Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Friday, October 3rd

06:48 AM

The city has been overtaken by a thick fog overnight, as is usual for early mornings in Gotham. Especially during this time of year.

Autumn has arrived early with a creeping, cold presence. It looks like it’s here to stay for a long while yet. At least that’s the rhetoric that Bruce, Pennyworth, Drake, and even all three of Gotham’s weathermen all seem to agree upon. However, Damian would personally push the narrative that Gotham always feels like autumn, regardless of the actual season.

Damian adjusts himself where he sits in the back driver’s side passenger seat of his father’s Mercedes-Benz. There is a strong aroma of faux pine in the vehicle, no doubt originating from the cheap air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.

The twelve-year-old shifts in his seat again, turning his upper torso slightly to the left to have a better view out the window. Although the current weather conditions make it difficult to see anything due to the reduced visibility.

The fog makes the headlights of oncoming traffic cast a rather rough glare upon his corneas, causing him to grimace with each passing car. He turns away from the window with an aggravated sigh, closing his eyes. No matter, it wasn’t like there was anything of note out there anyway.

A phone rings, breaking the silence of the car. Damian looks toward the front passenger seat to watch his so-called “older brother,” Timothy Drake, check the caller ID on his phone. The older boy barely takes a second to contemplate before deciding that whoever is on the other side of the line isn’t worth answering.

Damian takes a second to study his fellow occupants. Father and Drake are both dressed in their usual business casual suits, since they are on their way to Wayne Enterprises for the day. Damian himself is dressed in his stuffy Gotham Academy school uniform, equipped in his Aegean blue blazer, grey slacks, and black dress shoes.

“Damn spam calls…”

Tim mumbles, moving to slide the device back into his front pocket. Bruce only acknowledges the comment with a gentle hum, his right hand’s index finger tapping a steady beat on the steering wheel. Tim reaches over and turns on the car stereo, where a weather and traffic report plays on the radio station at a comfortably medium-low volume.

A few minutes later, Bruce speaks up, thumbing down the volume of the radio from one of the buttons on the steering wheel, which is now broadcasting some kind of sale at a local grocery store.

“Damian.”

The boy in question glances up to meet his father’s steel blue stare in the reflection of the rearview mirror. His Father returns his vision to the road once he confirms that he has his youngest’s attention.

“Yes, father?”

“I need you to promise me that you’ll stop antagonizing your classmates. I do not wish to get another call from your school about your less-than-desirable behavior.”

“Tsk. I have barely done anything that deserves such a scolding–”

“Yes, Damian, you have,” Bruce stresses. “Threatening your peers with bodily harm is something that I– and your Dean of Students– consider an unacceptable behavior that will not be tolerated.”

Ah…

It seems that the incident from last week, where one of Damian’s classmates was acting unruly and disrespectful to their Math teacher, had finally made itself known to his father. Really, there was no need to kick up such a fuss. All Damian did was simply address the troublemaker and advise him that if such interruptions should continue, then there would be consequences in the form of a good lashing.

Whether that be upon the knuckles or the backside is up to the discretion of their educator, of course. Honestly, Damian went out of his way to look out for the miscreant.

Clearly, it did not go over as well as he had hoped.

“If you’re referring to what transpired during Mr. Wilson’s Algebra class last Thursday, then I would like to inform you that I handled the situation as politely as I possibly could.” Damian defended. “Besides, what I said was true.”

“Damian, I hate to be the one to inform you of this,” interjected Drake, not sounding displeased in the slightest. He turned to look back at the younger and, resting his elbow on the center console for leverage, continued, “-Schools don't utilize corporal punishment here in the States anymore. Haven’t since the 1970s, actually.”

Fantastic.

Damian let out a disgruntled “hrmph” while crossing his arms.

It seems that Father informed Drake about the incident as well. Wonderful. Should Damian expect to receive a call and a lecture from Todd later about the incident? One from Richard as well?

“Listen, Damian, I know with your upbringing–” Bruce stops himself short.

A moment of uncomfortable silence weighs between the three of them. Damian unconsciously tenses his shoulders and watches as Drake turns to stare out his window, as if he’s suddenly found something of interest on the roadside worth capturing his attention. Rather unlikely, considering the thick layer of fog still blanketing the city. Damian turns his gaze back to his father’s image in the reflection of the mirror. His father’s once stoic face has now morphed, gaining a slight crease between his strong brows.

It’s not a surprising reaction from his family. Any mention of Damian’s time spent with the League of Assassins tends to have this effect on everyone. Well, on everyone except Damian and Pennyworth, that is. Although while Pennyworth might be able to stand and discuss the League, the butler rarely ever lets the conversation of it continue for long. It’s a bit of a touchy subject.

Bruce lets out an almost inaudible, exhausted sigh before continuing. To the lesser-trained ear, it would’ve gone unnoticed.

“What I mean to say is that it's not up to you to deal with those kinds of situations. Let your teachers deal with it; it’s unnecessary to involve yourself, and it will only cause more problems for you and me later on. Something I know we’d both rather not deal with.” Bruce’s voice takes on a more stern tone. “Promise me you won’t get into another situation like it again.”

“...Yes, Father.”

Damian is most definitely not pouting; that would be absurd and unbecoming for someone of his lineage.

“Yes, what?”

“...Yes, I promise, Father.”

“Good. Thank you.” His father gives a single nod of approval, and the car falls back into silence once again. Now with that conversation out of the way, whatever leftover tension that was present seemed to fade to the back of everyone's minds.

Damian uncrosses his arms from where he still had them folded on his chest to look back out of his window. They were on one of Gotham’s many highway bridges now, though this specific one meant that they would soon be arriving upon the grounds of his Academy’s campus in the next ten to fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.

The fog had slowly begun to take on a hazy, golden hue while Damian wasn’t paying attention to it, announcing that the sun had finally started its rise over this specific time zone. He glances at the wristwatch that Bruce had gifted him (from his father’s personal collection; practically an heirloom in its own right) when he finally agreed to enroll in Gotham Academy, a private school for the children of Gotham’s most elite. Or so they say.

It took many days of discussion and contemplation (actually, it was more like arguments that ended with both parties fuming and Damian being banished to his bedroom for the night) before Damian was inclined (cajoled) to agree.

It’s currently 07:04 am, only twenty-six minutes before the first bell is to ring. Damian scowls. The day hasn’t even started, and he’s already ready for it to end.

…

Bruce turns off the main street and into the school's long, winding drop-off lane, or as some of the other parents and teachers have lovingly referred to it as the “hug and go” lane. It's a rather juvenile nickname, but Damian supposes there is merit to it, since the Academy is technically a kindergarten through twelfth grade. Damian himself has been placed in the seventh grade by his father, so he can “mingle” and interact with children his own age.

Initially, Damian had protested against the grade placement. His knowledge has far surpassed anything this school could possibly hope to teach him. However, when it was brought to his attention by his father that it would be a great cover for his public persona of Damian Wayne, billionaire Bruce Wayne’s youngest child. Now knowing that information, he was more agreeable to it.

The vehicle rolls to a stop as it joins the line of other expensive cars, full of parents and guardians dropping off their students. Groups of children and teens in the same blue and grey uniform slowly make their way into the building, while some stop to wait in groups outside for their peers to join them.

Damian quickly unbuckles and grabs his backpack from where it's resting on the floorboard next to his legs. He exists with a quick parting to both his father and Drake, aiming to make a quick break into the building and into his first class before any of his fellow peers do. Before he can even fully walk around his father's sleek black car, he's stopped in his path as the driver’s side window starts to roll down.

Father and son stare at each other, hazel green to steel blue. Drake is staring too, but Damian ignores him, as usual. His father’s dark hair is loosely brushed back, and there’s a faint hint of a five o’clock shadow that is usually never present. From the look of it, his father is definitely playing up his “Brucie Wayne” persona today.

Bruce ends the staring contest six seconds in, no doubt not wanting to hold up traffic. His father glances at the car still in front of them before turning back to face Damian and leaning a little out the window.

“Damian, I know there is still more you and I need to discuss.” Bruce lowers his voice, and his gaze softens just the slightest. “Topics of a more… sensitive nature. Nevertheless, I see the effort you're making to control and regulate your emotions. I find your efforts commendable.”

A rare, almost warm and fluffy feeling blooms in Damian's chest at his father's praise. He finds himself struggling to fight off an embarrassed flush that threatens to announce itself to the world on his cheeks. It looks like his efforts to hide his reaction weren’t as successful as he’d hoped, as one side of his father’s mouth lifts in a small grin.

The moment is broken when the car in front of them begins to drive off. Damian adjusts the strap of his backpack where it rests on his shoulder.

“Well, we must both be on our ways then. Goodbye, Father.” Reluctantly, he acknowledges his brother in the passenger seat. He’s been doing well so far; he doesn't want to lose his streak now that his father has acknowledged him. “Goodbye, Drake. Safe travels to you both.”

He nods at both occupants before finally rounding the front of the car and walking onto the sidewalk with an even stride. It’s only when he hears a faint yell of “Bye, kid!” from Drake and the unmistakable rumble of his father’s V8 engine drive off that he allows a small smile to ghost over his lips.

…

The day starts as usual and continues on the same as any other day in this poor excuse of a school. Damian starts his day in his English Composition class, where they have begun work on writing rhetorical essays. A style of writing Damian already knows and has mastered. Next is his general science class, though now that it’s October, they’ve started their chemistry unit. Another field of study in which Damian excels.

Lunch time, on the other hand, is another thing entirely. Damian has no friends or acquaintances, which is of no bother to him. Some people wish to approach him; however, most seem content to keep him at a distance. Whether to admire him or to avoid him, it doesn't matter. Damian appreciates his solitude all the same.

Damian spends his lunch block not in the cafeteria, but in the upstairs library. His usual spot is hidden behind the rows of the nonfiction collection. The table is small, but placed tangent to a medium-sized window that looks out onto the east side of campus, where he has an excellent view of the rows of many deciduous trees that line the sidewalks.

The boy finishes his meal quickly, a veggie and hummus wrap today, courtesy of Alfred. Usually, with whatever amount of time he has left, he either gets a head start on his schoolwork or sketches in his sketchbook. Today, he starts an observational fishbowl perspective sketch of his surroundings from where he sits.

After lunch, Damian has his algebra class with Mr. Wilson, as well as his annoying clown of a classmate. Luckily, ever since Damian’s… intervention a week ago, there have been no further acts of tomfoolery. Today’s class is no different. Though Mr. Wilson has sent more confused–or rather, concerned glances his way. Damian simply ignores them.

The last class of the day is interchangeable. Depending on the day of the week, it's either a Physical Education class or a Fine Arts class. Today is an A-day schedule, which means that Damian heads towards the art studio wing instead of the gymnasium locker rooms. It should go without saying that his Fine Art class is his favorite. Partly since his art teacher, Mrs. Mendoza, has a rather calm demeanor, and is one of the few adults who seem to treat him as an equal.

Damian is the first to arrive at the art studio, as he does every A day. However, the door to the room is closed. Typically, Mrs. Mendoza keeps it propped open all day. Damian instinctively feels suspicious. It's an unfortunately common reaction, considering he’s a vigilante of Gotham. He fights it down and only allows himself a single second of hesitation before turning the door handle and stepping inside.

He freezes a step past the doorway.

In the front of the room, next to the big desk reserved for their teacher, stands not Mrs. Mendoza, but instead a middle-aged man.

The stranger is most likely in his late mid to late thirties, near the same age as Damian’s father, and as tall as him too, though with a lithe build. He has wavy, medium-length, midnight black hair that's brushed in a professional side part. It’s paired with a neatly trimmed beard.

The man is currently leaning on the desk and flipping through a three-ring binder labeled “Semester Project”.

The door makes a sudden sound in the room's silence as it closes, catching the stranger's attention.

Bright amber eyes stare into Damian’s hazel.

“You’re not Mrs. Mendoza.”

Damian didn’t mean for it to come out like an accusation, but it certainly sounded like one.

The man lifts a strong eyebrow and lets an almost mischievous grin overtake his face.

“No, I most certainly am not.”

The stranger agrees evenly, his voice a low timbre and his accent distinctively Irish. He closes the open binder in his hands with a loud Thwap! and straightens into a relaxed stance from where he was once leaning.

“Your instructor is out on maternity leave, so I'm here from across the pond on assignment as your substitute.” The man’s grin has yet to leave his face. “The names’ Cillian Doyle. Though I suppose Mr. Doyle will do, considering proper protocol and manners, n’all.” Mr. Doyle rolls his eyes, almost like he’d prefer not to be referred to by his last name.

“Damian Wayne.” Damian offers his own introduction, a bit reluctantly.

Doyle’s grin seems to widen even more, most likely recognizing Damian’s name in connection to his father’s, and the boy’s frown deepens in response.

There’s something odd about this man.

…

Damian sits at his assigned table in the front right corner of the classroom. On the table top rest his art supplies and his current project. He’s experimenting with charcoal for his current piece, as it's one of his lesser-used mediums. He’s still in the planning stages, so he’s mainly sketching out a couple of ideas in his class sketchbook.

Two other students sit at his table, though they both spend their time silently focusing on their own pieces and listening to music on their smartphones. Their table isn't one for conversation, unlike the five other tables in the room filled with chatty children.

Damian usually would join his fellow seatmates and put in his earbuds to listen to his own carefully cultivated playlist, but he is unable to, as he’d much rather have all his senses unhindered to observe his new “substitute” teacher.

The Irishman is walking around the classroom, slowly making his way to each table and discussing with each student their current and past projects. He speaks to each individual with a calm ease, sort of similar to how Grayson addresses others, in a way that is disarmingly kind and unsuspecting.

At first, Damian was suspicious of the man, though he couldn’t say he had a good enough reason to be, other than the odd feeling, of course. He thought for sure that when Doyle recognized his name, the man would immediately begin pestering him about his family ties. So far, with thirty minutes left of class, the man hasn’t approached him since he first walked in.

Now, though, the man doesn't seem all that off at all. In fact, other than him being Irish and a new teacher at the academy, Damian would even go as far as to say that he’s as normal as a regular person could seem to be.

Still…

Damian thinks as he refocuses his attention back on his current vague sketch of a crow.

Being too “normal” in Gotham can often mean you’re anything but “normal”...

“Quite the lovely préachán you've sketched there, Damian.”

The twelve-year-old startles, whipping his head around to see Doyle standing right behind him, slightly leaning over him to look at his sketch over his shoulder. Damian grits his teeth and tries to bury the sudden onslaught of adrenaline that courses through his system from the scare. He narrows his eyes, suspicious once again.

How was he able to sneak up behind him without Damian noticing?

“...Pardon?” Damian bites out the question.

Doyle takes a moment longer to observe the graphite depiction of a crow before turning his attention back to the folder he holds in his hands. It’s labeled with Damian’s name and the current block his class is in.

Doyle lets out a little hum. His annoying, mischievous grin back in place.

“Hmm? Oh, préachán? It's Irish for Crow, though really it can mean any bird of prey.”

Doyle stops flipping through Damian’s artwork that he’s already submitted, pulling out a watercolor piece Damian did a couple of weeks ago of a blue jay and a robin resting in a bush. The Irishman’s gaze slowly turns to Damian’s, grin morphing into a smile.

“You seem to enjoy studying birds, as your art history proves,” Doyle states regarding Damian’s past projects stacked neatly in the folder in the man’s hands. He places the painting on the tabletop next to Damian's sketchbook.

“The blue jay is exceptional; the proportions, linework, and color gradient. It’s phenomenal. But the robin…” Doyle trails off, his finger ghosting over the robin from its head to its talons. “The robin is truly perfect, not one mistake, and I dare not praise just anyone so highly. I dare say you have a unique affinity for capturing the beauty of such creatures.”

To regular people, it might sound as if Damian is receiving high praise for his exemplary art skills, but Damian is far from regular.

No, he has ears that have been trained and honed by the likes of the League of Assassins and the Batman; comprehending the hidden meanings of things is something that is expected of him. A feat he excels at. This conversation right here is a blaring red sign that Doyle knows something. Something about Damian himself? Something about Robin?

Or worse, the connection between the two.

Damian watches, shoulders tense, as Doyle slowly lifts the painting of the two birds. He tracks the movement with his eyes as Doyle slips it into place in the open folder.

Damian pivots in his chair, slowly, almost unnoticeably. He really doesn't want to have to do this here, at his school, but if this man knows something, then he has to be ready for anything.

Doyle snaps the folder shut quickly, as if picking up on Damian’s well-concealed unease. They make eye contact, and Damian swears that Doyle's amber eyes flash yellow. The man’s grin drops suddenly, morphing into a frown so slight it could be easily overlooked by the less observant. Once more, the amber eyes flash yellow and Damian… he…

Damian blinks.

The tension bleeds out of him, as if it was never there. He can’t quite remember what his train of thought was leading to, or even where it came from.

What... What were they talking about again?

Damian turns back and looks down at the sketch of the crow in his notebook. Oh, yes. The crow.

“Yes, well. It's just a rough idea for now. I’ll have to see if it's anything worth expanding upon yet.” Damian responds, but somehow, that doesn't seem like it was the right response… to whatever Doyle must’ve asked him… Damian can’t exactly recall.

He faces Doyle again, wondering if the man was as confused as he felt, but the man simply nodded along to his words.

“Well, if you need anyone to bounce any ideas off, I’m always here.” Was the man’s simple response.

Doyle tipped an imaginary hat at him before moving on to one of his tablemates. Damian stared after him for a second longer before returning to work on his sketch, brushing off whatever… whatever happened. Clearly, if he was unable to remember, it was of little importance.

…

Although Bruce (and Drake) had been the ones to drop Damian off at the Academy while on their way to Wayne Enterprises that morning, it was Alfred who came to collect him at the end of the school day

And, as is typical, Alfred arrives exactly on time. Damian spends little to no time loitering on campus after the last bell tolls. Pennyworth is by far the most punctual member of the family.

From the Academy, they go straight home to the manor. Once they arrive, the butler convinces Damian of an afternoon snack of sliced carrots and cucumbers before the young boy departs for his room to continue his schoolwork. So, without further ado, Damian enjoys his vegetable tray and engages Pennyworth in mindless chatter about the day's events while the butler busies himself with sorting the mail across from him at the dining table.

“Thank you, Pennyworth,” Damian announces, getting up from his seat. He grabs his backpack that was next to him on the floor. “I will be in my bedroom until further notice.”

Alfred responds with a single affirmative nod, “Very well, young master Damian. Should you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

Once in his room, with Titus and Alfred the Cat of course, Damian changes out of his uniform into more comfortable clothes. He showers his pets with equal amounts of attention and affection before spending the next couple of hours working on his algebra homework and finalizing the first draft of his rhetorical essay.

When it’s time for dinner, Alfred surprisingly brings it up to his room instead of calling him down to the dining room. The butler informs him that Father and Drake, while on their way home, will arrive too late to join them. Damian tries not to let his disappointment show outwardly as he graciously accepts his meal from the butler. Pennyworth has keen senses, so he doubts he was truly successful.

Pathetic, there is absolutely no reason why he should feel disappointed. He’s not a child; he’s far too old to be even remotely upset that his father and older brother will miss a singular dinner with him.

Damian sits back down at his desk, quickly finishes his dinner, returns to his school work, and does what he was trained to do since long before he arrived here in Gotham.

He forces that childish and unwelcome feeling down as deeply as he can, till he can’t feel anything at all.

…

The overwhelming darkness of night has finally and truly settled over Gotham, and with it, Batman, Red Robin, and Robin take to the city's diminished streets, alleyways, and rooftops.

They’ve split up. An action that Father hardly ever allows. At least, concerning patrols where Damian is in attendance, that is.

There have been no new movements on any of the active cases they’ve been following, and there has also been a welcome lull in citywide crime for the last week or two. That’s not to say that crime hasn’t stopped completely, of course. After all, there's never any rest for the wicked.

Damian crouches on a rooftop with his hood drawn up over his head. He peers out over an empty alley littered with overturned bins of rubbish and graffiti on either side. He looks at his high-tech wrist watch, which he only wears out for patrols. It's currently:

Saturday, October 4th

01:48 AM

Damian scowls. It's been about three hours since the group of vigilantes split off on their own. Three hours since the patrol started, and yet, Damian has yet to encounter any crime or altercation anywhere.

It looks like it's just been him who's had bad luck—or good luck, depending on the perspective. Over the comms, he’s heard that both Batman and Red Robin have been relatively busy with the odd few muggings and convenience store robberies in their own respective jurisdictions.

“Robin, it's been an hour. Report”

Comes the gruff, low voice of Father, the Batman, through his earpiece.

Damian grits his teeth, his face flushing. He’s not sure if the action is done in embarrassment, as he has nothing to report, or in frustration, that it has not been a full hour yet, and Batman is calling after him like he’s some unsupervised minor. Does his father not trust him for a full sixty minutes with no contact?

Damian takes a slow, measured breath.

He’s been good.

He will not lash out in frustration; he will not start an argument that he will lose. He will continue to be good.

So, he swallows his irritation and brings up a hand to his ear to respond.

“Still nothing yet.”

Silence.

The audio crackles a half second before his father’s voice carries over the frequency.

“Alright, we have two more hours before patrol ends. We’ll meet back up at the agreed rendezvous point.”

Another beat of silence. “Remember to report your status every hour. Update us if anything happens.” There’s no comment from Drake.

Damian lets out a long, exhausted groan.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good.”

The line cuts out.

Of course, his father wouldn’t really trust him with a solo patrol. After everything they’ve been through, after everything that's happened, you’d think that there would be more trust between them. It's always two steps forward and three steps back.

“Clack, Clack”

Damian freezes at the sound. He calms his breathing, moving all of his focus to his sense of hearing.

“Clack, Clack”

There it goes again.

Damian frowns, his brows pinching in concentration. It sounds like the hooves of a goat or a horse striking the pavement. That can’t be right, though. Damian isn’t too close to the city's parks, near the heart of Old Gotham. He’s nowhere near the Gotham City Zoo either.

The sound gets closer and closer, till–

There!

A large shadow passes by the entrance of the alley, and it's definitely the silhouette of a horse. How odd. Damian grins triumphantly.

Finally! Now his night isn’t as much of a waste as he thought.

Damian trails after the horse at a distance as it turns into the city park and heads deeper into the thick groupings of trees.

It’s a large, sturdy stallion. It's certainly not a police horse. Its entire coloring is a midnight black, with a long and wild mane and feathering hooves. There’s no saddle or bridle.

It marches deeper into the woods of the park, and the grand animal finally stops near a small pond.

The horse suddenly conducts a fast spin to face where Damian is hiding in the canopy of one of the surrounding trees, as if sensing the human’s presence. Its yellow eyes seem to glow from the reflection of the street lights that line the many walking paths. The young vigilante’s eyes narrow behind his domino mask. The beast has an impeccable sense of awareness.

Since he’s been caught, Damian doesn’t see why he must hide out of sight any longer. He drops down from the thick branch he was crouched upon and slowly begins to approach the equine with his hands up and palms facing out in a disarming motion.

Though it seems unnecessary, as the horse just gives a lazy swish of its tail and almost saunters to meet Damian halfway in the middle of the small meadow.

“What’s a beast like you doing, roaming the city all alone at night?” He whispers, running a hand to pet and pat the stallion’s strong neck.

The horse, which looks to be a kind of draft breed, simply flips an ear in response, but its eyes never leave Damian’s. The stallion is observing Damian just as much as Damian is observing him.

“Come on, boy. Let's get you back to…” Damian hesitates, suddenly unsure of himself. “... wherever your home is.”

Horses have a remarkable homing instinct, so this shouldn’t be too difficult. All that needs to be done now is to make a makeshift bridle, and they can get on their way. Damian is rather intrigued to see exactly where the stallion's home is, and how it managed to get as deep into Gotham as it did, unnoticed.

He pulls out a short six-foot rope from his utility belt and begins to tie it into multiple intricate knots, until it looks almost similar to a bridle. When he approaches, the draft tilts its head up and turns away. Each time Damian makes a pass to place it on the beast (standing on his tippy-toes), it dances out of the way.

The draft lets out a soft nickering sound, as if it's a funny little game they're playing.

After about five minutes of this nonsense, Damian gives up. He forcefully throws the rope on the ground with a frustrated huff and folds his arms, glaring daggers at the large animals.

Seeing the rope on the ground, the stallion approaches Damian again and turns so its flank is facing the boy. The horse motions with its head, quick nods, as if telling the boy to hop on.

Damian raises a twitching eyebrow.

“Well, if that's what you wanted, you should’ve made it known beforehand.” He grumbles out, though not really feeling upset. Though they can be unruly and annoying, Damian could never stay irritated at any animal for long.

He places both hands up on the creature's back, and right before he goes to jump, the horse bends down one knee, as if making fun of Damian’s height. The boy huffs an amused breath despite himself and swings up onto the beast.

The second that Damian settles himself, the stallion rears up unexpectedly with a loud squealing sound, leaving its passenger to scramble for purchase, small hands grasping the horse’s wild mane in a tight hold. If he were able to see the animal’s eyes, he’d have seen them shine a vibrant and familiar gold.

Damian has no time to gasp or even make any sort of noise at all. The front legs of the horse come down swiftly, sending a shockwave through his body. Almost instantly, the animal's hind legs thrust up in a high kick. Damian would’ve fallen off if he hadn’t tensed his thigh muscles behind the horse's shoulders.

The rude thing!

Damian screams internally as the draft horse begins to spin, kick, and rear. Like it was a lithe saddle bronc horse similar to the ones in those horrific rodeo videos he’s seen. It tricked me!

Yet, despite himself, Damian begins to… laugh?

It's not possible, he’s usually too composed, but… he is.

He’s laughing.

It's a quiet, unsuspecting thing at first. It comes out hidden in gasps of air, and before Damain knows it, he’s laughing like a foolish child.

A buck here, a turn there, a couple of jumps, and then the stallion does some odd combination of all three, and Damian laughs harder with it. He’s overcome with a weird, enjoyable adrenaline rush. The beast neighs, like it's laughing along with Damian.

Then, the draft jumps impossibly high, almost higher than the tallest of trees in the park. Damian chokes on his laugh from the shock of it. Such a leap should be impossible for a normal horse, especially a stocky draft like the one he’s currently clinging to.

The twelve-year-old has no time to continue that thought, though. Suddenly, the horse is kicking his hind legs up, almost at a ninety-degree angle, and Damian is falling fast into the cold pond with a loud “Splash!”.

When Damian resurfaces, there's no sign of it. Not even a trace of a hoof print. The earth bears no sign of disturbance. He scrambles out of the pond, only slightly slowed by the waterlogged weight of his soaked uniform, his head pivoting left and right.

Where is it? Where could it have gone!?

There’s a sudden twinge of pain right at Damian’s temple. He brings his hand up to cradle the side of his head.

Where is… where was…

What was he looking for again?

The pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Damian blinks, looking around in confusion. Why is he in the park?

A cold breeze rustles the trees, and Damian shivers. His attention is directed to his soaked uniform. Damian frowns, pulling his wet cloak tighter around himself, as if it will do anything to ward off the creeping cold. Had he fallen into the pond?

He must’ve, somehow.

A muffled thud sounds behind him, and he turns sharply at the noise, taking a fighting stance.

“Robin.”

Damian immediately relaxes at the sight of Batman emerging from the shadows of the trees. However, as the Dark Knight moves towards him, Damian registers the aura of agitation that appears to surround the man.

“It's been two hours, patrol is over. None of us has been able to reach you.”

His father stalks closer to loom over Damian’s shivering form. Damian stills—as much as he can with his involuntary shivering—and sure enough, scrawled on his watch face is the time:

04:04 AM

The Batman shroud and cloak create an unsettling appearance. His father’s voice is a barely contained growl as he continues.

“Where have you been?”

.

.

.

On the outskirts of the park, unnoticed by both father and son, rests an observer in an Eastern Hemlock tree.

An owl with gleaming yellow eyes of molten gold.

Chapter Text

Saturday, October 4th

05:46 AM

The foggy weather that had dissipated yesterday afternoon has since returned, only it’s condensed into a proper thunderstorm.

Damian heard the raindrops splatter against the old glass panes as he lay curled beneath his thick quilted comforter. Lightning strikes somewhere in the city, the bright light from it illuminating his room for just a fraction of a second. Thunder rumbles faintly mere moments later.

Damian should really try harder to get some sleep. After all, the sun will rise in the next two hours or so, and with it comes the realization that he’ll have been up for a full twenty-four hours.

He’s been awake for far longer periods of time while completing physically and mentally draining tasks. It was just part of his routine back in the League of Assassins. Now, however, spending twenty-four hours awake while living with his father is a completely different story.

Simply put, if a task is unnecessary, then there is no need to prioritize it.

This is a new rule that both his father and Pennyworth thought up; it can apply to more situations than just his less-than-stellar sleeping habits. In this particular situation, if he doesn't need to stay awake, then he shouldn’t.

Now that Damian is actively thinking about it, his father’s house has lots of rules that are vague and indefinite.

It’s all rather frustrating. It gets him into more trouble than he usually would get into. He’s not even trying to test boundaries most of the time when he missteps. He just does.

For the past couple of months, Damian had been doing better. He’s been much nicer to his annoying and disreputable brothers—most notably, Timothy Drake. He’d been better at following his father’s directions without complaint, and efficiently at that, too.

He’s less volatile during patrol—taking a more supportive role—though everyone knows how much he resents the change. He’d even agreed to enroll in Gotham Academy and had been going to class every day consistently since the start of the school year.

Sure, he hasn't joined any clubs or sports teams, but only because he’s certain it would interfere with his perfectly organized schedule.

That’s why, for the life of him, he doesn't know what went wrong during the last few hours of patrol. Or even the events that had transpired.

When he was confronted in the city park, there was nothing he could say to justify his radio silence. No plausible explanation would come to mind.

All he could do was glare at the whites of the Batman cowl and shiver, the chattering of his teeth being his only response.

If there’s one thing that Batman will never be, it's cruel. Especially to the people the Bat considers his closest.

It should come as no surprise that his father simply moved to wrap his cloak around the shivering Robin.

To Damian, who is still unused to any form of affection—no matter how grand or small—it was surprising enough to still his full body trembling. The moment didn’t last long before another breeze swept through the trees, and what felt like Damian’s very core. His shivering returned with a vengeance.

His father had let out a weary breath before using both arms to wrap around the boy’s shoulders and pull him flush to his chest; the fabric of his cloak clutched in each fist.

Damian’s cheek was squished against his father's torso, no doubt leaving a damp spot. He should be embarrassed and demanding to be let go, but the heat emitting from his father’s hold was so soothing. He couldn’t scrounge up the energy.

You can hardly blame him; it's 42 degrees Fahrenheit, but the wind, the wet state of his uniform, and the humidity make it so that it feels like it's well below freezing.

Before he can even comprehend his actions, he’s snuggling in closer to his father, and he can’t even find it in him to care.

“What's this? Is that a ‘Robin-Burrito’ I spy? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Drake's mocking tone emerges from the shadows of a maple tree. Damian turns to retort, a snarl on his lips, when he’s stopped in the middle of the motion by his father. A strong hand firmly but gently presses him back into his father's warmth.

“Enough, let’s get back to the Batcave. We can discuss this more later when Robin’s somewhere warm and dry.”

His father’s voice rumbles above him, cutting the ensuing argument before it could even start. Damian hears the words through the vibrations from where

“Hold on—” Drake pauses midstep. “How’d he get wet? Did he fall into the pond?”

Drake stares at Damian's form, still bundled up in the cloak. The older teen’s expression morphed from an amused grin into a quizzical expression. Drake’s head tilts just the slightest, and the white lenses of his domino mask narrow in observation.

“Yeah, okay. Robin looks like he’s one wrong step away from hypothermia.”

Damian sends his brother a weak glare, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows his brother is right. His skin feels like it's been stabbed with thousands of needles, and his sudden fatigue and memory loss all point to early symptoms of hypothermia. Only, for some reason, he has this inkling of doubt that his memory loss and his developing hypothermia are connected.

Damian barely manages a grumbled, “Fine,” before his father scoops him up and cradles him like a toddler. The quick movement leaves him dizzy with a blurring head rush.

The next thing he knows, he’s settled on his father’s lap in the passenger seat of the Batmobile while Drake is speeding through the nighttime city traffic.

When they had arrived at the Batcave, Damian was swiftly changed out of his damp uniform and into warmer clothes. A cup of warm tea was all but forced into his hands, courtesy of Pennyworth.

Next was a quick medical scan, done by the butler, and everyone was given the “all good” for good health.

After all their uniforms and equipment were mended and put away, it was finally time for the dreaded interrogation.

It was much shorter than what Damian was expecting.

Damian perched on the examination table, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His father stood in front of him with a stern gaze, his arms crossed. Drake was doing something or another on the Batcomputer, though Damian could tell that most of his brother’s focus was on the two of them. Every so often, Drake would glance at them from the corner of his eye.

“Well?” Bruce curls an eyebrow, drawing Damian’s attention.

The boy tried to recall a timeline of events. He remembers crouching on the rooftop of a building and checking in with the others sometime around two o’clock in the morning. Something had caught his attention, and he followed whatever it was into the park.

Then…

Then he was dragging himself out of the pond, and two hours had somehow passed.

Something had to have happened in the time between. It’s only a twenty-minute walk from that alleyway to the park, which means that there’s an hour and forty minutes he has no recollection of.

It’s also of no help that every time he tries to focus on that missing segment of memory, he’s suddenly following another trail of thought altogether, like something is forcibly intervening with his mind to distract him.

Damian was startled out of his thoughts by the feeling of his father’s fingers ghosting through the hair above his ear. He hadn’t registered his father’s close proximity.

“I...” Damian starts, his voice trailing off in uncertainty. He meets his father’s steady gaze, and the words come flowing out like he’s under a trance.

“I heard a noise in the alleyway and followed it to the city park. It was a group of teens who looked like they were affiliated with a local gang, so I watched them from the safety of the trees. It was a little more than an hour before I deduced from their conversation that they had no affiliation with any gang and were more concerned with discussing the many activities they could do while under the influence of marijuana.”

Bruce narrows his eyes and lets out a contemplative “hmm”.

Drake lets out a snort at his words, but he ignores him. He has more important things to focus on, like how Damian’s words weren’t really his words at all.

It’s a weird and rather uncomfortable feeling.

There’s a saying that some people speak too soon, say things before they think. That’s not really how it works, though. People say things before they can think twice, sending half-baked thoughts loose into the world, uncaring of the consequences that may follow.

Damian has done that and reaped the consequences more than he’d like to admit.

However, you still think and piece together those words before you say them, and he’s not thinking anything at all.

Well, that would be a lie.

What he is thinking is: What am I saying? None of this happened. I don’t even know what happened, so why am I saying these things?

…What’s happening to me…?

It's actually quite a disconnected and horrible feeling, speaking someone else’s words.

Against Damian’s wishes, he continues. “I was within earshot, so I had to wait until they parted ways before I could update you over the comms. When they did, it was around 03:56 am, and I had planned to make contact with you when I made my way to the ground. However, I had miscalculated the location of the pond and accidentally fell in.”

Damian lowers his head against his will in what appears to be an action of remorse.

Whatever is compelling him to lie to his father’s face seems to also have the ability to control his voluntary muscle movements. Oh, he does not like that.

“I apologize, Father. I will aim to do better next time so as not to repeat the same mistakes.”

With those last words, it's like a string snapped from somewhere within his mind, and suddenly his body is his own again.

He snapped his head back up to tell his father to disregard everything he just heard. To tell him that there is something wrong with him, something wrong with his mind, but he’s stopped by the look on his father’s face.

There’s a glint of light in his father’s blue eyes. His brows have softened from the suspicious furrow into a slightly mirthful quirk.

His gaze shoots to Drake next, who has turned his head completely away from the two of them and is muffling his snickers into the palm of a hand.

They’re amused.

They find this terrifying thing that's happening to him amusing.

And he can’t even correct them.

“Well, I’m glad to see that nothing too terrible happened. Aside from the unfortunate dip in the pond.” All signs of amusement disappear from Bruce’s face when he continues.

“You should have made contact through the comms before you started tracking them. I’ll let you off just this once since it turned out to be nothing, but there won’t be a next time, understand? You must communicate information properly; it could be the difference between life and death.”

Damian gazes down at his hands and nods in solemn affirmation, if only to move on from this scolding faster. He forces out a terse “Yes, Father” as well, for added effect.

Bruce gives a single nod in return and places a heavy hand on Damian’s shoulder.

“Now, I think it’s about time you went to bed.”

That was a little more than an hour ago.

Damian rolls over, agitating Alfred the Cat enough that the feline gets up from where he was resting at the foot of Damian’s bed. Luckily, the cat doesn’t move far, just simply stretches and curls back into a ball on the other side of the bed. Damian still mumbles a quiet apology.

This memory loss situation is obviously something he’ll have to investigate and deal with on his own. Who or what has enchanted him—because it’s very obviously an enchantment—has made it so he is unable to talk or make any mention of it to anyone else. Which, unfortunately, will make this investigation difficult, but he’ll make do.

He’s faced worse alone. This would be no different.

He’s experienced mental tampering before—dreamwalkers, toxins, hypnotics. But this... this was clean, and without a doubt, Magic.

Damian sighs, blinking his eyes closed. Perhaps, when he’s well rested, he’ll have a better time wrangling his memory…

Just before Damian can ease himself into a light slumber, he’s brought back to wakefulness by a sharp series of taps on the window pane.

He sits up quickly, listening as the taps start once again. They’re too sharp to be raindrops, and too consistent to be hail or sleet. Damian slowly stands up from his bed and quietly moves to the closed curtains of his window.

He peeks through the small slit between the fabrics, but is unable to see anything. The taps sound again, and Damian swiftly throws open the curtains, intent on catching whatever it is making the noise in the act.

An owl sits on the ledge of his window. It makes a loud screeching noise, obviously startled by the quick movement from Damian opening the curtains. It raises its wings in an attempt to appear larger and more threatening, exposing its body and legs.

Yet it doesn't fly away.

Damian stares at the creature, and the owl stares back. It has a startled sort of look in its bright golden eyes, though it does lower its wings back into a more relaxed stance. It’s a long-eared owl, though not foreign to Gotham—or even New Jersey; it’s definitely one of the more uncommon species of owl to see.

It has a beautiful mix of grey, brown, and white feathers, with most of its copper coloring making up the main part of its facial disc. There are two long, feathered “ears” that protrude from the top of its head, breaking the harsh outline of its silhouette, aiding in its camouflaging capabilities.

Its startled expression fades away. Its pupils begin contracting and dilating frequently, in what Damian can only assume to be its attempt to analyze him. It twitches its head side to side while continuing to maintain eye contact.

Whatever it seems to have seen in Damian’s expression and body language settles it down for good, and it lets out a soft call, as if in greeting.

Damian gently opens the latch on his window, opening the glass pane just enough to slide his arm out with his index finger extended. Luckily, the motion doesn’t startle the bird away. In fact, it steps sideways to get closer to his hand.

Damian holds his breath in fascination as the owl lifts a taloned foot and gently wraps it around his finger, as if trying not to hurt him.

The owl gives his hand a good three tugs—like a handshake—before its eyes flash a bright gold. Damian exhales, and the bird flies off silently into the night.

He brings his arm back inside and relatches the window closed, before turning back to his bed. His sleeve is now splattered with rain, but it’s hardly of any bother to him.

He goes to sleep that night and dreams of a rolling mist over never-ending green hills and pastures. Later in the day, when he wakes, he’ll only have the faintest memory of the owl. By the time he has finished dressing and grooming himself so that he is presentable, that faint wisp of memory will quietly hide itself away in the deepest corners of his mind.

The only proof that the encounter had even taken place at all is the small grey and white feather nudged haphazardly in the windowsill.

…

Saturday, October 4th

Some time in the Afternoon.

The sun, having passed its zenith, had begun its slow descent toward the horizon. Damian sat at a table in the manor’s study, staring out the window in quiet contemplation. Every so often, a breeze drifted in through the open window, rustling the curtains and stirring his hair. A faint scent of decaying leaves always followed.

The grounds below were a tapestry of seasonal color—tall Eastern White Pines formed a stately barrier along the perimeter, their deep green needles softening the edges of security fencing beyond. Behind them stretched rows of maples and birches in rich hues of red, orange, and gold. Some trees had already begun shedding leaves, their branches half-bare after last night’s storm.

It had stopped raining an hour or so after Damian had finished his breakfast, and had since returned to a dissipating fog.

He ate his meal alone again, with only Pennyworth as his company. Both Drake and his father had yet to awaken, and understandably so, considering it was around 10:30 a.m. when Damian had made his way into the dining room. Usually, after patrols, everyone sleeps in until noon. Today is no different.

After breakfast, he returned to his room to gather the rest of his homework. He usually isolates himself at his desk when he wishes to focus, but today he found himself in want of a change in scenery.

Which is what brought him here, to this room.

Damian had finished his remaining homework, an algebra packet from Mr. Wilson, right before lunch. He had just slipped it into his math folder when Pennyworth appeared in the room, tray in hand. The butler had been kind enough to bring him some cucumber sandwiches, so as not to interrupt his concentration.

They had taken tea together with their lunch, a particularly robust blend of Earl Grey with strong notes of lavender, before the butler took his leave to attend to other matters.

Now that his assignments were complete, he had time to kill before patrol later.

When he was browsing the shelves, index finger sliding over the spines of each book he passed by, he remembered a recommendation he had received from Todd some weeks ago. Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

It took more time to find than he was expecting, but he found it nestled on the bottom of one of the bookshelves, the farthest away from the door. It was the only shelf covered in a thin layer of dust. Clearly, no one had touched this section in some time.

He collected it and brought it back to his seat. It was an older copy and well-worn. The spine was cracked, and the pages showed signs of some distress and were yellowing. When he opened the cover, he was greeted with the script of the previous owner's name, written in a surprisingly elegant cursive:

Property of Jason Todd.

Oh.

Damian’s breath catches in his chest.

This recommendation was a bit more… personal than Damian was expecting. He had run his pointer finger along the looping words.

There was once a time when Damian and Todd couldn’t stand each other, very similar to how his relationship with Drake was (or still is? He doesn’t quite know; he’s been told these things take time). It has been a long two years, and lots of events have taken place since then.

He knows he's changed—somewhat—but still wonders if it's enough. Enough to be trusted with something personal. Especially something from Todd’s past here, in the manor.

The rock in his stomach felt like it was growing larger the longer he spent on that train of thought. A feeling he decided he would rather do without–lest one soon develop in his throat.

So without further ado, he turned to page one and began to read.

…

Damian had only made it partway through the second chapter of the book when he felt a quiet presence enter the room.

It was a familiar, bothersome presence, so he was hardly alarmed. He felt his eyebrow twitch in response to his growing annoyance. If he were to turn around in his seat, he knew he’d see Drake standing awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for his acknowledgement.

Another breeze ruffles the curtains as Damian turns the page to continue reading. If Drake wants his attention, he’ll have to announce his own arrival.

“Ahem.”

Damian snaps the book closed with gentle force, but still refuses to turn to Drake. Instead, he chooses to gaze out the window. A few gold and ruby leaves stir and fall off their branches, only to land upon the damp earth. Others are caught and carried off in the wind. The sun has lowered even more, its rays shining through the remaining wisps of mist, and the rustling tree canopies.

He hears Drake sigh behind him.

“I haven’t seen you all day, and of course, when I do, you’re grumpy.”

Damian folds his arms and sits even straighter in his chair, refusing to fall for the bait.

“My mood is far from ‘grumpy’, Drake, though with your arrival, who knows how long that will remain true. Besides, it’s only proper manners for someone to announce their arrival.”

There’s a pause behind him, and then there’s the sound of footsteps approaching him on his right.

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Knock knock, Damian, let me in. No? Too bad, I’m already here.”

Drake walks past him and around the table, placing a steaming mug down on the space right across from him. He doesn't move to take a seat yet, instead choosing to join Damian in observing the outside landscape.

“Looks like the fog is about gone, just in time for more to settle in overnight, knowing Gotham.” Drake quips. Damian only offers a simple “hm” in response.

Drake turns from the window and takes a seat across from the younger boy, blocking most of his view of the outside.

Damian squints at him. It’s not quite the golden hour yet, but the evening sunlight is strong enough that it’s difficult to make out Drake’s features. He watches as the other lifts a box that was nestled in the crook of his shoulder and drops it on the table.

“Now, let’s get to business.”

Unable to control himself, Damian leans forward in his chair, intrigued.

“Found this one in a cute little shop near my university's campus with Steph. Thought it would be perfect for us, with it being the season and all.”

It’s a jigsaw puzzle. A 1,000-piece one.

Damian peers closer, studying the design on the top of the box. The box shows a quiet mountain clearing in the middle of autumn. A small tent sits off to the side, a lantern glowing faintly within. In the center, a campfire burns low, smoke curling into the cool air. Two mugs sit on a nearby tree stump, still steaming, and a plaid blanket is half-pulled from a pack leaning against a log.

The ground is scattered with orange and yellow leaves, and the mountains in the distance are just catching the last light of the setting sun.

Damian gives Drake a satisfied nod in approval. Perfect for the season indeed.

“Alright,” Damian is still unable to discern Drake’s expression, but he swears he can hear the grin hidden in his tone. “We’ve got a couple of hours till Alfred’s done with dinner, but I think we can at least get a good start on it.”

Without further ado, the older teen lifts the lid and spills the contents of the box onto the table.

“Tsk.” Damian clicks his tongue and begins to flip over the pieces closest to him that landed upside down from Drake's heedless pour.

This will be the fourth puzzle they’ve done together in the six months since they started their first one.

It was Richard’s idea, and most likely Pennyworth’s as well. After the whole fiasco that was Damian’s… death and resurrection, as well as his solo journey around the world with his goal to atone for his sins and transgressions (not counting Maya, of course), Damian felt it was finally time to try and make amends with his least favorite brother. Which, mind you, is easier said than done.

So this is what was recommended to him.

At first, Damian was certain that Drake would reject the idea completely without thought. After all, who would want to spend time working on a puzzle with someone who attempted to murder them, not only once but twice? Of course, Drake was going to say no before he could even finish his request.

You could imagine how surprised Damian was when he finally managed to find the time (more like find the courage) to ask Drake if he’d like to work on a puzzle for “teamwork bonding” reasons, and the older boy agreed.

No rejection. No teasing. Just a soft and assured “sure”.

Damian barely had any time to comprehend Drake’s answer before the teen was taking the puzzle from his hands—it was a view of Gotham’s skyscrapers—and marching off to the study. Damian had no choice but to follow behind.

The first puzzle was only 500 pieces, and when they completed it, Pennyworth applied glue to it and placed it on one of the walls in the study.

Pennyworth did that with each one they completed thus far.

Damian takes a glance at the nineteen-year-old sitting across from him. He’s dressed in a cozy maroon sweater. The white collar of an undershirt can faintly be seen under the collar of the sweater.

Another breeze blows in through the window, ruffling Drake’s 90s style middle-part taper fade. Drake shivers and reaches back to slide the window closed until its opening is only three inches wide. Damian hardly minds; it was starting to get a little chilly in here.

The twelve-year-old has to suppress a grin when Drake's reading glasses fog up when he goes to take a sip from his mug of what looks to be tea (judging from the tag hanging from the side of the cup).

Despite his efforts, a huff of a laugh still slips out, causing both boys to pause. Damian quickly looks down when he feels the other’s gaze, focusing on flipping the last of the upside-down pieces.

“Drake,” Damian clears his throat in an attempt to shake off his embarrassment at being caught amused at his brother. “I believe we are ready to move on to establishing the border. After that, we can begin sorting the middle pieces by color and design.”

Drake lifts his mug in mock salute.

Together, they begin sorting through the pieces, and once again, Damian loses himself in his thoughts.

Damian knows that at this point, Drake has most likely forgiven him. After all, how can anyone risk their own life to bring back someone they despise from the dead? Damian will admit, maybe not so vocally, but he’s ashamed of who he was before and what he’s done.

During these last couple of years, he’s been with his father and his father’s family, he’s learned a lot about himself, and none of what he’s found out has been good.

He’s arrogant and violent. He’s brash and quick to anger and lacks compassion. Qualities unbecoming of a hero, a vigilante.

Damian has come to the unfortunate realization that even though he might be his father’s only biological child, he couldn’t be any more different.

Damian glances to where he discarded the book he was reading earlier. Frankenstein. Damian frowns; he’s barely even read through it, but he can already guess Todd’s meaning behind the recommendation.

A science experiment turned into a monster.

And as soaked in blood and sin as Damian feels, he can’t find it within himself to disagree.

Damian lets out a long exhale from his nose, before absentmindedly moving his gaze out the window to watch the sun filter through the rustling golden tree leaves.

Even now, his actions during the Year of Blood still weigh heavily in his mind. It doesn’t matter that he’s atoned for his wrongdoings or that he‘s received the forgiveness of the people he’s wronged.

He feels it deep within him—an ever-persistent void of guilt and resentment. He’ll never truly be able to wash away the blood that stains his very soul.

“It’s definitely a nice view out there. There’s a word or a saying for that in Japanese, right? It’s something like koro—koremi—korobi—“

“Komorebi.” Damian murmurs, pulled from his thoughts by Drake’s sudden interruption.

“Light filtered through the leaves of a tree. Often associated with feelings of serenity and natural beauty.”

“Right, right.” Drake takes another sip from his mug. “Of course you’d know that, you know-it-all.”

“If anyone is a know-it-all, it’s you.” Damian counters, lifting an eyebrow.

Drake grins, and Damian immediately feels like he’s the canary and Drake’s the cat.

“So you think I know everything? Wow, Dames, that's so nice of you to say so.”

“Tch. What nonsense,” Damian deflects, flustered. “Come on, Timothy, let’s get back to sorting. We have–”

Damian freezes, realizing what just happened. What he just let slip.

Timothy. He just called Drake Timothy.

Cautiously, like a fox playing with a bear trap, he tries to gauge Drake’s reaction.

Luckily for Damian, Drake goes right back to connecting the two border pieces, as if nothing happened. They sit in a comfortable silence for the next ten minutes, finishing up the border and slowly working inwards.

“You know, the name ‘Drake’ is fun and all, but I think I like it better when you call me Timothy.”

Damian startles, sitting up to stare at the older teen. Drake’s gaze, however, stays on the pieces he’s sorting.

“I mean, what kind of brothers would we be if you kept referring to me by my last name. We’re not strangers.” Drake lifts his head, meeting Damian’s eye. His lips form a soft smile. “Though I think I’d prefer Tim.”

Damian's face burns.

“Wha-? No, I couldn’t possibly—“

His flustered ramblings are cut short by Drake's laugh.

“Right,” Drake snorts in amusement. “I forget you’re not the kind to do nicknames. Timothy works just fine.”

Damian feels lightheaded. A weird sort of… joyful feeling bubbles in his chest.

He knows his face must be growing red, so he looks down to hide it from the other.

“…Timothy, then.” Damian mumbles. Strange how natural that felt.

The sentimental moment is ruined by a snarky laugh because, of course, Timothy would ruin it.

“Aw, Dames, you’re so adorable when you're embarrassed.”

Damian balls his fists and slams them on the table, causing some of the puzzle pieces to jump from the force.

“Shut up, Timothy!”

Amused snickering is his only response.

…

Sunday, October 5th

03:43 AM

Patrol ended early that night.

Damian rests on his bed, leaning back against the headboard. Alfred the Cat purrs from where he’s curled up on his lap while Titus is sprawled out on his side, taking up most of the bed. Damian has one hand on each of his pets, gently tracing circles in their fur. The dim light from his bedside lamp submerges his room in a comfortable orange glow.

The rate of crime was low, just as the other nights have been. Father made the executive decision to return early. Timothy, however, decided to stay out and join Stephanie on her patrol routes.

Damian was hardly jealous. Surprisingly, he found himself more tired than usual.

Perhaps Richard was right. Damian might have been genetically modified for peak performance, but it doesn’t make him invulnerable.

Another lesson he had to learn the hard way, if his metal spine wasn’t proof enough. Damian absentmindedly rolls his shoulders.

This sudden city-wide low rate of crime was making everyone anxious. Not only the vigilantes of Gotham, but the citizens, too. From what Damian has gathered from studying his father’s files and reports, Gotham’s crime typically ramps up during the Fall, especially during October. Damian has even had his own experience of the last two years to go off of in support of those stats.

It was unnatural.

What was likely was that this lull was the calm before a storm. Now, what kind of storm this could bring is part of the missing equation.

Damian's hand paused in Alfred’s fur. His gaze drifted to the window across the room. The curtain shifted slightly.

A breeze.

Damian narrowed his eyes, suspicious. He hadn’t opened it.

He shifted Alfred the Cat off his lap, careful not to wake him, and stood. The air coming in was cold and carried a hint of petrichor mixed with decaying leaves. Damian stepped closer, inspecting the frame.

Then he saw it.

Caught in the groove of the sill—a feather.

He picked it up.

It wasn’t just any feather; it was an owl feather.

Not a city bird, but a bird of prey. He turned it between his fingers, silent.

Like the breaking of a dam, something broke through a barrier somewhere deep in his mind. It wasn’t a full, cohesive memory; it was more like a flicker.

The sound of tapping on the glass window pane and a pair of wide golden eyes.

Damian's grip on the feather tightened.

He’d forgotten. Completely.

Not misplaced. Erased.

Someone had done this. Deliberately.

His pulse quickened, though he forced his face to stay neutral. He crossed the room, pulled open his nightstand drawer, and took out the copy of Frankenstein.

He slipped the feather inside between the pages and closed it. He returned the book to its place in the drawer and slowly slid it closed.

Damian strode back to the window with an even stride. He latched the window shut and slid the curtains closed. His hands trembled faintly where they gripped the fabric of the curtains.

Someone is watching him. They’re messing with his head and making a fool out of him.

Damian grits his teeth in indignation.

Whoever or whatever they are, they will soon come to regret it.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 6th

12:34 PM

Damian strides through the bustling hallways of Gotham Academy, face impassive. Groups of his peers part for him, intent on getting out of his way before he can even let a polite “pardon me” slip from his mouth.

Not that he’s complaining.

He sharply turns a corner and nearly collides with a group of giggling eighth-grade girls. Luckily for everyone involved, Damian always remains on his guard.

Twisting his body, he sidesteps the stuttering and “eep!” -ing and “eek!” -ing girls with the practiced ease only a skillfully trained assassin could have.

Damian offers them an ”Excuse me.”

Perfectly short and polite.

Once safely out of the stampede, he only spares them one quick glance before continuing his quest.

He marches down the stairs, past the science wing, and out through the west side doors that lead to the courtyard.

Once fully outside, Damian winces and brings a hand up to shade his face. The sun shines a mean glare where it peaks from behind the cloud coverage.

It’s an overcast day, sure, but not a foggy overcast day.

Damian smirks, as any good younger sibling would do when an older sibling’s prediction turns out incorrect.

Glad you’re not a meteorologist, Timothy.

The side door opens behind him, and Damian steps off to the side so that he’s not blocking the flow of foot traffic. He lowers his hand and scans the area in front of him.

There, in the middle of the courtyard, stands a grand Northern Red Oak. Its trunk is an impressive width, alluding to the mystery of the true age of its existence, and its leaves shine a bright wine red.

He’d been eyeing it from the library window for the past week. It was hardly ever visited by any of his classmates, so Damian decided it would be another one of his lunch spots. As in, his alone.

A strong, chill wind sweeps through the air, slightly disheveling his neatly groomed hair and tingling at his nose. Thankfully, his school blazer provides him with an adequate amount of warmth.

Leaves scatter from the oak, raining down upon the wooden bench below its canopy—and on Damian as he approaches.

One lands on his head and gets caught in his hair, remaining unnoticed.

He slides his backpack off his back when he reaches his destination and takes a seat on the bench. He places his bag on the open space next to him—taking care not to completely take up the entire space.

Closing his eyes, he breathes in the crisp air. Cold air rushes in through his nose and fills his lungs. He holds his breath to the count of four before releasing his hold and exhaling slowly for eight seconds.

Repeating the process four more times, he calms his heartbeat and enters a tranquil state of mind.

Gotham is always loud and busy, and today is no different.

Even as far away as he is from the central business district of the city, the blaring horns of traffic and the rattling of trains on tracks can still be heard.

Faint clings! and clangs! from the many construction sites echo and reverberate across the city.

For Damian, the most overpowering sounds come from the rustling tree canopy above him and the jovial voices of his peers as they all slowly fill up the courtyard.

An oak leaf lands on the back of his hand from where it rests on his lap, pulling him from his rather surface-level meditation.

Pinching it between his thumb and index finger, he brings it closer to study.

Bold. Symmetrical. Angular.

He gives it a quick spin.

Yes, this one will do.

Damian nods to himself, decision made.

He unzips the main flap of his backpack and pulls out his rather thick science textbook. He flips past the glossary and most of the index, stopping before the last two pages.

He gives the leaf one last appreciative twirl before placing it right below wound botulism 26.2 Bacterial Diseases of the Nervous System and right above Xenopsylla cheopis 25.2 Bacterial Infections of the Circulatory and Lymphatic Systems.

Gently smoothing out the loose curls on the blades of the leaf, he shuts the textbook, effectively starting the pressing process.

Perhaps a painting? Oils would catch the hues nicely, better than acrylic would.

Damian ponders his paints as he slips the science book back into his bag. After he’s certain that the oak leaf won’t slip from the pages, he pulls out his lunch bag and the copy of Frankenstein.

Today, Pennyworth has prepared him four simple Onigiris, as well as a side of dehydrated seaweed chips. It’s the perfect meal to eat with one hand while the other is occupied holding open a good book.

Damian snorts at the thought. Sounds like something Pennyworth would say, or maybe even Todd.

Well, actually, maybe not Todd.

Damian’s not too certain about the others' culinary tastes. The man could hate seaweed for all he knew. But the point still stands.

He consumes two, enjoying the simple salty flavor of the rice and the crispy texture of the seaweed. No fillings are inside, but that hardly makes or breaks the meal.

Frankenstein rests on the bench next to him. He picks it up and, instead of trying to thumb through the pages one-handed, simply lets the wind flip through the pages for him.

The pages open to where he last left off, and Damian pauses.

He was certain he had used a simple paper bookmarker, but there’s a feather right there, where his supposed bookmark should be.

He places the onigiri that was in his other hand back in the food container and moves to grab the feather from where it’s sitting in the crook of the pages. However, before he can, a strong gust of wind blows it away.

Damian starts, a sharp spike of panic shooting through him. His pulse jumps. He doesn’t know why or where this feeling even came from, only that every trained instinct screams this feather is something he cannot afford to lose.

He drops the book, not caring where it lands, and stands to reach out and chase after it.

“Oh, Damian! Just who I was hoping—what’s this?”

Doyle stands a few yards away from him, in one of those corded woolen sweaters that father and Pennyworth only wear in the heart of winter. The feather Damian was about to chase after was held securely in the grip of the man’s index, thumb, and middle finger.

Damian lets out a breath of relief, panic subsiding. Though the cold grip of unease remains.

Damian’s lips downturn the slightest bit. He’s not too sure if the apprehension he feels is from the random fear of losing the feather or from the sudden arrival of the substitute art teacher.

Doyle stares at the feather still caught in his grip. An odd sort of resigned recognition settles on his face.

The man’s gaze moves to meet Damian’s, and the expression is wiped away with a blinding smile. One that seems fake.

“Quite a beautiful feather you have here,” Doyle states, and he continues his approach. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to know what bird it’s from, would ya?”

Doyle, much to Damian’s displeasure, decides to take a seat on the open space of the bench. He pulls his backpack closer to his side, though it doesn’t really give way to any more room.

Damian peers at the feather that’s now being twirled between the other’s fingers.

It was around sixteen or seventeen centimeters long. On one side of the rachis, the feathers were white, and on the other, a light brown. Three charcoal colored and evenly spaced horizontal lines run across its top half.

Doyle stops twisting the feather, and Damian looks up to meet his gaze. Doyle’s smile is more genuine than forced now. His amber eyes gleam as he turns toward Damian, anticipating his answer.

“It’s an… It’s from an owl.” Damian starts. A blurry image suddenly conjures up in his mind, of an owl with long ears and glowing eyes. It fades away into nothingness before he even has a chance to work out the details.

Doyle grins and lifts the hand holding the feather up in a mock cheer, as if it were a pint of beer.

“Right you are! You’ve got a clever mind rattling about in there, don’t you?” Doyle brings the feather down into his line of sight. “I do wonder where you got this from. I’m pretty sure owls aren’t too commonly sighted in Gotham City.”

“It was between the pages of my book,” Damian stated blankly.

The man peers down at the copy of Frankenstein lying open on the ground. They both stare down at it for a couple of seconds before Doyle leans closer to Damian, eyes narrowed intently.

“Was it now? Just appeared there, out of nowhere, did it?”

Damian furrows his brows.

No, he knows it didn’t appear out of nowhere. He’s not a fool. He had to have placed it there, but… he doesn’t remember ever doing so.

Damian closes his eyes, face scrunching as he tries to recall.

Recall what, though?

Usually, there are flickers or glimpses of scenes from past events, and typically, to remember, you have to organize them all as they happened in chronological order.

But this time there’s none of that. Just a misty, murky blankness.

“Well, don’t try too hard. Hardly worth bursting a vase over.”

Doyle’s voice turns chipper, as if the tension of a moment ago had never existed. Damian blinks his eyes open, frown deepening. A new kind of confusion floods him.

“It’s a vessel, not a vase. As in a blood vessel. ‘Hardly worth bursting a blood vessel over’ would be the correct phrasing.”

Doyle’s grin widens, eyes glinting with something Damian can’t quite read. A low chuckle slips out.

“Ah, you’re quick altogether.”

Damian got the odd feeling that Doyle meant that he found more than just Damian‘s need for grammatical correctness ‘funny’.

Damian leans over to pick up the book off the ground in an uncomfortable silence as he waits for the other’s chuckles to filter off.

“Judging from your art and preference for certain bookmarks, you must have a thing for birds.”

Damian turns his head sharply, but Doyle isn’t facing him anymore. Instead, the other is leaning back and smiling up at the tree canopy they’re under. Damian follows his gaze.

Two redbreasted robins perch on a branch above them, harmonizing to a song that only they knew. Damian studies Doyle out of the corner of his eyes.

He’s rather relaxed, Damian observes.

With one arm resting on the back of the bench and his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, the substitute teacher is a perfect portrayal of unbothered.

Doyle whistles a short, lilting tune before continuing.

“I’m the same way in that aspect. You see, I have a soft spot for robins. I dare even say they’re my favorite bird.”

Doyle tilts his head in Damian’s direction, a soft grin on his lips.

Blood rushes through Damian’s ears as his anxiety spikes at Doyle’s words, though he keeps his face blank. It’s a fight and a half to keep his breathing even.

Damian will not give himself away unless the other does first.

Is this it? Is this the big reveal that Doyle knows something about him being Robin?

A sudden wave of Deja Vu hits Damian. Has this happened before?

No, stop. Focus on what’s happening now, in this very moment.

“You say you’re fond of robins, Mr. Doyle?” Damian prods, cautious in the tone of his question.

“Oh yes,” Doyle hums. “You see, back home in Ireland, the winters are damn miserable. Dark and cold. Unforgiving.”

He trails off, voice a dreary murmur. “Even the strongest of souls are brought to their knees.”

A sort of blank, or rather, hollow expression settles on Doyle’s face.

“However, there’s always a light in the darkness. Continuously, without fail, you’ll hear the robin’s tune throughout the cold months. A song that can be heard no matter how viscous the winter can get.”

Doyle closes his eyes, his facial muscles relaxing out of the stiff hold they were held in.

“It can fly south if it so wishes, but the damned bird always decides to rough it out with us unlucky bastards. It’s got an enduring spirit like no other.”

Doyle opens his eyes, tilting his head toward Damian.

“Brave little things, the eejits. But sometimes bravery’s just another word for stupidity.” His smile lingers, warm and sharp all at once. “Not that I’m one to judge, o’ course.”

Damian… well…

Damian doesn’t quite know how to feel with that information. He’s filled with an odd sense of pride and slight offense.

The words are genuine, but they come off as both praiseful and vaguely threatening.

It’s as if Doyle is alluding to knowing all of his secrets, yet not all at the same time.

Damian fights back the urge to grit his teeth or make any outward expression at all, lest he give himself away.

Obviously, Doyle’s baiting him. Gauging his reaction. Internally, Damian scoffs. He’ll have to try a lot harder than that.

“Is that why you’ve come to Gotham? I’m sure it wasn’t the pay.”

Doyle snorts, scratching the bridge of his nose. “You’re right about that. The pay leaves much to be desired.” The man leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. ”But aye—the legend of Batman and all his little robins lured me here like a moth to a flame. Makes for an interesting place to live, no?”

The Irishman stands with a grunt, his knees popping from the sudden weight shift. He rummages in his pocket before pulling out a dulled golden pocket watch.

“Ah, but I’ve taken up enough of your time, haven’t I? Still, before I go, I just wanted to tell you that I’ve submitted some of your old artworks for the mid-semester art show.”

Doyle glances at the watch face before clicking it closed and depositing it back into his pocket.

“You have around ten minutes or so left in your lunch block, so I’ll leave you to enjoy your err—“

Doyle peers quizzically at Damian’s forgotten lunch box with the two remaining onigiri and seaweed crisps.

Doyle’s eyes linger on the seaweed, a glint of—was it recognition?—in his gaze.

“Dúlamán?” Damian tilts his head in slight contemplation at the interjection. Context clues indicate that ‘Dúlamán’ could refer to either the rice or the seaweed. A fifty-fifty percent chance. Damian glances down at his discarded lunch.

It’s most likely the seaweed.

There’s a soft ruffle in his hair, startling him and causing him to jerk back. Doyle holds a red leaf in the hand that was once holding the owl feather. The man grins mischievously, releasing the leaf and letting it float away on the breeze.

“It was stuck in your hair. Hope you weren’t saving it for later.”

The Irishman pivots and walks away back towards the school, hand raised in a lazy wave. “I’ll see you next class period, but until then, as we say back home: may the road rise up to meet you.”

Damian stares after him for a long while, disgruntled. He reaches his hand up to run his fingers through his hair to check for anything else that might be there. His thumb grazes something soft, and like a flood, the memories of a horned owl’s silhouette from outside of his window come rushing forth.

He quickly brings his hand to eye level. There in his palm sits the feather. It lies impossibly soft against his skin, yet heavier than it has any right to be. His breath catches, heart hammering against his ribs.

Above him on the branch, one of the robins lets out a low chirr.