteps, hollow in his ears.

This ceremony was never meant to celebrate him.

It was a trap. Another cruel trick, the League’s final betrayal— a ritual meant to carve him out of his own body, to let Ra’s al Ghul crawl into the empty space left behind.

He’d realized it just in time. One second slower, and it would’ve been over.

Instead, he had driven his sword through Ra’s’ thigh and ran.

Now the League hunts him, a sea of assassins flooding the palace halls, desperate to drag him back — to finish what they started.

Damian veers down another corridor, silent except for the rasp of his breath and the scrape of his boots against marble. He doesn’t curse aloud. There’s no point. The walls would swallow it like they swallow everything else.

He knows he can’t outrun them forever.

Sooner or later, they’ll catch him.

And when they do— 

He doesn’t finish the thought. It doesn’t matter.

It feels like the halls are folding in on themselves— a labyrinth of stone and blood. He passes the same cracked window again, the same dark stain beneath it.

They’re herding him.

Damian bites down hard enough on the inside of his cheek to taste blood. Vaults over a toppled statue. Forces himself into a narrower hall.

Think.

Outrunning them is pointless.

He has to think.

The next time he sees the window, he doesn’t hesitate. He throws himself at it full-speed, tucking his arms over his head at the last second.

The glass shatters around him in a violent rush, cutting into his skin. Cold night air tears at him as he falls.

For a moment, it’s just the dark, and the heavy drag of gravity pulling him toward the earth.

He opens his mouth. Forces the name out before the ground can swallow him.

“Jonathan Kent.”

He doesn’t know if Jon can hear him through the magical wards that protect the city. He doesn’t know if anyone can.

Then something cracks the night open— a sonic boom tearing across the sky— and before he can brace himself, something slams into him mid-fall.

The impact steals the breath from his lungs. The world tilts violently as they crash into a rooftop, sliding across broken tile and stone.

Damian hits the ground hard, Jon’s weight pinning him down for a second.

Damian lies still for a heartbeat, heart pounding in his chest, lungs struggling to catch the air Jon knocked from him. The rooftop is cold beneath him, the wind sharp against his skin, but it’s the weight of Jon pressing him into the ground that’s most overwhelming.

He blinks, dazed, still feeling the rush of falling and the sudden, violent crash of impact. Jon’s weight shifts on top of him, and for the first time in three years, Damian feels something like safety. Something he hasn’t known since he left Gotham.

Jon pulls away quickly, his hands already on Damian’s chest, checking him over for injuries. His eyes are wide, frantic in the moonlight, and his voice cracks with the force of years unsaid.

“Damian… damn it, I-"

Damian catches his wrist before Jon can pull too far away. His fingers are warm, far too warm in contrast with the cold from the rooftop seeping into Damian’s bones, but the touch feels like a lifeline.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, though the words don’t feel true. His chest aches where Jon’s body pressed him into the rooftop, but it’s not pain he cares about.

Jon’s face twists, disbelieving. “You’re fine? You’re-" He stops, the words catching like barbed wire in his throat.

His hands are shaking.

“Where the hell have you been, D?” His voice is low but sharp, ragged with something raw. “I could never hear your heartbeat.”

Damian opens his mouth.

He could say it.

He could tell him that the moment he returned, they slit his throat and dumped him into the Lazarus Pit, trying to wipe away the Gotham years like they were nothing. It changed his heartbeat, it changed his mind.

But he doesn’t.

Some things Jon shouldn’t have to carry, too.

So Damian just tightens his grip on Jon’s wrist. “I don’t know,” he lies like it’s the easiest thing, and after all he’s been through, it might be.

When Damian returns to the Manor, he’s nervous— to confront his father, Duke, even Maya and Suren— but all of it washes away the moment he sees a little boy waiting in the foyer.

Timothy Drake.

The neighbor’s kid.

“I’m the new Shadow,” the boy informs Damian with a proud little smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

If it were any other circumstance, Damian would’ve returned the greeting— stiffly, perhaps, but properly.

Right now, all he feels is a sharp, immeasurable rage.

“Where’s Father?” he demands, the words sharp and clipped, like he’s commanding a troop of assassins instead of speaking to an eleven-year-old.

Tim flinches slightly but says nothing, the smile slipping from his face.

Without a word, he turns and leads Damian down the familiar halls toward Bruce’s office.

“Damian?” Bruce shoots to his feet, shock written plain across his face— like he hadn’t just replaced his own son with a spoiled, rich kid who could barely throw a punch. “I- I thought you went back to the League.”

“I did,” Damian says, voice clipped and formal. “But I’m no longer needed there.”

“What?” 

“Mother is probably already trying to clone me,” Damian says with a dry hum. “No need for me to be just another fish in the ocean.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything. He just stares, like the words knocked the wind out of him.

“I see you’ve taken to a more primitive approach,” Damian remarks, voice cool as his eyes flick back to Timothy— who shrinks under the gaze, like he’s trying to disappear into his own shadow.

“Damian-” Bruce says tiredly, his voice tight. “You know it’s not like that.”

“Do I really?” Damian snaps back, sharp and bitter. “It’s like you were waiting for me to leave so you could replace me with… this untrained kid.”

“I’m not-“ Timothy tries to retort, but Bruce cuts him off immediately.

“I think it would be better for you to go, Tim,” There’s a gentleness in his voice that Damian has never heard directed at him before. It makes his blood boil.

When the door clicks shut behind Timothy, Damian doesn’t hold back.

“Did you even hesitate?” he demands, voice dripping sarcasm. “How long did it take to replace me? A year? A month? A week?”

“Damian, listen-" Bruce tries, stepping forward.

Damian doesn’t. He barrels on, the words sharper than any blade he’s ever wielded. “Is it because he looks more like you?” he spits. “Because he’s pale and dark-haired and blue-eyed— everything I’m not?”

Bruce flinches.

“Or is it because he’s more obedient?” Damian’s voice rises, almost cracking. “Because he doesn’t kill like I did? Because his mother’s family isn’t constantly trying to murder you or destroy everything you stand for?”

The questions come faster now— accusations, demands, pleas he never meant to voice— spilling out of him like blood from an open wound. Years of loneliness, fear, anger; sleepless nights in the League, wondering if he was ever anything more than a burden.

Bruce says nothing— just stares at him with wide, too-soft blue eyes. Eyes that didn’t used look at him like that. Eyes Damian almost doesn’t recognize.

Did that Drake kid do this to him?

Damian swallows hard, the anger leaving him hollow.

“Did you ever think,” he mutters hoarsely, “that I was more than just a ticking time bomb?”

Bruce’s face twists— something breaking in his carefully guarded expression— but Damian doesn’t stop.

“I knew you were waiting for me to slip. To kill. To prove you right.” Damian’s fists tremble at his sides. “Did it feel good when I finally did?”

“Damian,” Bruce says again, voice rough, and Damian hates it— hates the way hearing his name spoken like that almost makes him want to let go of his anger.

“I didn’t want to replace you,” Bruce continues. “Timothy- he came to me.”

Damian laughs, and it’s sharp, humorless. It echoes off the office walls like a slap.

“Oh, so now you’re blaming the child?” he sneers. “That’s so like you. Never taking responsibility for anything!”

Bruce opens his mouth to answer, but Damian isn’t finished. Not yet.

“Father,” Damian says, his voice trembling between fury and exhaustion, “you are a good man. Probably the best one I’ve ever met.”

He looks Bruce dead in the eyes. “But you need to learn that you are responsible for your own actions. You can’t blame every mistake you make on Joe Chill.”

“Damian!” Bruce snaps, defensive now— and Damian knows he’s struck a nerve.

Good. It’s almost better this way: the mutual toxicity, the ugly honesty. They’re both able to be their true, unfiltered selves when they argue like this, and it feels good in the worst way.

“That was completely out of line,” Bruce says, voice tight.

Damian shrugs, cold and cutting. “When have I ever been in line?” he retorts. “I’m always a liability when I’m capable of killing, aren’t I? That’s all I’ve ever been to you.”

Bruce doesn’t answer right away. His mouth opens, then closes, like he can’t find the right words. He looks older all of a sudden— not just tired, but worn thin, as if the years without Damian had scraped something raw inside him.

“Whatever,” Damian sneers, turning away. He shoves open the double doors with enough force to make them bang against the walls. “I’m no longer a child you need to care for. Looks like you’ve got more than enough new ones to worry about.”

Damian moves to Blüdhaven.

It’s a decent city, if you don’t mind the endless crime. Unlike Gotham’s bizarre rogue gallery of costumed lunatics, Blüdhaven’s chaos is more casual— mafia turf wars, dirty cops, rampant corruption. Familiar, but unmanageable in the way that he’ll never run out of crime to stop.

It suits him.

He gets a job at a public veterinary practice, where— for once— he gets to do something he actually enjoys.

Treating animals reminds him of Gotham: of Titus, Batcow, Jerry, Ace. Even Wiggles and Goliath. He doesn’t let himself linger on it too long.

He wishes he could find a home that could fit all of them, but nowhere in Blüdhaven is private— or fortified— enough to house a small barn and a pair of dragons. So, he settles.

A stray cat with a torn ear and more attitude than most people Damian knows curls up on his apartment windowsill one rainy evening and simply doesn’t leave.

He names him Alfred, even though the feisty bombay isn’t anything like the butler. Call it ironic.

As for the vigilante part of his life, Damian operates without an alias, but the locals start calling him Blüd’s Bat— which, as you can imagine, irks him to no end.

He moved here to get away from Batman, not become some kind of copyright violation.

Whatever. Damian can live with it.

Everything is well— or as well as it gets when you’re Damian Wayne— until Jonathan Kent knocks on his door a month into his new life.

“How do you feel about having a roommate?” is the first thing Jon says when Damian opens the door.

“What happened to Hello, how are you?” Damian sighs, stepping aside so Jon can awkwardly shuffle into his apartment.

“Hello, how are you? I need to get out of my house,” Jon replies, sagging unceremoniously onto Damian’s olefin couch. Damian wonders what the world would say if they knew Superboy spent his free time like this.

“What happened?” Damian asks, settling next to him.

“Oh.” Jon sits up. “Right, I guess you’re not caught up.”

Jon proceeds to summarize three years of superpowered drama in the span of a few hours.

Since Damian’s disappearance, the hero scene has exploded. The Justice League now boasts over a hundred members and operates as an international hero system. Several new teams have cropped up: the reformed Justice Society of America, the Doom Patrol, Justice League Dark, the Birds of Prey, the Secret Six, and a new sidekick squad calling themselves Young Justice— basically Outsiders 2.0, led by Damian’s so-called successor, Timothy Drake. Jon’s little clone brother is part of it too— which is why he wants out of the house.

Speaking of the Outsiders, they’ve expanded: Sin Lance, a terrifyingly competent mini version of Lady Shiva; Irey West, a speedster from the future; and Emiko Queen, Green Arrow’s younger half-sister.

“They’d all love to meet you,” Jon says later, watching Damian chop green onions for dinner. “Though Maps may have… twisted your image a little. Irey’s kind of scared of you.”

“Figures.” Damian huffs. He pauses. “Do they know I’m back?”

“I haven’t told them,” Jon says, perking up on the couch. “I was planning a surprise.” That wicked grin appears— the one that usually leads to deeply inconvenient situations.

Damian sighs. “Go on.”

“So… I know you just moved in,” Jon begins, biting his lip. “But if we’re going to be roommates, we’d need more space. This place is way too small.”

“I’m not leaving Blüdhaven.”

“I never said we had to!” Jon holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just saying… if we got a bigger place, we could have a housewarming party…”

“You’re saying all this like I’m going to say yes.”

“You will,” Jon says, too confident for his own good.

Damian wants to say no just to spite him.

“Right?”

“…Right.” Damian exhales, as if the word costs him something.

Surprisingly, Jonathan has everything sorted out.

“So your hero name is gonna be Nightwing,” Jon announces, drawing a blue… dog with wings? on the whiteboard he brought for “visual planning purposes.”

“And I’m gonna be Flamebird.” A red dog with wings appears beside the first.

“They’re Kryptonian gods,” Jon explains. “Children of Rao.”

They’re sitting on unopened boxes in their new apartment, surrounded by chaos and half-assembled furniture. Jon is delivering his carefully thought-out plans with the same dramatic energy he used to have when narrating bedtime stories years ago.

Damian stares at the whiteboard. “I hate everything about this.”

“You’re the reincarnation of a warrior god, Damian. Be cool about it.”

“You drew a flying beagle and named it after me.”

“It’s actually a dragon,” Jon says, deeply offended. “He represents darkness.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” Damian deadpans. He tries to imagine the blocky creature as a fierce dragon. It doesn’t work.

“Whatever. You should be grateful I’m Flamebird. She’s the female one.”

“I think it suits you.”

“…What?”

Damian sits on the couch. He doesn’t fidget— but it’s a close thing.

The housewarming party is today. In less than an hour, eleven superpowered young adults are going to barge into his apartment and probably destroy it within five minutes. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Relax, D,” Jon says from the kitchen, popping open a soda. “Nobody’s gonna hulk out on you.”

“What you’re telling me is that Maya is going to kill me.”

Jon peeks around the corner, raising an eyebrow. “When did you get a sense of humor? That’s not what I meant.”

Jonathan’s attempt at consolation does nothing to settle Damian’s nerves. He’s far too much of an easygoing idiot for his opinion to offer any real comfort.

The knock comes sooner than expected. Too soon.

Damian barely has time to hide before the front door swings open— hard enough to bang against the wall.

“Honey, I’m home!” Kathy’s voice rings out, followed by a stampede of footsteps Damian can only assume belong to the others.

How did they get the key? 

Never mind. Of course they have the key.

He stays in the hallway’s shadow, half-hidden behind the coat rack, watching them pile in. Jon greets them like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Like this is just a normal party.

No one notices him at first, and it almost feels like he’s a spectator watching a happier life that he could’ve had if he hadn’t stupidly detached himself all those years ago. 

That is, until Maya spots him. “Damian?” Her voice quiet enough that the chaos behind her doesn’t catch it. She takes a step towards him.

“Hi,” he replies lamely. It’s so unlike him— but with his older sister staring him down like a ghost, he can’t really help it.

She inches toward him slowly, as if she’s not quite sure whether he’s real or just a hallucination.

“Damian?” she repeats, softer this time.

“It’s me, Ukht,” he whispers.

And then— she crashes into him.

For a second, he thinks he might fall backward. But she’s not heavy enough anymore. Or maybe he’s just grown stronger.

He’s taller than her now. By a full five inches.

The realization hits harder than the hug.

It’s so unfamiliar, so alien being bigger than his older sister.

It aches.

But she’s crying— loud enough that the rest of the Outsiders whip their heads around.

Ten pairs of eyes lock on him.

Damian freezes. He doesn’t know what to do. So he pats Maya awkwardly on the back and offers the only thing he can:

A crooked, unsure smile.

“I’m back.”

And suddenly, bodies are piling onto him.

Someone knocks the breath clean out of his lungs, and he actually hits the floor.

Voices erupt around him— too many, too fast. He can only catch syllables, half-names, the occasional sob threading through the noise.

Duke is practically crushing his ribs from the sidehug he’s giving. “You asshole!” he’s yelling— laughing? Maybe both. “You didn’t even send a postcard!”

Maps flings herself across his back like a missile. “I knew you weren’t dead!” she shouts, triumphant. “I told everyone you weren’t fucking dead!”

Olive leans on his shoulder, voice trembling like a lit match. “You’re real,” she whispers. “You’re actually here.”

Colin sits directly in front of him, staring into his soul as if to figure out if he’s real. “I missed you.” Is all he says in a muted voice that Damian almost can’t hear over the chaos.

Suren crouches beside him, less dramatic, but no less shaken. “You could’ve said something. We thought-” He cuts off, then punches Damian’s arm. “Jerk.”

Kathy stands at the edge of the chaos, wide-eyed, like she doesn’t quite believe it. Then she grins crookedly and mutters, “Damn, man,” ruffling his hair.

Maya still hasn’t let go, her tears soaking through his shirt.

They’re loud. They’re heavy. They smell like sweat and city and memories he thought he’d buried.

It’s horrible.

It’s perfect.

The three new members stand off to the side with an amused-looking Jon as Damian finally starts to untangle himself.

“A little help here?” he grunts, nearly dragged back under.

“Nah,” Jon denies, grinning like the bastard he is. “I think you deserve this one.”

Chapter Text

Damian surveys Keystone City from the rooftop of a high-rise, watching as yet another alien species descends on Earth in a whirlwind of chaos.

“These ones are way scarier than the last,” Meridian mutters beside him, arms crossed. “So why are they letting the kids run wild?”

There’s a sharpness to her tone— jealousy, maybe. He doesn’t need to look to know her cheeks are puffed out just a little, like they always do when she’s sulking.

He rolls his eyes. The hero community is bigger than ever now— overconfident, bloated with new capes and cocky upstarts. Of course they’re less cautious.

“Maybe you were just a bad hero back then,” he says with a shrug— then dives off the edge.

“You weren’t cleared for that either!” Meridian snaps over comms.

He grins. “That’s because they knew I was too good to waste on sentient slime.”

His Nightwing suit catches the sunlight as he falls. It’s sleeker than the uniform he wore as Shadow— less armor, more Kevlar. Not as fluid as the League’s silks, not as rigid as the steel Batman insisted on.

It moves with him, not against him.

For the first time in years, he feels like himself.

Damian fires his grappling hook, letting the line spool just enough to avoid dislocating his shoulder as he swings wide across the skyline.

Then— 

A flying kick slams into the nearest alien, knocking it back on impact.

The alien— tall, scaled, with multiple mouths— skids across the pavement, shrieking in a pitch so high the windows of nearby buildings tremble. Damian lands in a crouch, bracing against the sound.

Meridian drops beside him a second later, her silhouette sharp against the sun. Her scowl is sharper.

“You couldn’t wait ten seconds?” she huffs, snapping a baton out from her sleeve.

“I did wait. That was ten seconds.”

The shrieking cuts short as the alien lunges again. Meridian vaults forward without hesitation, her baton cracking across one of its jaws. Damian slides in from the side, heel slamming into what he hopes is a knee joint. The thing crumples with a hiss just as more of its kind slither from the alleyways.

“Ten more incoming,” Meridian warns with a glance. “Maybe twelve.”

“Perfect,” Damian mutters, flicking a birdarang into the nearest creature’s eye. “I hate warmups.”

Meridian stifles a laugh, her earlier sulkiness gone. They fall into rhythm— back to back, striking and dodging with that wordless coordination they’d honed since his return. She moves with the grace of a spear; he, sharp as a blade. Together, they clear the block.

One alien rears behind her, its widest mouth unhinging— until Damian tackles it mid-leap, driving them both through a rusted car windshield.

“Would it kill you to wait for backup?” a voice buzzes through their comms. Duke.

“I think you already know the answer,” Damian replies dryly.

“The League’s sending support,” Duke adds. “They’ve split off into your sector.”

“Lame!” Maps groans, hurling her baton into the mouth of a charging creature. “We had this handled!”

“Not my call,” is all Signal says before the line cuts out.

Damian rolls his eyes, jamming his blade into the nearest alien’s mouth. It screeches as the metal sinks deep, and the blade slips free with a wet squelch and a splatter of green blood.

The cavalry arrives soon after, and Damian scrunches his nose when he spots the entirety of Young Justice speeding toward them— including Tim Drake.

He jams the comm in his ear, switching to his private channel with Duke. “Could’ve warned me the pretender was coming,” he whisper-hisses, slashing through an alien’s abdomen with practiced ease.

“Sorry, man!” Duke replies, but the sound of grunting and crashing behind him makes it clear he’s too busy to mean it. “I didn’t know.”

All across Keystone, the Outsiders were scattered, each fighting their own pocket of chaos. The comms buzzed with overlapping chatter, making it nearly impossible to coordinate anything clearly.

“Whatever,” Damian muttered, switching back to the main channel— just in time to hear Suren and Colin breathlessly bickering, even though they were stationed together. Of course.

He snatched the tail of a lunging alien and jammed it into the gnashing jaws of another, not bothering to watch the aftermath. His attention shifted to the alleyway beside him, where the members of Young Justice were lining up in front of Maps like they were posing for a magazine spread.

“Reporting for duty,” said Timothy Drake, calm as ever, though Damian didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched around the staff. He must be leading them.

Of course he is.

“Thanks for coming,” Meridian greets, all enthusiasm now— despite grumbling about not needing backup minutes earlier. “We’re almost done with this batch, but if you can help us clear the rest, it’d be appreciated.”

“Almost done..?” asks a girl Damian vaguely recognizes as Arrowette, glancing toward the street— just in time to see Nightwing dismember three aliens in a single, fluid combo. It’s meant to assert dominance. It works.

“Yeah,” Maps replies, voice cool as ever. “Help with the stragglers and we’ll move on to the next area.”

“Who’s that?” the mini-Flash asks, zipping back and forth behind the group like a sentient fidget spinner. Damian assumes— correctly— that he’s the subject of the question.

Before Meridian can answer, Shadow cuts in, voice clipped. “Nightwing. He’s Flamebird’s partner.”

Meridian, instead of calling them to action, stands there amused as they gossip about her teammate. Of course she’d rather watch the circus than save the world.

“Flamebird?” Superboy perks up, eyebrows raised. Of course he recognizes the name— he’s Jon’s brother.

“The super-duper nice guy from earlier?” the speedster cuts in, hopping up and down. “The one who kinda looks like SB?”

“Yeah,” Maps confirms casually. “That one.”

“But he looks so scary!” Arrowette gasps, clutching her bow like it might defend her from social awkwardness.

The only sane-looking one— Wonder Girl— just folds her arms, unimpressed with the rest of her team.

“Guys,” Tim says, voice strained with barely-contained discomfort. “We have aliens to beat up.”

“Like SB?” the Flash knock-off asks, zipping in a jittery circle. Damian can’t tell if he’s joking or just stupid.

“Hey!” Kon elbows him. “I’m only half alien.”

“Guys,” Tim tries again, louder this time, but it’s like yelling into a wind tunnel made of teenage nonsense.

“You should listen to your leader.” Maps seems to take pity on the replacement as she wiggles her pointer at them with mock disapproval on her face. “We gotta get going before Wing turns into a big pancake. He’s no good without me.”

Young Justice doesn’t seem to believe her as they watch Damian decapitate another alien, but nonetheless jump into action. 

There isn’t much left for them to do— Damian had already torn through most of the stragglers during their little group gossip session. Now, as he absently carves up one of the last aliens with mechanical precision, he takes the opportunity to watch Young Justice in action.

They’re coordinated, sure. Well-trained. But they’re loud. Sloppy. Too reliant on banter and team morale. He can practically see the cracks in their formation.

The team is competent enough, but they move like chess pieces— guided entirely by Shadow’s commands. It’s like they don’t have minds of their own. Every action, every dodge, every strike is a reaction to his shouting.

Honestly? It’s pathetic.

Not a team— just a flock of sheep trailing after an incompetent shepherd.

Damian watches, unimpressed, as their formation crumbles the moment Timothy slips up— caught in the grip of one of the many alien jaws they’d foolishly overlooked.

The team panics, frozen without orders, scattering like ants without a trail.

Damian scoffs, then moves.

One clean strike severs the appendage connecting the gnashing mouth to the main body, the alien shrieking as it recoils. Timothy drops to the ground, dazed.

“You call this a team?” Damian sneers, dragging his successor up by the elbow and shoving him into Superboy’s arms. “You move like robots.”

Meridian appears beside him, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. “No need to be so harsh.”

“But it’s true.”

She doesn’t argue, just gives him that familiar ‘don’t be too mean or I’ll tell Jon look’— the one that never really works, but she keeps trying anyway.

“Robots?” Wonder Girl snaps, stepping forward. “We’re trained for coordination.”

“Trained doesn’t mean good,” Damian replies flatly. “It means you follow orders and hope no one dies when your leader screws up.” His eyes flick to a slightly bloody Timothy, cold and unrelenting. “None of you think for yourselves, and you can’t rely on a half-competent leader a hundred percent of the time.”

“Shadow is a hundred percent more competent than you could ever be!” Impulse blurs to the front, planting himself between Damian and Timothy like a human shield.

Damian just glares him down, unimpressed. As if a little speedster could protect Timothy from Damian’s wraith.

“Guys-" Timothy coughs, brushing green blood off his suit. His eyes stay downcast, voice low. “Stand down. He’s right.”

“Shad-" Superboy starts, but Timothy snaps.

“I said stand down!” he barks, shoving Kon aside and staggering to his feet, weight shifted off his bitten leg. “He’s right. You’ve followed everything I said before— why can’t you listen now?”

Meridian bites her lip beside Damian. He wonders how it must look— a teenage superhero team bickering in a sea of alien corpses.

“Guys, how about we calm down?” Maps steps forward, placing her gloved hands on Timothy’s shoulders to steady him. He flinches, ready to push her off— until he realizes it’s Meridian. His shoulders drop.

“The Outsiders can give you a few tips on teamwork later,” she adds gently, “but right now, we need to get Shadow to a medic.”

Hearing his old alias from Maps’ mouth sends a strange wave of déjà vu through Damian— until it sours. It’s not meant for him.

“She’s right,” Damian says tightly, unhooking his grappling hook. “No time for childish banter. Regroup at the JL base and report to Doctor Mid-Nite.”

The team glares at him, but when he meets their eyes— unshaded, unwavering— they fall into line. Of course they do. It’s all they know how to do.

“What do you mean, ‘the Outsiders can give you a few tips on teamwork’?” Damian plants his hands on his hips, watching Young Justice disappear toward the temporary JL base.

Maps shrugs, completely unfazed. “Since you’re so hard on them, I figured you could spare a few pointers.”

“I hate you.”

“You know you love me.”

Damian watches the tiny Justice League from behind the glass wall of his room, floors above where they stand. Jonathan stands at the center of the field, talking animatedly— hands moving, eyes bright. Damian can’t make out the words from here, and he doesn’t try to.

He’s supposed to be out there. Beside his partner. But today, he just… doesn’t feel up to it.

The door behind him hisses open, and when Damian glances back, a small Asian girl stands in the doorway, a bright yellow bat insignia glowing on her chest.

“You must be Batgirl,” he says, before resting his forehead against the cool glass again.

Duke had told him about Cassandra Cain two months ago, the day he dragged Damian into Gotham. It was daytime then— sunlight spilling over rooftops and grime, making the city look deceptively peaceful.

“She’s a trained assassin, like you,” Duke had said. “She’s like Sin. A mini Lady Shiva.”

“Yes,” Cassandra says simply, stepping into the room. Her gait is easy, almost casual, but Damian sees the way her shoulders are set— coiled, deliberate. Ready to strike at a moment’s notice. Like any good assassin.

“Flamebird told me to get you.”

“She came before Tim,” Damian recalls Duke’s presentation on Cassandra. “But he’s older than her. She’s nine.”

“I’ll be right there,” he sighs, rising from his spot on the floor.

He expects her to leave. But when he’s finally gathered enough energy to go yell at children, she’s still there— watching him.

“Did you need something?” he asks flatly.

“You hate Tim,” she says— not a question. “Why?”

Damian raises a brow at her. “Why would I tell you?”

Cassandra juts out her bottom lip, as if actually contemplating his rhetorical question. “Because he really liked you. He was happy but now he’s… unhappy.” She hesitates before the last word, as if unsure how to describe it.

“Well, it’s not my fault Father chose to replace me,” Damian mutters, spreading adhesive onto the back of his domino mask.

Cassandra blinks. “He did it because you left.”

“I-" Damian clenches his jaw. “That doesn’t give him the right to steal what’s mine.”

“Batman needs a Shadow,” Cassandra says slowly, like she’s quoting someone. “Bruce was… angry when you left. He thought it was his fault.”

“So?” Damian scoffs, pulling on his gloves.

“He was very violent,” she says plainly. “I couldn’t stop him. When Tim came and became Shadow, Batman calmed down.”

Damian’s hands still.

His gloves are only half-on, fingertips bare against the fabric. The silence stretches between them— tense, brittle.

“So he used him,” Damian mutters.

Cassandra tilts her head. “He needed him.”

“He needed me.” His voice sharpens like a blade. “But he threw me away the moment I wasn’t there to babysit Gotham.”

Cassandra doesn’t flinch. “You left,” she says again— soft, but firm.

He turns back to the window. Jon is still outside, herding children like ducklings, all smiles and sunshine.

“It doesn’t matter that I left,” Damian says, quieter now. “The fact that Father thought it was a bright idea to replace me with a child to soothe his guilt-"

He turns to Cassandra. “You too. You’re nine. Nine! How could he throw kids into the field just because he feels a little guilty for letting me down?”

Cassandra inches closer. It’s calculated— every step measured, like she can already see his next move.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“No- it’s not.” Damian shakes his head, his voice trembling with rage that sounds too close to hurt.

“Bruce Wayne- that idiot!” he spits. “He thinks he can make up for me by raising you two right, but he doesn’t even know how. He’s too messed up to be a parent.”

“Damian.”

Cassandra touches his arm, and— for some reason— he doesn’t flinch.

He stares at her hand, then exhales like something’s cracking inside him.

“I have to apologize to Tim,” he says quietly. 

“You should,” Cassandra replies, with a small, solemn nod.

Nightwing falls into stride beside Flamebird as they observe the teens running drills across the field.

“They’re coordinated,” Damian says. “But they’re not a team.”

Jon glances sideways. “Why do you say that?”

“They don’t trust,” Damian replies, arms crossing. “Not themselves. Not each other. They hesitate- don’t move unless ordered. That’s not teamwork. That’s just a chain of command.”

Jon hums, thoughtful. “I noticed that. I guess we never had that issue. We were always breaking rank anyway.”

Damian snorts. “Yeah.” His eyes narrow as one of the trainees stumbles mid-combo. “They move like my old assassination squad. Took every order without question. And when there weren’t orders, they froze. Like they’d rather die than act on instinct.”

He pauses. “Those guys followed me out of fear. Fear of failing me. Of the consequences of disappointing me. These kids-" Damian gestures toward the field, “-they’re not afraid. But they don’t trust either. Not their peers. Not themselves.”

“Hm.” Jon nods thoughtfully. “So what you’re saying is… we need less combat drills and more trust falls?”

Damian shoots him a glare. Jon grins, purple eyes gleaming.

“We could start with charades.”

“Jonathan-"

“I’ll go get them now.” And with that, Damian was left glaring at the empty space in front of him.

A few moments of peace pass before Jonathan reappears, leading a group of sweaty, disgruntled teens behind him. “Nightwing finally decided to show up!” Jon announces brightly. “And he has a cute little training exercise for you guys.”

Damian’s glare shifts from Jon to the young heroes, who respond with angry stares. Their last encounter hadn’t exactly gone well… had it?

At least Cass waves at him, a smile playing at her lips. He nods in acknowledgment, grateful for the gesture. Timothy’s eyes dart between the two of them, as if trying to decipher what their relationship is. His hands are clenched at his sides, and Damian can’t help but notice the barely concealed jealousy flickering across his face.

“First,” Damian coughs, clearly unimpressed. “Go shower. You all stink. We’ll debrief after.”

“Don’t bother changing into your uniforms,” Jon chimes in with a grin. “Just get into some comfy clothes.”

Impulse speeds off as the rest of the team drags themselves toward the Outside, but just as Tim is about to follow, Damian grabs his shoulder.

“Timothy. We need to talk.”

Cassandra passes by, offering Damian a thumbs-up before slipping silently into the building.

Tim tenses. “Look- if this is about-”

“I’m sorry,” Damian cuts in, the words stiff and reluctant, but genuine. “This isn’t about anything you did. It’s not your fault Father decided to be an idiot and overestimate his ability to raise children.”

Timothy stares at him, shell-shocked.

“Although I find it… distasteful that my identity has been taken over by an eleven-year-old,” Damian says, his tone flat, “that isn’t your fault. I was too immature to recognize that before, and as a result, I was… unpleasant to you.” He exhales sharply. “I hope you can forgive me.”

He tenses with the air of someone who’s just completed a dangerous mission— because, emotionally, it might as well have been. This was almost as hard as the time he’d had to apologize to Maya when he was eleven.

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it. For a moment, he looks like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Finally, he mutters, “I never expected this to happen.”

Damian’s shoulders sag. “Don’t get used to it,” he says on instinct.

His heart rate spikes. What if Timothy takes it the wrong way? They aren’t on the kind of terms where banter is safe ground.

But Tim’s lips twitch— almost a smile. “I won’t. But… thanks.”

He hesitates, then reaches out with a brief, awkward motion, clapping Damian once on the shoulder before turning to catch up with the others.

Damian watches him go, uncertain if the weight in his chest has lifted… or simply shifted.

“Wow…” Jon floats closer, eyes wide with mock awe. “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

“Shut. Up.” Damian doesn’t look at him, but the heat in his ears betrays him

Chapter Text

Damian kicks open his apartment door with his toe, arms full of bulk groceries from Costco. The door slams against the wall with a satisfying thud as he wrestles the haul through the too-narrow entryway.

Eugh. Costco. Why must you be so irresistible?

He kicks his sneakers toward the rack with laser-sharp accuracy, a small win— until he feels it. A tingle at the back of his neck. Someone’s watching him.

No— three someones.

Cassandra and Timothy are on his couch. Sitting between them is a blonde teen with a wide grin and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries.

“Hiya!” she beams. “I’m Stephanie. A.K.A. Spoiler. Daughter of Cluemaster but fortunately for you guys, I’m good.”

Damian doesn’t even blink. “Are you the one who threw a brick at Shadow?”

He’s too tired to be surprised. Duke had warned him about the purple-clad vigilante appearing in Gotham. And now she’s broken into his apartment— with his two youngest siblings in tow. Fantastic.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Timothy mutters beside her, legs crisscrossed, hands folded in his lap like he’s trying very hard not to combust.

“It was funny,” Cassandra says, tilting her head toward Stephanie, the two of them giggling like teenagers who’ve just pulled off something delightfully chaotic. Timothy looks at Damian, clearly already resigned to the role of the third wheel.

Damian sighs as he places the cardboard box filled with his Costco haul on the kitchen island. He’s almost afraid to ask, but it’s better to get it over with

“What are you three here for?” he asks, bracing himself for the inevitable.

Timothy straightens up, as if he’s about to give a very formal report. “Well, Bruce— Batman— refuses to acknowledge Stephanie as a part of the Batfamily-”

“That’s a stupid name,” Damian interrupts, barely sparing them a glance.

He’s ignored. “-so, we’ve decided that we’re all quitting until he accepts her.”

“If I can’t be a hero because I’m a ‘kid,’ why should these guys?” Stephanie huffs, flailing her arms dramatically— so much so that she almost knocks over the two heroes sitting next to her. “Besides, I’m thirteen! These two are younger than me!”

“You know he’ll still have two costumed children in Gotham, right?” Damian says, half-listening as he shoves a box of chips in the cupboard— chips that are clearly Jon’s. Damian would never stoop to such trash. “Harper and Cullen aren’t part of this little… union you’ve got going here.”

“Yeah, but they’re part of the Birds of Prey with Dinah and Helena,” Timothy counters. “Not really helping Bruce in any way.”

“I bet they’d join our cause anyway!” Stephanie puffs out her chest, all the confidence of a kid who’s got nothing to lose.

“What about Duke?” Damian hums, slipping the carton of eggs into the fridge.

“Duke’s like… seventeen. Practically an adult!” Stephanie fires back without missing a beat. “He doesn’t even follow Bruce’s orders anymore since he’s always at the Outside anyway.”

“Here’s the thing.” Damian huffs, shutting the fridge a little harder than necessary. “I don’t see how I come into play here. Can’t you just run off to Mount Justice if you’re so eager to escape Batman?”

“Well…” Tim starts, hesitant.

“This is the only place Bruce would never go,” Cassandra finishes with a deadpan.

“Bruce is way too scared of you,” Stephanie grins, almost wickedly. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but every time you come up he somehow finds a reason to skedaddle.”

“Beef,” Cassandra explains solemnly.

“Lots of beef,” Damian mutters. He crosses his arms. “How long are you planning to freeload off me?”

“However long it takes for Batman to give in,” Stephanie answers sweetly.

“So… forever.”

Tim shrugs. “He’ll give in eventually. Steph already knows all our identities. It’d be a problem if Bruce couldn’t keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn’t blab.”

“See?” Steph snickers. “I’m a liability.”

Damian has never met anyone so proud to be a problem. But if it’s Bruce they’re bothering— and he’s the one who threw these kids into the field to begin with— then maybe it’s worth letting it play out.

“You get one week,” he says, voice edged with finality that even Stephanie can’t argue with. “One week to make Bruce give in to this little… suicide mission of yours. After that, I’m kicking you out.”

“Deal,” Cassandra nods before the other two can open their mouths. At least she knows when to quit.

They set up a mini campsite on Damian’s balcony, taking advantage of the clear weather. A pop-up air tent stretches across the space, its entrance lined neatly with the glass sliding door leading into the apartment. Inside, sleeping bags, pillows, and random clutter— plushies, handheld consoles, a half-eaten bag of gummy worms— are scattered like controlled chaos. The kids have clearly made themselves at home.

“This is so fun!” Steph cheers, sprawled on her purple beanie, which she insisted was better than a sleeping bag. “I can’t believe I’ve never thought of camping on my fire escape.”

“That’s because you live in Gotham,” Timothy points out, rolling up the out facing tent flap to let in the breeze.

“Blüd’s just Gotham with fewer rogues,” Steph shrugs. “And yet, here we are.”

“Nightwing,” Cassandra says simply.

The single word is enough to make Timothy nod. Damian almost has the gull to be sheepish— but instead, he rolls his eyes. “I’m not doing anything if you all get yourselves kidnapped.”

“Oh, you’re just saying that,” Stephanie grins, entirely too self-assured for someone he met mere hours ago. “You love us.”

“Steph-” Tim sighs, rubbing his temple. “Don’t push him.”

“Timothy is right for once,” Damian huffs.

That’s when Jonathan bursts through the door like a sitcom lead. “Honey! I’m home!” he sings, way too loudly, kicking off his shoes with theatrical flair— completely unaware of the three extra bodies.

Damian groans and drops his head into his hands.

“I didn’t know you and Flamebird were dating,” Timothy says, poking his head out of the tent with the most irritatingly genuine curiosity Damian’s ever seen.

Jonathan freezes mid-way through taking off his glasses. “Tim?”

“We. Are. Not,” Damian snaps, each word sharper than the last.

“It’s okay, Damian,” Steph says, taking the reins of the chaos with far too much confidence. “We support you and your queerness.”

“I’m not-” Damian starts, but all three shake their heads in unison like disappointed parents. He gives up. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Jon slides in next to Damian, blinking at the tent setup. “What is even happening? Why are you guys camping on the balcony?”

“Bat Union,” Cassandra says with a solemn nod, as if that explains everything.

“They’re protesting Bruce’s hypocrisy,” Damian adds dryly. “He’s sidelining Spoiler bexause she’s a kid even though he lets ten-year-old Cassandra patrol.”

“I think he’s just discriminating against me because I’m blonde,” Stephanie says, deadly serious.

“Then why are you here?” Jon asks, blinking. Not the brightest bulb in the box.

“Walkout,” Tim replies, puffing up proudly. “We all quit until Bruce lets Steph be Spoiler again.”

“Oh-” Jon laughs. “I don’t think-”

“It’s gonna work,” Cass cuts in, completely assured.

“They get one week,” Damian says, hands on his hips. “Then they’re out.”

“That’s all we need!” Steph grins mischievously, her two accomplices matching her energy. “Bruce Wayne will cave to the will of a poor girl from the Bowery.”

The thought makes Damian’s lips twitch upward— just a little.

It takes two more hours of teenage shenanigans and petty arguments before Bruce finally calls.

Damian’s halfway through chaperoning the kids across town— herding them like unruly ducklings toward the only Bat-Burger in Blüdhaven— when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He doesn’t have to check the screen to know who it is.

“Jonathan,” Damian sighs. In a blur, his partner appears in front of him.

“Can you watch my siblings for a minute? Their father is calling.”

Jon winces. “Sure, Dames. Need anything else?”

“No.” Damian turns toward the nearest alley. “And don’t pay for them, either.”

“That doesn’t seem very nice…”

“Father’s bound to have given each of them their own black card,” Damian says. “And Timothy’s already wealthy off inheritance alone. Don’t waste your limited funds on children with larger net worths than you.”

“Ouch,” Jon laughs, grinning. “Savage, but fair.”

Damian waits until Jon’s caught up to the others— who, somehow, are already a street ahead, crowded around a mannequin in the window of a vintage dress shop.

He exhales through his nose and finally returns the call.

“What do you want,” he says, no warmth in his voice.

There’s a pause on the other end— thick with static and everything unsaid.

“I assume you know what this is about,” Bruce says. His voice is low. Controlled. Guilty.

Damian scoffs. “Let me guess. The children you trained to break the law and endanger themselves nightly have finally turned on you. Shocking.”

“Damian, this is serious.” Bruce exhales heavily. “I can’t believe you’re enabling this.”

Damian leans against the brick wall of the alley, the city humming faintly beyond.

“I’m not enabling anything,” he says. “They showed up at my apartment and made demands. I’m merely tolerating it.”

“You’re giving them legitimacy just by letting them stay.”

“And what would you prefer? That I kick three angry, emotional, highly-trained vigilantes back onto the street with nowhere to go? Yes, Father, that sounds like stellar parenting.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

“She’s just a kid,” Bruce mutters.

Damian laughs— cold and sharp. “That’s rich coming from you. Since when has that ever stopped you? Her two best friends are younger than her, and you still let them patrol every night.”

Bruce falls silent.

Damian presses on, quieter now, but no less cutting. “You let them wear your symbol. You trained them. You made them soldiers. And now, what- just because someone followed the same path without your permission, you suddenly care about responsibility?”

“She’s impulsive.”

“So was I.”

“You were different.”

“No.” Damian straightens up, bitterness rising despite himself. “I wasn’t. You just don’t want to accept her because she’s not under your control.”

Another pause. Then, defensively: “It’s not like that.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Damian exhales through his nose, forces his fists to unclench. “You know it is.”

“She’s not ready.”

Damian bites down on all the things he could say— about Timothy, about Duke, about every other civilian Bruce led to the vigilante life while he was gone. About how many of them weren’t ready. In the end, he just mutters, “She’s not. She’s herself- determined enough to learn. That’s the point. You can’t stop her from trying to be better than her father.”

A long sigh. “Are you going to bring them home?”

Of course he’s changing the topic.

“No,” Damian says flatly. “You want them back? You earn them back.”

He hangs up.

Damian watches their morale slowly crumble as the week drags on. By the seventh day, they’re dragging themselves around the apartment like a pack of sleep-deprived zombies.

“You have until midnight!” he calls from where he sits cross-legged on the couch, carefully sewing the gaping hole in Flamebird’s cape—courtesy of Jon’s last chaotic hangout with Kon.

“Whatever!” Stephanie groans from where she’s sprawled on the hardwood floor behind the couch. “Go ahead, brag.”

“We still have three hours,” Timothy says, checking his watch with a shred of false hope— but Damian knows it’s superficial.

Cassandra, on the other hand, is completely content, draped over the couch next to Damian. Her legs lazily kick at his side as she does Stephanie’s makeup upside down.

“You should put away the tent,” Damian hums, tying off the last stitch in Flamebird’s cape. “Before you leave.”

“But that’s boring!” Stephanie moans, only to get a bop on the cheek from Cassandra for moving too much.

“We should do something fun,” Timothy suggests, emerging from behind his phone. “Isn’t there an arcade nearby?”

Damian turns to him with a flat look. “How do you even know that?” Then, without missing a beat: “Also, that’s a gang front. So no.”

“We should go kapow that gang front!” Cassandra gives up on Stephanie’s lip liner as the blonde intercepts again. “We’ve never gone on patrol here and I want to taste freedom for the last time before I turn into a secret operative who can’t be seen by Batman.”

“Impossible to both,” Damian says flatly, shaking out the red fabric to inspect his handiwork. “I’m not babysitting three martyrs on gang turf. And Bruce is definitely going to find you.”

“Eugh!” Stephanie groans, flopping dramatically on the floor. “You’re such a party pooper!”

“I’m objective,” Damian deadpans.

“Even worse,” Cassandra sighs, shaking her head in disappointment as she tucks her makeup back into its bag. Tim nods solemnly beside her.

Damian sighed. It didn’t matter what these kids thought of him. Without another word, he folded up the cape and stood.

“Do whatever you want… just don’t sneak out in costume.”

“It’s almost like we’re back in Gotham,” Stephanie stage-whispers.

“Dictator,” Cassandra confirms.

“Should we stage another protest?” Tim asks, far too seriously.

That does not happen.

They end up playing a game of Super Mario Party with Jon when he gets home from… whatever he’d been doing. Damian hadn’t been listening when Jon shouted it mid-takeoff out the window seven hours ago.

“You have five minutes,” Damian reminds them, carrying a basket of laundry across the living room where they’re all sprawled. “Are you seriously not going to pack the tent?”

“Nope,” Jon answers for them, eyes glued to the screen as he mashes buttons on his controller. “I’ll do it later. Right now I have to beat their a- butts.”

“Sure.” Damian sighs. He continues toward his bedroom, prepared to fold his laundry in peace—until, of course, peace is denied him.

There’s a knock at the door.

He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to pretend he didn’t hear it, and sets the plastic basket down. Then, with practiced calm, he opens the door.

It’s Bruce.

“Hi,” Bruce says sheepishly.

He looks oddly out of place in the hallway of Damian’s middle-class apartment—broad shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying not to take up too much space. He waits, awkward and uncertain, for permission to enter.

“Inside,” Damian orders. “They’re on the couch with Jon.”

Bruce smiles, almost bashfully. “Thanks.”

Damian realizes, belatedly, that this is the first time his father has ever been to his apartment.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Just picks up his laundry basket and watches, half-detached, as Bruce steps inside and looks around. It’s strange—unsettling—to see him examining the space Damian’s lived in for over a year with the quiet curiosity of a parent touring a dorm room, as if this is a trial run and not already his home.

“Go.” Damian says, gesturing toward the open living room.

Bruce hesitates for only a moment before stepping forward. The three on the couch are far too locked into their game to notice him—Tim barking at Jon to stop cheating, Stephanie howling with laughter, Cassandra silently dominating them all with terrifying calm.

Damian, however, catches the slight tilt of Jon’s head, the twitch of a smile he’s trying to hide.

He saw Bruce. He’s just pretending not to.

Good.

Bruce tentatively stalks over to the couch, watching in awkward silence as Cassandra demolishes everyone in Hammer It Home with surgical precision. Then, he clears his throat.

“I’m here.”

Three heads whip around so fast Damian’s almost impressed they didn’t sprain something.

“Hi, Bruce,” Cassandra says first, perfectly calm, her eyes glittering with mischief.

Tim flicks his wrist, checking his watch like a man clocking out of a shift. “11:57 P.M.,” he mutters, blinking in disbelief. Then he glances up to make sure Bruce is still standing there. “We actually did it.”

Stephanie takes the longest to recover from her shell shock. Her wide blue eyes stay locked on Bruce for a solid fifteen seconds longer than the others before she suddenly springs off the couch like it electrocuted her.

“You came!” she shouts, pointing an accusatory finger like he’s the one who broke the rules.

Bruce blinks. “I- yes.”

“I knew it! I knew you’d cave!” she crows, throwing her arms up like she’s just won the lottery. “I told you all- didn’t I say it? I said he’d show up before midnight!”

“You also said you’d become a secret undercover operative three hours ago,” Tim mutters, unimpressed.

“Semantics!” she huffs, then whirls back on Bruce. “So? Am I official? Are you finally done trying to push me away?”

Bruce raises his hands— the closest he ever comes to a surrender. “You win,” he sighs. “I’d rather have Spoiler under my protection than risk you running around by yourself.”

The shriek Stephanie lets out could shatter glass.

Chapter Text

The rest of Damian’s year goes by in a blur. 

He turns nineteen with the biggest party the Outsider’s have ever hosted, which ended with fireworks that made everyone lose their hearing for the next five hours. 

Stephanie, Cassandra, Timothy, and Duke visit him frequently and manage to manipulate him into taking them on patrol late at light that involves a lot of hollering as they swing across buildings and petty crime, because the smart criminals know not to mess with Nightwing when his siblings are in town.

Jon starts dating this guy named Jay, and Damian avoids the house as much as possible after coming home one day to them getting freaky on the couch. It was more traumatizing than his time at the League, and that should tell you something.

Other than that, life seems to stow to a gentle cruise, and Damian can’t complain about it. He’s still not on speaking terms with Bruce, but there are so many other people in his life and so many things to do that the empty spot in his heart is barely noticeable.

That’s until Jack Drake wakes up from his coma and finds out about Shadow. 

He demands Timothy abandon their cause lest the thirteen-year-old wants the entire Bat-clan’s identities out to the public, and Timothy is forced to drag himself to Drake Manor, where Damian hears he spends his days wallowing in his room.

Stephanie comes to him. 

“I’m going to be the new Shadow,” she tells him. It’s not to ask for permission, but simply a notice. He knows she won’t be able to change her mind even if he tried. 

“Does Father know?” He asks instead, praying a more powerful force could stop her. He knows it won’t.

“It took a little convincing,” she huffs proudly as her purple clad legs swing off the ledge of the building as they eat ice cream. Probably for the last time as Nightwing and Spoiler. Next time it will be Nightwing and Shadow. “But I got through to him. Y’know the whole ‘Batman needs Shadow’ thing Tim had going on.” 

She dies two weeks later in Dr. Leslie Thompkins’ clinic. 

Damian isn’t there.

The funeral is a silent affair.

Timothy is there, and Damian regrets that this is the first time he’s seen him since he stepped down as Shadow. So he pulls both him and Cassandra into his arms as they cry over the girl who was their best friend. Damian does his best not to cry for the girl he’d considered his almost-sister. Sister-in-law? He never figured out what to call their relationship, and now he never would.

Duke is there too. When Damian beckons him over, he slumps into the embrace like he’s been holding everything in. And just like that, all of Stephanie’s closest friends— the ones who fought beside her, laughed with her, loved her— are in one large group hug, holding onto each other, and crying.

Damian gives his youngest siblings to Young Justice and Duke to the Outsiders, but refuses when Maya offers him a hug. “I have something to do.”

He starts over to Bruce, who is silently looking at Stephanie’s grave, and Damian knows what he’s thinking by the way his eyes are glossed over. “‘I was right. Spoiler wasn’t ready as herself, and even less prepared as Shadow.’ That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” His voice is softer than usual— less cutting, but still firm.

Bruce is silent, but his lips press into a thin line. 

“I’m not trying to start a fight.” Damian crosses his arms. “I’m trying to tell you this isn’t about you. Whether you were right or wrong doesn’t matter anymore.”

He turns slightly, gesturing to where Timothy and Cassandra are huddled together with the others— broken, quiet, clinging to each other in the aftermath.

“This is about them.”

Bruce seems to snap out of it at that, his gaze finally shifting to the cluster of his youngest children.

“They won’t come out of this alive if both of us aren’t there to help them,” Damian says— firm, unyielding. It’s not a warning. It’s a fact.

“Duke’s in his own world of pain after losing one of the only vigilantes in Gotham who knows what it’s like growing up in the slums—outside of Harper and Cullen. And while I trust the Outsiders, including myself, to hold him up…”

He nods toward the others, the weight in his voice settling.

“I’m not trusting a bunch of tweens to take care of them.”

He watches Bruce’s gaze sweep over Young Justice— those well-meaning, hapless teens. Finally, Bruce exhales. “You’re right.”

“I’m never wrong,” Damian replies, voice cold as steel. He steps closer. “For their sake, I’ll set aside my… reservations about you. If you can do the same, they might actually make it through this.”

Bruce sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before holding out his hand. “Deal.” 

Damian plans to visit Gotham twice a month—to check on the kids and make sure Bruce hasn’t slipped back into being a detached father.

Alfred is pleasantly surprised when Damian shows up the first time, greeting him with that quiet warmth only Alfred can manage. But not even that is enough to prepare him for what comes next.

“Shadow can’t be fired!” Timothy Drake’s voice explodes from somewhere upstairs the moment Damian steps inside. “Shadow isn’t yours to fire!”

Damian turns toward the noise, but Alfred just offers a rueful smile.

“Master Timothy blames Master Bruce,” he says gently. “Says that if Batman hadn’t fired Miss Stephanie, she would still be alive.”

Damian doesn’t argue. He gets it. He thought the same thing at first.

But now— if he’s serious about this ceasefire with Bruce— he has to be mature enough to accept the truth:

Stephanie’s death wasn’t on Bruce.

It was on Black Mask.

And that truth hurts, but it’s the only way forward.

“You don’t own Shadow!” Damian hears as he climbs the grand staircase, Tim’s voice sharp with fury.

“You can’t just- just fire someone because they don’t listen to you! Shadow was never about obedience. It’s was there to challenge you- to keep you from falling too far into your little ‘I am darkness, I am vengeance’ crap before you ended up hurting yourself- or someone else.”

Damian reaches Bruce’s office and can’t help but see the similarities—Tim standing in front of their father, furious and grieving, just like Damian two years before. History repeating itself. Only worse.

“And do you see what happened?” Tim doesn’t give Bruce a second to respond. “The moment she left- the moment you were without a Shadow, someone died.

“She’s dead, Bruce! Not just injured. Not in a coma like my dad was. Dead. Gone. Forever.”

Damian wets his lips before stepping into the room, his posture composed, voice carefully measured.

“Timothy.”

He doesn’t glance at Bruce. Doesn’t acknowledge him at all. The silence between them is intentional— to let Tim know that he understands his anger at Bruce. 

Timothy wavers when he sees Damian. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting Alfred,” Damian lies smoothly, not missing a beat. “Heard you giving Father a well-earned talking-to, so I figured I’d peep in on the fun.”

Tim scoffs. “You should go.”

“Nope,” Damian replies flatly. He knows Tim’s father died just two days ago—knows the kid is boiling with grief, anger, and all the things no thirteen-year-old should have to carry. “We’re getting ice cream in thirty. Be at the door.”

“I’m not going,” Tim snaps.

“Be there or be square. Cassandra and Duke are coming too.” Damian’s tone sharpens—not a request.

Tim sighs, defeated. “We’re not done with this conversation,” he mutters, glaring at Bruce before storming out and slamming the door behind him.

“If you could even call that a conversation,” Damian huffs. “More like a one-sided verbal beating.”

“I did what you told me to.” Bruce sighs, slumping into his chair. “I thought getting verbally abused was part of the plan.”

“It was,” Damian nods. “But here’s the thing, Father— you’ve developed this… weird relationship with death. Like you’ve got some pathological need to preserve every life, and when someone dies or kills under your watch, you default to blaming yourself.”

“I just—” Bruce begins, but Damian raises a hand.

“When you feel guilty, you cave in on yourself,” Damian says, voice edged with steel. “You hurt yourself, and you hurt the people around you. That’s why Timothy is right: you need a Shadow. Because Shadow isn’t just a kid in a cape. Shadow represents all the lives you did save.”

Bruce falls silent, thinking for once before he opens his mouth. Good.

“You may be right,” he mutters finally. “But Steph… she was actually my fault.”

“Father-”

“She died trying to prove herself to me, Damian,” Bruce says, voice barely steady. “If I hadn’t been so stubborn- so stupid to expect a fourteen-year-old to follow every order like a soldier…”

“This is why I told you to keep quiet,” Damian exhales, shaking his head. “You were either going to agree with Tim, even though it isn’t your fault- and that would’ve pushed him deeper into his spiral- or you’d get defensive and make him leave, when we both know he needs you. And you need him.”

Bruce bites his lip before standing up. “Maybe you are always right,” he admits. “But that doesn’t change the fact that-“

“Oh, shut up,” Damian snaps, having already met his ‘Be Nice to Bruce’ quota for the day. “I’m not your therapist, but God, I hope you get one. You’re in dire need of professional help. I’m taking Timothy and the kids out for ice cream and the zoo, and when I get back, you’d better have the best apology speech of your entire miserable life ready to go.”

The next time Damian visits the Manor that month, it’s Duke who opens the door.

“Man, what are you doing here?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Damian shoots back. Duke doesn’t usually stay at the Manor—hadn’t, even before he turned eighteen. If he wasn’t off with the Outsiders, he was probably stretched across Damian’s couch, eating all his snacks.

Duke steps aside, letting Damian through with a quirked eyebrow. He knows Damian is deflecting. “Whatever. I crashed here last night. Cassandra guilt-tripped me into movie night and then passed out halfway through Cats. It was so bad I was forced to stay awake.”

Damian rolls his eyes. “Blasphemy.”

“Right?” Duke grins. “Tim said the same thing. He and Cass have been holed up in the game room since yesterday. Think they’re trying to beat Bart’s Mario Kart record.”

Damian huffs through his nose. “They’re grieving.”

“I know,” Duke says, quieter now. “We all are.”

Damian pauses in the entryway, glancing toward the east wing. “And him?”

“Bruce?” Duke’s smile fades. “He’s been… trying. Apparently he sat both of the kids down in the library, apologized, promised to do better. They said it was weird. Like, real weird. But they seemed happier. Cathartic, I guess.”

Damian blinks, feigning surprise. If the plan is to work, they have to think it’s all Bruce—and Damian is proud to say, most of it is. All his father ever needed was a little push. “Really?”

“Hell must be freezing over.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the air thick with everything that still hurts.

“You here to check in?” Duke asks at last.

Damian nods. “And take Tim and Cass out. I’ve got tickets to the aquarium. Figured it was educational enough to count as bonding.”

Duke smiles again, softer this time. “You’re a good big brother, y’know.”

Damian scowls. “Say that again and I’m revoking your access to my kitchen.”

“Not the kitchen!” Duke throws his hands up in mock horror, laughing as he follows Damian toward the game room. “Okay, okay, cold-hearted assassin it is.”

Damian allows himself the ghost of a smile. Just a flicker.

Things aren’t fixed. Not yet.

But they are healing. Slowly, stubbornly, together.

Slowly, things get better. Damian watches as Cassandra and Timothy adjust to their new normal— though he knows it’ll never be normal again. Not without Stephanie Brown: the light at the end of their tunnels.

“I had a nightmare,” is all Cassandra says when Damian wakes to find her curled at the end of his bed in Blüdhaven one night.

Isn’t she supposed to be in Gotham? Why is she here?

“Come here,” Damian sighs, his voice too thick with sleep to carry any real authority.

She crawls under the blankets when he lifts them, burrowing beneath like a mole.

They don’t talk. It’s easier that way.

Damian lies awake a while longer, absently playing with the ends of her hair, thinking.

How does someone deal with grief?

He’s read articles, combed through forums, tried to find an answer to that question— for Bruce, mostly. Most of them are titled things like How to Help Your Child Cope With Death. But these children— Duke, Timothy, Cassandra— they’re not his. So how is he supposed to help them? How does he even help himself?

“There was once a woman named Kisa Gotami,” he whispers before he can stop himself, the story slipping from his mouth like a memory. Like the answers to all his problems lie in the parable. Maybe they do. “She was a mother. Her only child- her best friend- died.”

Cassandra stiffens. So she isn’t asleep.

“Desperate to bring him back, Kisa went door to door in her village, begging for a cure. No one could help her… until someone told her to find Buddha.”

Damian doesn’t practice Buddhism. He wasn’t raised religious at all. But his tutors had always loved to impart their beliefs and traditions, and he listened. He remembers.

“So she went to the Buddha,” he continues softly. “And he told her, ‘There is a way. But first, bring me a mustard seed from a house where no one has ever died.’”

Cassandra shifts against his chest.

“She searched. Asked every home, ‘Has anyone died here?’ But every single person she met had lost someone. She heard story after story. Grief. Sorrow. Denial.”

His voice is barely a breath now, low and steady as his fingers move through her hair.

“In the end, she realized what Buddha meant. Death touches every home. Grief isn’t hers alone. All she could do was share it.”

They lie in silence after that, heavy and full— but not empty.

Damian doesn’t know if it helped Cassandra, but he knows it certainly helped him.

Funny, isn’t it— how you sometimes subconsciously know how to solve your own problems, but it’s only when the words come spilling out of your mouth, meant for someone else, that you realize you’ve been talking to yourself all along.

The story wasn’t just for her. It never was.

Chapter Text

Timothy Jackson Drake dies only a year after Stephanie.

Damian should’ve seen it coming. Grief is loud, but Tim’s had gone quiet— tight-lipped smiles, forced laughter, a flinch in the silence. And paired with the deaths of his best friend, his father, Superboy, and Impulse in rapid succession, the warning signs were all there. A child soldier shattered in too many ways to put back together.

But Damian had been too busy trying to hold the world together with duct tape and sheer force of will to notice the cracks forming right beneath his feet.

He had focused on adapting to the new normal, on the healing, on making things work—because that’s what Stephanie would have wanted, what Timothy should have wanted. And maybe he had. Maybe he did.

But wanting to live and being able to are two very different things.

Tim, in his grief-induced rage, had tried to take the Joker on alone— no backup, no plan, just blind fury and a desperate need to do something. Damian wonders if Tim knew what he was walking into. If he wanted the result of that night to happen.

Knowing Timothy… probably.

Maybe he wasn’t trying to die. Maybe he just didn’t care if he did.

When Bruce found him, Tim’s mouth had been slit from cheek to cheek, Joker-style— carved into that grotesque, too-wide smile. He had been tortured for hours. Bruises layered over older bruises, bones broken and rebroken for fun. There were knives on the floor, and Tim’s blood had painted the concrete long before the fire.

And then, finally, the Joker got bored.

The warehouse exploded.

All that was left for Bruce to recover was the body. Or what was left of it.

They hadn’t even needed dental records. No one could mistake the half-burned, battered body for anyone else.

Damian doesn’t cry. He clenches his fists until his nails break skin, standing silently at the end of the other line, listening to Alfred tell him Timothy is gone. He replays every missed sign, every ignored warning, every chance he could’ve said please don’t go.

And didn’t.

Stephanie. Tim.

It feels like the Batfamily is being picked off one by one. And all he can do is stand here, in the ashes, watching it happen.

The funeral is quieter this time.

Not in volume— Cassandra’s sobs echo through the church walls like a haunting— but in spirit. Everyone is worn down, too tired to be angry, too used to grief to fight it.

Cassandra doesn’t sit with Bruce or Duke or even Damian. She sits alone at the front, Tim’s black hoodie clutched in her lap like a talisman. She doesn’t look up once.

Damian watches from the back, arms crossed tight. His throat feels raw. Not from speaking— he hasn’t said much— but from not speaking. From holding everything in. From swallowing screams.

Duke eventually makes his way to him, shoulders tense. “He knew better,” he says quietly. “He knew better than to go alone.”

“Yeah,” Damian murmurs. “But he didn’t care.”

They stand in silence for a moment, watching Cassandra rock slightly in her seat.

“He really loved them,” Duke says.

“I know.” Damian’s voice cracks, just a little.

Damian wouldn’t let it happen again.

“What’s the stabby Bat doing here?” Joker cackled from where he slumped against the padded wall, the green of his hair clashing grotesquely with the white of his straitjacket. “I thought you flew off to Blüdhaven!”

Damian said nothing as he stepped forward, drawing his sword in one smooth, deliberate motion.

That only made the clown’s grin stretch wider.

“Oh-ho!” Joker wriggled like a cockroach flipped on its back, delighted. “What’s the plan, baby bird? Gonna give me a haircut? Or maybe you’re here to finish what your brother couldn’t? Don’t you think Daddy Bats will be so disappointed if you off his one true love?”

“Shut. Up,” Damian snapped, teeth clenched.

How could this vermin— this walking punchline— be the one who killed Timothy?

How could Tim fall to him?

He didn’t understand. He didn’t want to.

And he wouldn’t have to.

Not once Joker was gone.

The motion is fluid. Familiar. A clean slice through soft tissue and sinew.

Joker’s blood spews across Damian’s face in a hot, metallic spray as the laceration opens wide across his neck. It should feel satisfying. It should feel like relief.

But it doesn’t.

Not with that smile still carved across his face.

Even in death, Joker grins. Wide. Mocking. Eternal.

Damian’s stomach twists.

He exhales slowly, and then— almost methodically— presses the tip of his sword against the corpse’s jaw and drags it downward.

He carves a frown into that grinning face, a reflection of what the Joker had done to Timothy.

Only then does something in his chest loosen. Not peace. Not closure. But something like justice. Something like fulfillment.

Damian doesn’t make it far from Arkham before he’s intercepted.

Batman drops from the shadows like judgment itself, cape billowing, eyes glowing faintly beneath the cowl.

He doesn’t ask. He demands.

“Whose blood is that.”

Damian doesn’t flinch. “Shouldn’t you already know?”

Batman’s jaw clenches. “Joker.”

A pause.

“Why did you do it?” His voice is low, almost pleading. “We both know Tim wouldn’t have wanted that.”

Damian lifts his chin, defiant. There’s no guilt in his posture— only cold finality.

“I did it because you wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Won’t. Can’t.” His smile is bitter, not amused but aching. “I did it because Timothy is dead. He doesn’t get to have wants anymore. He doesn’t get to want anything.”

He takes a step forward, voice like a blade.

“I did it because I won’t let that maniac hurt someone else’s brother.”

Batman bites his lip.

And for the first time in Damian’s life, he sees Bruce show emotion while wearing the cowl. Real emotion. Not the forced stoicism or buried fury— something raw. Something human.

He looks… conflicted. Torn between the code he’s clung to for decades and the truth he’s too tired to deny: that sometimes, justice isn’t enough to protect the people you love.

Damian sighs. He doesn’t have the energy for his father’s moral crisis tonight.

“Look, Father,” he says, voice level. “I’m not your responsibility anymore.”

Bruce tenses, but Damian presses on, steady and cold.

“Joker didn’t die under your watch. So don’t twist this into some penance mission. Don’t make it about you. There’s no reason to feel guilty about his death.”

He looks him in the eye— mask to mask, vigilante to vigilante.

“Nothing that happened tonight is on your hands.”

Bruce is silent for a long moment.

“That means everything is on you,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Damian confirms.

“That means you just committed a felony in my city.”

“Yes.”

“That means you’re my enemy.”

A pause.

“Yes.”

And so the chase begins.

Damian pushes off the roof, grappling hook hissing as it fires.

He swings— building to building, alley to alley— streets etched into his bones.

He doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t need to.

Bruce is already chasing him.

Rain slaps against him as he pulls forward, cutting through the wind, but he doesn’t falter.

Behind him, the snap of a second grapple line draws closer with every breath— Bruce is gaining.

Damian’s chest tightens— not from exertion, but from grief. From the bitter weight of knowing this chase isn’t about justice or vengeance. It’s about ideology.

Bruce will hunt him to the ends of the earth to preserve a rule that never saved Tim.

Damian doesn’t like it.

But he accepts it.

Letting Bruce believe he’s the enemy— someone untouchable, uncontrollable —is better than watching him spiral with guilt. Better than letting him drown in another death on his conscience.

So if Damian has to be the villain, then so be it.

He’s used to it. He always has been.

But Bruce isn’t.

So Damian will take the blame. Damian will fall.

He’ll play the monster so Bruce can stay steady—

For Cassandra.

For Duke.

Because they still need their hero.

And Damian?

He’s already lost too much to care what the world thinks of him.

Damian escapes Gotham before Bruce can tug him back by the cape.

And a win is a win.

It feels strange, though— leaving the city. Ever since Timothy died a month ago, he’s been staying at the Manor with Duke, Cassandra, and Pennyworth.

Partly for the funeral.

Mostly because they needed him.

And because he needed them too.

Now, back in his apartment, the silence hits harder than he expects.

The air feels colder.

Thinner.

He doesn’t expect Jon to be home— he’s probably out with his boyfriend or saving the world.

Either way, Damian doesn’t blame him.

He just hadn’t realized how much he didn’t want to be alone.

He drops the duffle bag beside the doormat, too exhausted to take it to his room.

It lands with a dull thud— final, like a period at the end of a sentence he didn’t want to write.

Without even taking off his boots, Damian heads straight for the kitchen.

He reaches up, fingers brushing the back of the secret cupboard above the fridge—

And there it is.

The feel-better hot chocolate Alfred had gifted them as a housewarming present. It hadn’t been used much— Damian wasn’t a fan of sulking, and Jon never really saw the point of hot chocolate as comfort food.

But tonight, Damian needs it.

Now more than ever.

Damian pries the cork off the glass container, the soft pop breaking the stillness.

He eyes the chocolate shavings and scoops a rough tablespoon into the first mug he sees— a bright orange one, “Cat Dad” scrawled across it in messy blue lettering. He doesn’t know where it came from. He doesn’t care. It was closest.

The milk warms slowly in a small saucepan. Damian watches it rise, the faint hiss of heat the only sound in the apartment.

Out the window, the sun is beginning to rise— a soft bleed of gold against a slate-blue sky.

Three hours ago, he killed the Joker.

Three hours ago, he became his father’s enemy.

Before Damian can wallow in his thoughts, soft fur brushes against his leg. He glances down to find Alfred the cat curling up around him, purring.

He probably just wants the milk.

Still, Damian bends down, carding a hand through the cat’s sleek black fur—soft against the calluses on his fingers.

“At least you would never hate me,” he hums, scratching just above the base of Alfred’s tail.

“I’d never hate you either,” a voice says suddenly behind him.

Damian doesn’t jump— he’s used to these impromptu entrances. “Where were you?”

Jonathan sighs, stepping into the kitchen. “Fighting with my boyfriend. Apparently I’ve been ‘too distant’ since Kon died. But like, other than sex, we still do everything the same!”

“Why not the…” Damian trails off. The thought of intercourse unsettles him— not from inexperience, but something deeper. Maybe it’s the way he was born: a product of impulse, not love.

Jon shrugs. “I dunno. I just haven’t had the energy to do anything more than a handjob.”

“Because you’re grieving,” Damian supplies, standing to take the milk off the heat before it burns.

“Hot chocolate?” Jon tilts his head, squinting at the fancy bottle Damian hasn’t put away. “The good stuff? What happened?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Damian says smoothly as he pours the milk into his mug. “I was just feeling in a chocolate mood.”

“Fun.” Jonathan doesn’t believe him— Damian can see it in his eyes.

“Can you make me some too then? I’m feeling down.”

Damian huffs but reaches for the milk again, pouring it into the still-warm pot without a word.

“So why are you back?” Jonathan asks, eyes flicking toward the duffle bag by the door. “I thought you were staying in Gotham for at least another three months.”

“You thought wrong,” Damian replies curtly, dumping another spoonful of chocolate into a more appropriate mug this time.

“I’ve done all I can for my family,” he adds, tone clipped. “They don’t need me anymore.”

“What?” Jon tilts his head, genuinely confused as he leans against the counter beside Damian. “You said I was grieving, Damian. But so are they. So are you.”

“True,” Damian says, too quickly. “But that doesn’t mean me being there is helping. I think… distant comfort might be better. For them.”

A beat.

“And for me.” The lie sits easily on his tongue.

Jon’s gaze sharpens. “Is that why there’s blood on Nightwing’s costume?” 

Damian freezes.

Then he moves.

The saucer is off the stove and flying before he even thinks. Milk hisses through the air—scalding, desperate. It hits Jon’s chest with a hollow clang, harmless against the kryptonian body.

But Damian’s already running.

““Damian!” Jon calls, more confused than angry. “What the hell?!”

But Damian is already gone— Bare feet skimming the floor, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

His duffle’s still by the door— he doesn’t stop. Just rips the grappling gun from his coat pocket and fires through the skylight without hesitation.

Glass explodes, wind rushing in as he leaps through the roof.

And then he’s gone.

In civvies.

He yanks his hood up, tugging the drawstrings tight so it won’t rip off mid-swing, breath tearing in his throat as he vaults from building to building.

Damian was starting to think his life wasn’t a legacy— it was a wanted poster.

And the only way people wanted him was alive, but not living.

He swings at awkward angles, body contorting midair— not for speed, but for survival.

If he twists just wrong enough, if he dangles too dangerously, Jon won’t risk grabbing him. Not when one wrong move could shatter every brittle, breakable part of him. And Damian knows it.

Jon doesn’t slam into him— just like Damian knew he wouldn’t.

Instead, he follows. Hovering close. Too close. Not close enough.

“Damian, stop!” Jon’s voice cuts through the wind like a warning shot.

Damian doesn’t.

He swings harder. Breath ragged. Muscles screaming.

His hoodie flaps like a cape behind him, sleeves snapping with every twist of his body.

He should’ve worn gloves— his palms are already blistering against the grip.

Jon surges forward, wind howling in his wake.

“I’m not mad at you!” he calls, voice cracking with something too fragile to name.

It sounds like he’s the one who’s hurting.

Like he’s the one who lost everything.

Like he’s the one who had to become the villain to keep his father from falling apart.

Damian grits his teeth, fury knotting in his chest like a second heartbeat.

He shouldn’t be feeling this— this heat in his lungs, this burn behind his eyes. But he does. And it fuels him.

Push harder.

Swing faster.

Keep going.

Let Jon chase.

Let the whole damn world chase. They don’t get to catch him. Not when he’s the one who’s lost everything. Not when he’s the one who did what no one else would.

“Damian!” Jon shouts, louder now, sharper. “Why are you always running away from people who want to help you?”

The words hit harder than any punch Jon could throw.

Damian stumbles on the next swing— just a hitch, a fraction of a second.

But it’s all Jon needs.

A strong arm wraps around his midsection, yanking him back.

His grip slips.

The grapple swings wide, snags against brick—

—and snaps with a hollow clatter.

Damian watches the handle spiral down, crashing against the alley floor.

It feels like a metaphor.

He is the broken line.

The failed tether.

A prisoner of his past.

There is no escape for the wicked.

Damian’s mind fades in and out as Jonathan drags him back toward the apartment.

He’s speaking— loud, maybe frantic— but it all sounds like bubbles fizzing in Damian’s ears. Like he’s underwater. Like Jon is shouting from the surface, just out of reach.

Damian lets himself sink.

The apartment door slams shut behind them, and suddenly Damian is pulled above water again.

Jonathan’s arms are still around him—warm, steady, unyielding. Damian isn’t sure if he’s being held or restrained. Maybe both.

His feet touch the floor, but he doesn’t remember the moment Jon let go.

The living room is quiet. Too quiet.

The mug is still on the counter. The spilled milk had sizzled when it hit the burner, but even that has gone silent.

“Damian,” Jon says softly, voice steadier now. “You’re bleeding.”

Damian blinks. Looks down.

His palm is torn open—raw from the grapple line. He hadn’t even noticed. The pain registers slowly, like a distant siren winding through fog.

Jon stares at him for a moment, emotions swirling in those violet eyes that Damian can’t decipher. Then he looks down and sighs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Damian doesn’t protest as Jon leads him to the bathroom. When Jon sits him down on the closed lid of the toilet, he obliges.

“When you went back to the League of Assassins four years ago,” Jon starts, rummaging through the first aid kit beneath the sink, “I thought to myself, ‘I could’ve stopped him.’

Because I was there. The night before you left.

I knew you were having a rough time, but I didn’t realize it was bad enough that you’d… go back to the people who hurt you.”

Bruce hurts me, Damian doesn’t say. The deaths of people I care about hurt me, Damian doesn’t say.

At least back at the League, there were no attachments. 

No one to lose. 

No one to grieve.

Jonathan disinfects Damian’s hand slowly, carefully, as if tending a wound might stitch together more than just skin.

Then, gently, he leans forward, their foreheads touching— warm against cold.

“I thought it was my fault,” he says softly. “When Batman told us why you weren’t coming back to the Outsiders… I thought, ‘If I had just been a good enough friend- someone you could open up to that night- then maybe we could’ve figured something out. Maybe you wouldn’t have left.”

Damian stays silent. He knows Jonathan is wrong— nothing could’ve changed his mind that night— but he doesn’t say it.

“I won’t let that happen again.” Jonathan’s voice is steady, more promise than plea, as he finishes wrapping Damian’s hand— scarred and calloused, marked by every year of his life. “I’m not going to let you run away just because you think you’ve done something so awful you don’t deserve to be helped.”

“Jon-” Damian can’t stand it. Jon isn’t supposed to be psychoanalyzing him. It feels wrong— like something crawling under his skin, slithering up his spine and into his throat.

“No, Damian.” Jonathan cuts him off, voice firm but not unkind. “You need help. You need kindness. You need everything you’ve never gotten enough of.”

“I don’t!” Damian hisses, finally breaking.

“I don’t need you to try and understand- because all you’ve ever been is a perfect farm boy!”

Jonathan doesn’t even blink.

“You can’t possibly know how I feel-” Damian’s voice cracks like glass. “When you have a white picket fence family always waiting for you!”

“Damian,” Jon says softly— not mad, just patient. And that makes Damian’s blood boil.

“Who do you think you are?” Damian snarls. “You think reading a few mental health books means you get it? That you get me? Fun fact, Jon: you don’t. So stop pretending you do.”

He tries to yank his hand free, but Jon’s Kryptonian grip doesn’t budge.

“Damian,” Jon repeats, even quieter this time. “Stop trying to push me away just because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Damian snaps. Because scared means weak. Scared means out of control. And Damian is always in control. He was in control when he left. In control when he stood against his father. In control when he killed the Joker.

But Jon just looks at him. That awful, gentle look. Like he’s not mad. Like he’s not judging. Like he’s just… there. Like he’s not going anywhere.

Damian hates that look.

More than the fights. More than the yelling. 

Because it means Jonathan sees him— not the weapon, not the soldier, not the prodigal son turned pariah— but the boy underneath.

And Damian doesn’t know how to be that boy.

“You should go,” he says finally, low and brittle. “You should hate me. You should-”

Jonathan doesn’t loosen his grip. Doesn’t let go. Just pulls Damian closer, like he’s anchoring him to the present.

“You really should,” Damian whispers again, soft and delicate like he’s never been before.

Jon breathes against his temple. “Then I guess I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am. Because I don’t.”

Damian’s fingers clutch the edge of Jon’s shirt. Not holding on, not quite— more like bracing for the moment Jon decides to let go anyway.

But he doesn’t.

He never does.

Damian arrives at the Outsiders’ headquarters the next day and is immediately greeted by his sister.

“Damian.” Maya breathes his name like it’s salvation—like she’s been holding it in, waiting to exhale.

“I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“I’m sorry, Ukht,” he replies quietly, allowing her to pull him into a tight hug. “It’s been… busy.”

Maya looks up at him, her eyes soft with empathy— an unfamiliar warmth for Damian. He shifts uneasily beneath her gaze and glances away.

“I know,” she says gently. “How about you get settled in? Everyone’s missed you.”

Damian nods and follows her inside.

The Outsiders have mostly focused on their independent hero work lately, so Damian is surprised to find the entire team gathered in the living room.

“Intervention time!” Maps grins the moment she spots him.

Damian tenses at the word— intervention. He’s no stranger to well-meaning attempts to “fix” him. But the familiar warmth in the room makes it harder to recoil.

Maya steps closer, arms crossed but her smile gentle. “We’ve been worried about you. Jon told us about your breakdown yesterday…”

Irey nudges him playfully. “Yeah, no more lone wolf stuff. You’re stuck with us now.”

Sin leans against the doorway, eyes steady. “We’re a team, Damian. Not just for missions, but for the hard times too.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, but a flicker of something— relief?— crosses his face.

“I’m not asking for your pity,” he says quietly. “I don’t know why Kent insists I need help.”

“Damian,” Colin suddenly appears behind him, voice low but firm. “You might not know, but as people who’ve known you half your life, we do.”

Damian tenses, then lets go. For the first time in a long while, he exhales a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to run anymore. “Fine.”

Maps smirks. “Now, who’s ready to hear what you’ve been up to? Spill the tea, or we’ll start guessing.”

A reluctant smile tugs at Damian’s lips. The Outsiders are back— and maybe, so is he.

Chapter Text

Damian finds out about Jason Peter Todd through Duke— just as he once found out about Cassandra.

“B’s adopted a new kid,” Duke says casually, like it’s no big deal, as they sip Capri Suns during a break in their mock battle session. Sweat clings to their brows, the silence between training rounds settling like dust.

Damian’s grip on the straw tightens. “Another one?”

“Yeah,” Duke shrugs, not looking at him. “He’s from the gutter too.”

“Like me,” Duke doesn’t say but Damian knows he’s thinking. “Like Stephanie.”

The air between them goes still.

Damian stares into his drink, watching the plastic bag ripple with each pulse of his hand. “What’s his name?”

“Jason,” Duke replies. “Jason Todd. He’s got a real mouth on him. Apparently, Batman found him trying to steal the Batmobile’s tires and when confronted, the kid started cussing B out.”

Damian fails to picture it. It’s too cartoonish, too absurd— too bold— to be logical. And yet, something about it lingers.

“I like him,” Duke says, but there’s sorrow in it.

Damian doesn’t look up. “Father’s going to make him Shadow, isn’t he?”

“Don’t know yet.” It’s not the answer Damian wants.

“Jason’s already figured out all the Bat stuff,” Duke adds after a moment. “Smart kid. And he’s… persistent.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time,” Damian says flatly. “Father always caves.”

Duke lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, you, me, Cass, Tim, and Steph.” He looks down. “God, maybe he should learn how to grow a backbone.” 

“Would be for the best.” Damian hums. “No more Shadows to die.”

“Maybe,” Duke echoes. Then, more lightly, “Anyway, I’ll drag him over here so you can meet him sometime.”

“I don’t know if that would be-”

“He needs to meet his brother,” Duke cuts him off.

Damian falls silent.

“I know you’re at odds with Bruce right now-”

“He’s going to put me in Arkham the moment he sees me,” Damian says flatly.

This isn’t some rebellious phase. This is a wall. One Damian built between himself and Bruce— for Bruce. To protect him. Funny how that works.

“Yeah, anyway,” Duke continues. “That doesn’t mean you get to ignore the rest of the family. I know Alfred misses you. Harper and Cullen have been asking where you’ve been. And Cass-”

“Refuses to talk to me.”

It comes out sharp. Final.

Batman’s no-kill rule meant everything to Cassandra. She’d known Damian didn’t follow it— sure— but she’d never seen it. Never had to witness it.

But after Tim. After Stephanie…

Maybe ghosting him was the only way she knew how to grieve. To cope. She valued life the way her father did, and for Damian to kill in Tim’s name— that must’ve felt like the ultimate betrayal.

“Yeah…” Duke bites his lip. “But she’s looking after Jason. Because I’m not there. And you’re not there. And… I think it’d be better for you to meet him than for you to not.”

“Fine.” Damian sighs, already knowing he’ll always give in to his baby brother— his first brother.

“Next week,” he mutters.

“Next week it is.” Duke grins, and for a second, it feels like the whole damn universe lights up.

When Duke drags Jason to the Outside, he’s small. Alarmingly small.

Supposedly eleven years old, but barely four-six, and so thin he looks like he could disappear if you blink too long.

“You’re the guy who killed the Joker?” Jason asks, eyeing Damian up and down like he’s not a six-foot shadow carved out of myth.

“Yes,” Damian replies curtly, lifting a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Jason stares at it for a beat— skeptical, calculating— then slowly takes it.

“Are you gonna kill me or something?” He asks— genuinely curious like he had no penchant for whether he lives or dies. 

Shit. Damian thinks grimly. This kid’s definitely going to end up Shadow.

“Not unless you give me a reason.” Damian sighs, catching Duke’s punch without looking. Still, his first brother gives him a look that basically reads: “Don’t say shit like that.”

“Are you going to?” He continues anyways.

“You mean becoming Shadow?” Jason tilts his head. Smart kid. Duke was right. “Cass said you were salty when Tim became Shadow after you. Does that mean you’ll hate me if I do too?”

“Are you going to?” Damian asks again, eyes locking onto him like a spotlight.

“I don’t think B will let him,” Duke says, shaking his head. But there’s a slump in his shoulders that tells Damian he’s just as relieved as he is. “Tim and Steph both died as Shadow.”

Jason goes quiet for a moment, expression unreadable. Then:

“But Batman needs a Shadow. And I’m the perfect fit.”

“Perfect fit?” Damian snorts. “Kid, I created the Shadow legacy. And as far as I can tell, the perfect fit for it-”

He pauses, eyes narrowing.

“-is for it to never exist again.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “Just because you created it doesn’t mean-”

“It means enough for me to know it’s a death trap,” Damian cuts in, voice low and firm. “Everyone who’s ever worn that name has died.”

Jason scoffs. “You’re not dead.”

“I was dead.”

Duke looks away.

Jason goes quiet.

“I’ve died double your years and then some,” Damian says, voice flat. “But Stephanie and Timothy didn’t have my resources.”

He meets Jason’s gaze.

“So now they stay dead.”

Jason swallows, but his jaw is set— stubborn in that way Damian recognizes all too well. “I’m willing to make that sacrifice.”

“Jason-” Duke tries, voice soft with a grief meant for the living.

“No, Duke,” Jason snaps. “This is my chance to matter- my chance to make a difference! Shadow might be a death omen, but if that’s what it takes, I’ll do anything to harness the magic of Shadow if it means other people get to live better lives.”

Damian stares at him. Really stares. At the way Jason’s fists are clenched. At the too-big hoodie swallowing his thin frame. At the defiance burning in his eyes, hot enough to set fire to the damn city.

And suddenly, Damian isn’t looking at Jason.

He’s looking at himself.

Ten years old. On the steps of Wayne Manor.

Screaming about honor and destiny and purpose—

Begging someone, anyone, to let him be good by bleeding for it.

“You think dying makes you meaningful?” Damian’s voice is low. “You think it makes people listen?”

Jason falters. Just barely.

“I thought that once,” Damian continues. “When I lost Stephanie. When I lost Timothy. I thought if I could take the pain, if I could become the knife, then no one else would have to. But the thing about dying for people, Jason…”

His voice breaks, quiet and vicious.

“Is that it doesn’t save them. It just leaves them alone.”

Jason opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

And Duke is silent too, because he’s seen it— lived it.

Then, softly, Jason asks:

“If you had the power to come back… why didn’t you bring the others?”

Damian stiffens.

“When they’re dead,” he says, “they’re at peace. I would rather kill myself a thousand times over than force them to live through the pain of being put back together.” 

Jason bites his lip, thinking. 

“That doesn’t change my mind.”

Duke tells him that Bruce gives in to Jason— because of course he does.

So Jason becomes the new Shadow.

And Damian dreads the day he’ll have to bury another child.

In the meantime, he throws himself into mission after mission with the Outsiders.

“A little help here,” Emiko grunts, suspended in a cage above a vat of boiling acid. The chain groans, lowering inch by inch with every tick of the clock.

“A little busy,” Suren snaps back, his voice irritated due to his predicament— suspended midair inside a ring of fire. A single cord attached to a harness keeps him from falling into the flames… and that cord is slowly, unmistakably burning away.

Damian presses his lips together, sitting crisscross in a glass tank that’s slowly filling with water. He exhales through his nose, eyes scanning the warehouse around them with practiced calm.

Whoever set this up did their homework.

Everyone captured— himself, Maya, Suren, Maps, Sin, Emiko— none of them have powers.

No meta abilities. No alien physiology. No shortcuts.

Just skill, wits, and time running out.

The water is at his waist now. Cold. Heavy.

Damian lets his body relax, conserving energy as he calculates. Every trap is a puzzle. Every puzzle has a solution— if you survive long enough to find it.

Across the room, Maya is bound to a vertical slab, electric currents crawling up the sides like patient serpents. She flinches with every jolt, and Damian can only assume the voltage increases with each pulse.

Maps hangs upside-down in a knot of ropes, swearing under her breath. The main line groans above her, taut and fraying. It won’t hold much longer.

Sin is trapped in the base of a massive hourglass, sand pouring down in a steady, suffocating stream. She’s bound and half-buried already.

Time is a weapon. So is fear.

Damian refuses to wield either without precision.

He closes his eyes.

“Well, well,” a snarky, grating voice echoes through the warehouse as a door creaks open. “Looks like the superheroes of tomorrow have gotten themselves into quite the predicament.”

Footsteps tap mockingly against the floor.

“Not so great after all, huh? Guess the stories were a little… exaggerated.”

Damian stays silent. Calculating.

But of course, Maps doesn’t.

“You’re saying that after a gas ambush?” she snorts, twisting slightly in her ropes. “Wow. Real brave of you. The stories must’ve really boosted your confidence.”

“Enough!” the villain snaps, his voice cracking like a whip.

Damian’s eyes open.

The man is shorter than expected, dressed in pristine white from neck to boot, the kind of outfit that begs to be stained. A gaudy emblem glints on his chest— a symbol no one recognizes, because no one’s ever heard of him.

“What matters,” the man sneers, “is that I have you all in my grasp. And once the Justice League sees what I’ve done to their precious prodigies…” He spreads his arms with theatrical flair. “They’ll have no choice but to bend to my will.”

Emiko scoffs. “What will? The burning urge to cosplay as a human tampon?” She barks a laugh, eyes flashing. “Hate to break it to you, but that getup really brings out the red in all your pimples.”

“Shut up!” the man hisses, face turning the exact shade Emiko just roasted. “You’ll all regret those words once I, the great Escapologist, end you one by one!”

“Escapologist?” Suren echoes, brow raised as a grin creeps onto his face. “So you’re, what- an unemployed magician with a vendetta?”

“No!” the Escapologist screeches, voice cracking like a bad stage actor on opening night. “I am a master of escape! And I-” he flings his arms around, nearly knocking over a control panel, “-have escaped every trap you’re currently imprisoned in!”

He pauses. Inhales. Smooths his hair with shaky hands, trying to regain composure.

“But I have no doubt,” he says, voice silkier now, oozing arrogance, “that you will fail to do the same.” A smug chuckle. “After all… no one is as brilliant as I.”

Damian frowns. This narcissistic bastard. Time to knock him down a peg.

“No one is as brilliant as I,” he repeats, a perfect imitation of the Escapologist’s pompous tone with deadpan precision— sharp, mocking, lethal.

The Escapologist freezes mid-monologue, his head whipping around. “What was that?”

Damian doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. Because the silence is shattered by the sound of his teammates losing it— Maps howling, Emiko wheezing, Suren smirking like he just won a bet. Even Maya manages to huff out a laugh before she gets jolted again.

“It seems you are not brilliant enough to fathom vocal mimicry,” Sin says, head tilted, tone laced with mock disappointment.

The rest of the Outsiders follow suit, each shaking their heads, sighing, pretending to mourn the villain’s lack of intellect like a chorus of sarcastic critics. The Escapologist splutters, red in the face.

But Damian’s not laughing.

Because even through the bravado, through the noise, he hears it all.

The sizzle of acid bubbling beneath Emiko’s cage.

The crackling pop of Suren’s harness thread as it slowly burns away.

The fraying rope above Maps groaning louder with each second.

The shallow, ragged breathing from Maya as another jolt rocks her restrained body.

And the weight of water at his neck. The press of sand against Sin’s chest.

They’re almost out of time.

Damian’s eyes scan his enclosure, methodical and unblinking, searching for structural flaws—cracks in the glass, weak points in the frame, anything.

The cuffs on his wrists would be laughably simple under normal conditions, but the Escapologist had been thorough in his pat-down—ripping out every hidden blade and lockpick, including the set sewn into his gloves.

Fine.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Hard. Pain anchors him as he shifts his weight.

A soft crack echoes underwater as he dislocates both thumbs, expression unreadable even as his vision blurs. The cuffs clatter softly against the tank wall as he slips his hands free.

He exhales— slow, steady— even as the water laps at his jaw.

Then, with practiced precision, he slams both hands against the bottom of the tank, popping his joints back into place with a muted crack.

And then—

The glass shatters.

But not from him.

There’s a sound— sharp, wrong. His body jerks.

Pain blooms in his shoulder like fire.

He’s not falling— he’s crashing.

There’s no water to catch him. It's all escapes the broken tank

There’s only the cold, creeping realization as his blood fans out across the concrete:

He’s been shot.

There are screams— voices Damian recognizes— but they’re distant, muffled, like he’s underwater again. He can’t make out the words.

All he hears is the soft, steady crunch of glass under boots.

The shooter is walking closer.

“The water gave you away,” the Escapologist says, voice irritatingly calm. “You were moving too much.”

Damian glares up at him, jaw clenched. His shoulder throbs— warm and wet and wrong.

“It was easy to tell you were up to something.”

The words hang in the air, smug and matter-of-fact.

Blood pools beneath Damian, fingers twitching with the desperate itch to move, to fight, to protect— but his limbs are lead, and his team is still in danger.

And the bastard’s still talking.

“These bullets are coated,” the Escapologist grins. “A little concoction of fear toxin, with a depressant to make sure you stay down.”

Of course. That sluggish weight dragging Damian’s limbs, the fog curling around the edge of his thoughts— not normal.

A shot to the shoulder shouldn’t have dropped him like this. Shouldn’t have made his fingers feel like they belonged to someone else.

He’s practically immune to most drugs. Practically.

But this isn’t standard. A cocktail of something unfamiliar. The fear toxin alone wouldn’t be enough— but pair it with whatever that other agent is, and it’s like gravity’s tripled.

He blinks. Slow. The edges of the world blur and darken.

The Escapologist crouches beside him.

“Bet you’re starting to feel it now,” he whispers, voice too close, too smug. “The fear. The helplessness. The truth.”

Damian clenches his jaw. Because he does feel it. But fear doesn’t stop him.

It fuels him.

“You’re full of little cheats, huh?” Damian rasps, blood mixing with saliva as he spits it at the Escapologist’s cheek. “Too incompetent to fight without a cocktail doing the work for you?”

The glob lands. The Escapologist flinches, wiping his face with a sneer.

“I’d be offended,” he says coolly, “if you weren’t seconds from blacking out.”

Damian’s vision swims— but his glare doesn’t falter. Not once.

“You’re going to need more than that to knock me out,” he grits.

“Are you asking for another bullet?”

“Do your worst.”

The Escapologist raises the gun, finger tightening on the trigger.

Then—

Glass shatters. Sand erupts.

Behind the villain’s white boots, Sin’s toppled hourglass explodes on impact, shards clattering like a war drum.

“Don’t touch him!” she screams.

The Escapologist fires at her, but she’s already diving, movement a blur. The bullet misses— barely.

Through the haze, Damian sees the others—

Maps swinging from the ceiling, unspooling from her ropes with wild precision.

Suren escapes his harness and leaps free, rolling hard onto the concrete, smoke trailing from his sleeves.

Emiko is out— Damian doesn’t know how— but she’s already at Maya’s slab, clawing at the restraints as sparks dance around her.

Everything’s moving in slow motion and Damian thinks it’s the drugs because unless you’re a speedster that isn’t how it works but then—

He isn’t able to think anymore.

Hands clamp under Damian’s shoulder, pulling him up. 

The motion makes his head throb.

Cold metal presses against his temple.

“Stay back!” the Escapologist snarls. “Unless you want your little leader to get a bullet through the head!”

His voice is too loud, ringing in Damian’s ear like a struck bell. But the words don’t land. Not really. Not through the drug-dragged fog in his head.

And then—

everything stops.

Maya. Maps. Sin. Suren. Emiko.

They freeze, mid-motion. Like statues in a war museum. Caught between fight and terror.

No one moves.

Not one breath.

They're staring at him— at the gun pressed to his skull.

The Escapologist huffs— smug, breathless.

“Yeah,” he sneers, shoulders sagging with mock relief. “That’s what I thought! None of you can compete with me. Not when your baby Nightwing is dead weight in my hands.”

Damian wants to respond.

Wants to cut him down with one word, a sharp retort like he’s done a thousand times before.

But his tongue is heavy.

Too heavy.

It sticks to the roof of his mouth like lead.

His vision blurs at the edges. Every breath feels borrowed.

Then—

An explosion.

Behind him.

He can’t see it. Can’t even flinch.

But he smells smoke. Acrid and close. It scrapes at his skull.

The Escapologist jerks— lets him go.

Damian collapses.

Or—

he would’ve.

But red arms catch him mid-fall. Fast. Familiar.

“Hey, Big Blue,” Irey’s voice rebounds in his skull, soft but unshakable. “I’ve got you now. You’re okay.”

Is she trying to convince him or herself?

He doesn’t get to wonder.

The world tilts.

And then—

black.

Damian wakes to blue.

Not sky, not flame.

Eyes.

Jason’s— wide, worried, and too damn blue. Just like Bruce’s. Stephanie’s. Timothy’s.

“B let me come after I told him you got shot,” he says, voice too casual, like he’s trying to make it sound like this isn’t a big deal. 

Damian opens his mouth to respond—

but freezes.

There are two figures standing just behind Jason.

Stephanie.

Timothy.

They’re staring at him, but their eyes—

Glazed. Hollow.

Dead.

“Earth to Damian?” Jason waves a pale hand in front of his face.

The ghosts vanish like smoke.

Stephanie. Tim. Gone.

Just Jason now. Real, breathing, annoyingly alive Jason.

“Did that bullet scare you that bad?” Jason smirks. “I thought you’d died before.”

“I have,” Damian snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the fog. “And by the way, I’m still mad at you.”

“For becoming Shadow?” Jason tilts his head, all innocence he should have but doesn’t. “I mean, yeah. But you haven’t killed me, so I’ll take it as a win.”

“I’m still considering,” Damian retorts, flexing his wrapped shoulder.

It hurts— sharp and stiff— but not enough to stop him.

Not when he was trained from birth to move through pain like it’s air.

He winces, barely.

“You know,” Jason starts, watching Damian test his range of motion with that too-casual tone that means he’s not shutting up anytime soon, “Cass told me that when Timothy got shot in the shoulder while he was Shadow, B benched him for like, two months. Said he was very paranoid after you left.”

“Hopefully he feels the same about you.” Damian mutters, standing. His legs creak like they’ve rusted.

“Hopefully not,” Jason snorts, sticking close behind. “If he starts helicopter-parenting, I’m moving in with Duke.”

“Duke basically lives here,” Damian deadpans. “I don’t think he’s touched his apartment in three months.”

“Even better!” Jason grins. “Whole house to myself.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Damian groans, swinging open the fridge door. Nothing greets him but the usual chaos—Maps’ and Irey’s hoards of neon-colored soda stacked like a shrine to poor dietary choices. He shuts it with a sigh of disappointment.

“Maybe I’ll just move in here,” Jason muses, cracking the fridge back open and swiping one of Maps’ sodas like he’s begging for a hitman with pigtails.

“She’ll kill you,” Damian warns.

“She can try.”

“The building’s owned by Batman,” Damian adds, rifling through cupboards for anything remotely edible. “He could legally install cameras and watch you twenty-four-seven.”

Jason pauses mid-sip. “…On second thought, maybe I’ll just couch surf at your place.”

Damian shoots him a glare. “Never again.” He sighs, pulling out a bag of bread. “Not after I had a tent on my balcony for an entire week.”

“Tell me about it?” Jason asks, eyes bright with curiosity.

“Why?” Damian mutters, sliding two slices into the toaster. “It was just Stephanie’s usual chaos. Somehow, she roped Timothy and Cassandra into it. I still don’t know how.”

Jason shrugs, and for once, the gesture isn’t cocky—just sincere. “Cass talks about them a lot. I think it helps her cope, remembering them like that.” He snags a piece of bread from the bag before Damian can close it. “I don’t mind hearing it. Feels like I’m getting to know them, in pieces. I think… if I’d met them, we could’ve been friends.”

“Uh huh,” Damian says quietly, his eyes flicking over Jason’s shoulder—where Timothy and Stephanie stand. Not smiling. Not moving. Their arms curl around Jason’s frame like they’re either trying to hold him up… or pull him down.

Jason doesn’t notice.

“You don’t believe me?” he asks, raising a brow, oblivious to the dead behind him. “I’m just a few months older than Cass, and they liked her fine! Plus, I’m technically Tim’s legal brother now, so he’d have to like me.”

“You’re my legal brother now, and I’m mad at you,” Damian retorts, ignoring the flicker of his dead siblings still lingering behind Jason. He closes the bread bag and pops the toast from the toaster. “Also, Father is both my legal and biological parent, and he dispises me.”

Jason juts out his lip, pouting. “Well, you’re just salty, but Tim sounds like a cool guy.”

“He was,” Damian says, surprisingly soft. Because that’s one name he won’t tarnish— not even in jest. “Too cool for you, anyway.”

“You’re such a downer,” Jason groans. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Because you love me and you miss me,” Damian hums as he spreads avocado on his toast. Maps’ teasing must be rubbing off on him. “You were worried about me.”

“Well, I was obviously wrong,” Jason snaps, chucking his half-eaten bread into the toaster like it personally offended him.

Damian walks past him, and the two ghosts peel off Jason like smoke—quiet, seamless, hungry—and follow.

“You know he’s going to die,” Timothy whispers, and it scrapes through Damian’s skull like broken glass.

“He’s not safe with Batman,” Stephanie adds, drifting beside him lazily, hands folded behind her head the same way she used to before she died. “He’s going to fire Jason on a whim. Just like he did me.”

“He’ll get overwhelmed with guilt,” Timothy again, voice lower now. “Cass will keep telling him stories. He’ll start to feel bad for replacing us. And when that guilt catches up—he’ll do something reckless.”

“Jason’s too good of a soul to stop saving people,” Stephanie murmurs, now in front of Damian. Her presence pulls him forward—and suddenly, he’s in the bathroom. In front of the mirror. “He’ll go out anyway. Try to prove he’s a hero. To himself. To Bruce.”

Damian sees himself reflected faintly through her translucent form. He looks exhausted.

“You know what happens to heroes,” they say in unison.

Timothy’s mouth stretches—too wide, splitting at the corners. Blood pours down his chin. Stephanie’s joints twist at impossible angles, bruises blooming, skin tearing like paper. A horror show in silence. A prophecy in gore.

“Damian?”

Jason’s voice cuts through the fog. Damian startles, blinking. The ghosts disappear into the corners of his vision, vanishing like smoke as he turns to his youngest brother.

“You okay? I was calling you, but you didn’t hear me.”

“Fine,” Damian coughs—too fast, too brittle to be believable. “I think I’m just riding out the last bit of fear toxin.”

“Oh.” Jason stiffens, tension crawling into his shoulders like an old memory. He’s dealt with Crane’s work before. “Do you… need anything?”

“No.” Damian shakes his head. “Did you?”

“Dinner’s soon,” Jason says after a beat, voice softer now. “Maya wanted me to get you.”

“Okay,” Damian nods. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jason hesitates. “You sure you don’t need anything?”

His hands hover—halfway between offering comfort and pulling back, like he knows he should be doing something but has no idea what.

“No,” Damian says again, firmer this time. “Go to dinner. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Jason leaves. The door clicks shut.

Damian doesn’t move for a moment—just stands there, alone.

Then he slumps onto the toilet seat, buries his head in his hands.

They circle him.

Timothy and Stephanie. Still broken. Still bleeding. Still dead.

“You know what happens to heroes,” Stephanie whispers.

“What happened to me,” Tim adds.

“Jason’s not going to survive,” they chant, voices overlapping, swelling. “He’s too good. Unlike you.”

“The only reason you’re alive is because you’re evil.”

“Did you hear that?”

“You’re evil.”

Their voices fracture. Splinter. Shift.

They become everyone.

Bruce. Talia. Ra’s. Cassandra. Duke. Maya. Suren. Colin. Jon. Maps. Olive. Sin. Emiko. Irey.

Every voice, all at once—accusing, condemning, burying him alive.

“You couldn’t save us—how do you expect to save him?” Stephanie and Tim snarl.

“You’ll never change,” Bruce hisses. “Always a murderer. Always a degenerate.”

“You can’t escape destiny,” Ra’s and Talia scream in unison. “You’ll always come back to the League!”

“You kill people!” Cassandra sobs. “How can you come home when you murder people?”

“You left me when I was fourteen,” Duke yells. “Because you were scared.”

“You are unforgiven, Damian al Ghul!” Maya roars.

“My life would be better if I stayed with my dad!” Suren yells. “Anything is better than being forced to leave home!”

“Scarecrow keeps coming back,” Colin growls. “You lied to me!”

“You killed the Joker,” Jon says softly. Too softly, but it cuts deeper than any scream. “You’ve killed more men than the Joker. You’re a villain.”

“I never should’ve listened to you!” Maps sobs. “Being a vigilante has caused me more pain than happiness!”

“You and Batman have done enough!” Olive cries. “You took my mother away!”

“You and I both got a second chance,” Sin says—quiet, but blistering. “So why do you kill people who deserve the same?”

“I thought we were the same,” Emiko says, voice like a blade. “Turns out your arrogance wasn’t a mask. You’re just selfish.”

“Even though I can think faster than anyone alive,” Irey whispers, halting, broken—

“I still can’t imagine a world where you’re a good person.”

Damian snaps.

“Shut up!” he screams into the void.

The voices stop.

But then—

“You think ignoring your problems will get you anywhere?” Timothy snarls. “Just like you ignored me for a year because you were so egotistical, you thought I replaced you?”

“You love spinning the story to make yourself the victim,” Stephanie hisses. “How is me dying so hard on you, huh? I’m dead. Gone. Because you didn’t have the guts to talk Bruce out of making me Shadow.”

“I said shut up!” Damian howls.

He lifts his head to fight back— to face them—

But the ghosts are gone.

It’s just Maya.

Soft-eyed. Steady. Real.

“Akhi,” she says gently, her voice like cool water. “It’s just me.”

And for a second, it feels like enough.

But then—

“She’s going to die too,” his siblings hiss, slithering into view.

They coil around her, their broken bodies casting shadows over her calm expression.

“You killed her father,” Stephanie sneers.

“What’s stopping you from killing her?” Tim growls.

Their wounds bloom across Maya’s face— Stephanie’s bruises stretch across her cheeks, Tim’s blood seeps down her chin. Her smile doesn’t falter, but it’s not hers anymore.

“Everyone you love dies because of you.”

Damian flinches back when Maya reaches for him.

Her fingers— bent. Twisted. All wrong.

“Damian?” she says, gentle. But her voice warbles, and all he sees is blood spilling from her mouth, dark and endless, every time she speaks.

“See?” Stephanie drawls beside him, her voice low and forked like a snake’s. “She’s dying just being near you.”

“You infect everyone you touch,” Timothy spits, stepping closer, eyes hollow. “Shadow wasn’t the death omen- you are.”

“Damian, I need you to calm down,” Maya says— but her voice is warped, distant. Like he’s underwater. Drowning. Again.

“Maya-” he chokes, eyes wide, chest heaving. “Maya, stop talking- you’re bleeding.”

She stiffens for half a second— but only to turn toward the door.

“Jon!” she shouts. “Jon, I need your help! He’s hallucinating- he’s going to have a panic attack if we don’t do something!”

“Maya!” Damian lunges forward, clamping a hand over her mouth—

But it keeps widening.

Her jaw stretches, unnaturally, like something is prying it open from the inside.

Blood seeps through his fingers, thick and warm, sliding down his palm, smearing across his cheeks.

It clings near his eyes, sticky, blinding.

“Damian!”

Suddenly, Jon is beside Maya— but he isn’t looking at her.

Why isn’t he looking at her?

Why isn’t he saving her?

“Maya-” Damian wheezes, lungs searing like they’ve been punctured. “Jon- save Maya.”

“Maya’s alright,” Jon lies.

Because her body—

Her body is twisting.

Rearranging.

Bones warping into something wrong.

Something monstrous.

“I’m more worried about you,” Jon says. His eyes begin to glow red.

And Damian thinks maybe getting lasered to death wouldn’t be so bad.

But then—

Jon’s head explodes.

Blood splatters across the walls like paint.

Damian screams.

He scrambles backward, only to slam into the cold, unyielding wall.

Stephanie and Timothy inch forward— grotesque, jagged—, their chants like shards of broken glass in his ears.

“You’re the cause of all their suffering!” Timothy snarls.

“The world can’t find peace while you’re alive!” Stephanie shrieks.

“None of this would’ve happened if you’d never existed!”

Their voices crash over him like thunder—

Every word a hammer

Every word a fracture

Every word a blade.

“Shut up!” Damian kicks back Maya’s warped hand—

But then Jon grabs his ankle.

Headless Jon.

“Let go of me!” he shouts, voice cracking with panic.

“Damian!” A voice breaks through— faint and real, above water. Jon again. But his head is gone. How is he talking? “I’m going to knock you out- you’re spiraling!”

“Don’t touch me!” Damian yelps, kicking wildly—

But you can’t fight a Kryptonian based on raw strength alone.

Even a headless one.

Jon pulls him in, and before Damian can get another word in—

Peace.