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It is a test and Damian knows it.

The pay is horrendous for the circumstances and it’s too far different from any of his other missions for it not to be. All of his previous targets had been practically nobodies. C-list criminals who stumbled too deep into the dark without being ready for the horrors that it brings, homeless people that happened to see something they weren’t supposed to, League traitors who thought that they could defy Grandfather and get away with it.

Richard John Grayson, member of the Gotham Police Department and adopted son of Bruce Wayne, is none of these.

Aside from the main contract, there are other loose ends in Gotham, ones that his mother has yet to tie up. Her negligence has Damian departing from Nanda Parbat with a paper of several names tucked snugly into one of his hidden pockets, written in Mother’s neat Arabic shorthand. It is the late evening on a Tuesday, the sun dipping just below the horizon when he steps foot into Gotham—his father’s home, Mother had said, a hint of disdain to her words.

Why he chooses to protect that filthy cesspool of a city, I will never understand.

Gotham is a cold and dreary place, everything that Damian expects from his mother’s stories and yet somehow inexplicably worse. 

The pollution is nothing like the crisp air of Nanda Parbat, and the chill lacks the refreshing bite of the snowy mountains surrounding the compound. It sinks into his skin and bones and stays there, like it is never going to leave.

Damian spends the first few hours of his visit to Gotham navigating across the rooftops, sticking close to the shadows when needed and familiarizing himself with the terrain. He takes shelter in an abandoned apartment complex on the top floor, slipping through the window using a creaky fire escape that trembles beneath his every step. It is well into night when he finally deems the room secure and lies to sleep.

The next three days are spent tracking down his mother’s loose ends. In a city of nearly ten million people, it is a surprisingly easy feat, though perhaps that can be attributed more to most of the targets being criminals and gangsters and murderers and nobodies. Damian leaves his kills scattered throughout the city like flower petals over a wedding aisle, moving hiding places after every completed task, and Gotham may be cold and damp and disgusting but it provides surprisingly good cover for assassins like him, so that is one thing that he can appreciate about the city, at the very least.

It is pure coincidence when he encounters his primary target after his fourth kill, on the second day following his arrival. Damian had stopped at a quaint little Chinese restaurant on the side of the street, sandwiched between a place selling tacos and one claiming to make the world’s best phó, and purchased a small meal for himself. The cashier, a kind looking Asian woman, handed him a free fortune cookie and told him to be safe, as Gotham can be dangerous during the dark.

He accepted them with a quiet thanks and left. The park across from the restaurant was lit by dim streetlights, and Damian didn’t feel like going back to the newest hiding spot just yet. Instead, he sat himself down on a bench on the outskirts of the park and began to eat, only stopping once to watch a stray cat slink along the grass with eyes that gleamed like twin stars in the shadows of the trees.

It is here where his target finds him, bathed in the yellow glow of a dying streetlight with an empty carton of dumplings in one hand and chopsticks in the other.

“Kids aren’t usually supposed to be out this late into the night.”

Damian looks up and is greeted with the sight of dark hair and blue eyes, along with the vibrant coloring of a standard Gotham police uniform, a darker jacket slung over the brighter blue of the suit. Richard John Grayson peers down at him with a kind smile and a curious sort of tilt to his head.

“Are your parents around here somewhere?” He asks, taking a step forward. “I can take you to them, if you want?”

Kiddo, Damian repeats in his head, and barely keeps his lip from curling in distaste.

“No,” he says instead. “I can take care of myself.”

Still, Grayson’s gentle smile doesn’t falter. “Maybe. But Gotham isn’t really the safest city to be running around in at one am.”

Damian blinks almost owlishly at him. What is he trying to do? “I can take care of myself,” he repeats. Then he grabs his small bag of food, tucking the chopsticks carefully alongside the plastic boxes, slides off the bench, and leaves.

“Hey!” Grayson calls after him, sounding utterly bemused. Damian ignores the call and doesn't stop.

He only sets on the correct path towards his hideout when he is certain that Grayson has not followed him.

It only occurs to him afterwards, sitting in the darkness of his temporary shelter eating the crunchy fortune cookie and pulling out the slip of paper inside to read the meaningless message typed in blue lettering, that he should’ve killed Grayson there. It would have been easy to take him off guard and slit his neck.

Well, it is not as if it matters much. He will be dead either way, if not tonight then by the end of the week. 

Damian still has two more of Mother’s loose ends to tie, and he cannot afford Gotham and its vigilantes going into high alert before his tasks are complete.

Grayson’s location is no more difficult to find than the rest of Damian’s targets, and he tracks down the man’s precinct and residence with ease. It is undeniably obvious that the assassination of a world-renowned celebrity’s eldest son—not to mention a valued police officer—will undoubtedly stir up trouble in the city, and he’d rather not attract the Batman’s attention or run into any number of his enemies. He may have once been fixated on meeting the great warrior that Mother had deemed worthy enough of her affections, but that was when he was far younger and Damian has long since grown out of such childish whims.

Besides, he is almost certain that if his father’s detective skills are as good as his mother said them to be, he will already have caught wind of Damian’s prior kills and likely be suspicious, nobody criminals or not. He will have to be even more careful now, so as to hopefully slip beneath Batman’s radar.

It is the sixth day of his mission when he finally makes his way to Grayson’s apartment building. If he gets this done tonight, he might be back in Nanda Parbat by morning, away from the acrid stench of this crime-ridden city and the low-hanging smog that blankets it. It would be a relief.

He scales his way up to the third floor of the complex. The fire escape leads to a window that peers into a bedroom, and though Damian’s nose wrinkles at the sight of the messiness, there’s no sign of a Richard Grayson asleep on the bed.

It’s entirely possible that he is attending a social function, Damian muses, carefully sliding the window open. Grayson has quite a lovely reputation according to the tabloids. It would not be surprising. 

The window opens with a quiet hiss. Damian slips inside with light feet and silent steps. Careful so as to not disturb any part of the chaotic room, he makes his way towards the door leading out of the bedroom; perhaps the fool is simply watching television or sleeping on the couch or rifling through the kitchen for a midnight snack.

A quick search of the quaint apartment reveals that Grayson is not here at all, though there are traces of his recent presence shown by the dirty dishes in the sink and the half-full glass of water left abandoned on the counter, teetering precariously close to the edge. He entertains the idea of simply waiting in the darkness until the man comes home, but there is no guarantee that he will even be home before the sun rises (if he truly is at some party), and getting away with an assassination of such a popular Gotham citizen in the revealing brightness of day will—although entirely possible for someone of Damian’s skill level—undoubtedly be far more trouble than it is worth.

Damian buries down any inklings of annoyance that arise at his target’s absence, swiftly making his way back towards the bedroom. He notes a second window peering out from the living room. A potential escape route or entrance.

With little else to do, he slips outside, closing the window carefully behind him. The cool air bites into the exposed parts of his face and his exposed fingers, making him exhale and feel his breath warm the inside of his mask. 

He scales up the apartment building further, hauling himself silently past windows spilling warm light out into streets, some peering into a room full of chattering groups of people, others of couples cuddling on worn couches, and a few dark, with the curtains drawn so that it is impossible to look inside. The rooftop is firm beneath his boots when he finally reaches it, moving to sit on the concrete ledge, and when he tilts his head back to peer at the dark sky, there are no stars behind the clouds.

Breathing in and breathing out, Damian crosses his legs close to him and listens to the sound of the wind.

Not even ten minutes later, the air shifts with a new presence landing on the rooftop.

“It’s almost like Ra’s didn’t have enough of Batman handing his ass to him the last time he stepped foot in Gotham, but, here we are.”

Damian is on his feet instantly, whirling around with one of his daggers in hand as soon as he hears the soft thud of a careful, practiced landing. The mention of his grandfather has him bristling, eyes narrowing warily at the new figure that approaches from the other end of the rooftop.

Nightwing swings his escrima at his sides with a grin on his lips, though there is tension to his posture, his muscles coiled and ready to spring at a moment’s notice.

“Looking for something?” he asks, stopping a few feet away, then frowns and leans slightly forward. “Hm. I didn’t think Ra’s was capable of stooping low enough to send out children to do his dirty work, but honestly I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“I am no child,” Damian hisses defensively, drawing himself up tight as he grips his serrated dagger. He would feel more secure with his katana, but he had neglected to bring it with him to Gotham, figuring that it would simply draw unwanted attention. Now, though, he misses the security that its familiar weight would give him.

Putting as much venom into his words as possible, he adds, “What the Demon Head does is none of your business.”

“I think it is when he’s sending out operatives in my city.” Nightwing takes another step forward, his posture having relaxed slightly at the realization of Damian’s age, and Damian has to suppress a snarl at the blatant disrespect. When Nightwing notices his gaze flicking behind him, he says all too cheerfully, “Batman isn’t in the area, but I can assure you that I can be just as bad. So.” He claps his hands together. “What does Ra’s want in Gotham?”

“None of your concern,” Damian repeats stubbornly. Nightwing tilts his head again, examining Damian for a few long moments. Damian cannot read the emotions on his face—partially due to the mask, partially due to Nightwing’s carefully neutral expression, clearly a trained tactic—and that puts him even more on edge.

With a sigh, he starts forward. “Kid—”

Damian has had enough. With a short growl, he lunges forward in a quick attack, the vigilante veering out of the way of his blade with thinly veiled surprise written over his face. Quick reflexes, then, and clearly agile. He stores this information into his mental files.

“I am not a kid,” Damian spits, pivoting sharply on one heel to drive the dagger towards Nightwing’s abdomen, but the man leaps back before it lands. Tt. “I am Ibn al Xu’ffasch, heir to the line of al Ghul and the Demon Head,” a flurry of attacks later and he lands a solid kick to Nightwing’s chest that has him stumbling back, eyes wide beneath his domino. “And you will do well to remember as such!”

Without another word, he’s darting towards the edge of the roof and letting himself fall into the shadows below. Over the roar of blood in his ears, he can hear the vigilante cursing, and then a startled exclamation of, “Son of the…? Wait—hey!”

But by the time Nightwing makes it to the edge of the roof to peer over the side, Damian has already vanished, the only noise in the quiet streets being the faint whistling of the wind.

With no other targets left to track, Damian spends the next afternoon wandering through the streets of the city, waiting for the sun to set. Mother’s stories and his tutors’ teaching had done well to educate him on the Western world, but this is only the second time he has been in this particular part of America. He cannot help but be curious.

If anyone finds the dark-skinned boy wandering all by himself on the streets odd, not one person makes any attempt to question him, though he does garner a few peculiar looks as he plods through the busy streets in his black and gray League uniform, as he had brought no other clothes with him. Damian pays this no mind. They are likely just bemused at the change in clothing styles—Western fashion is far different compared to that of the League’s, especially the garments preferred by his mother and grandfather.

Wandering through Gotham’s streets is nothing like browsing the market places back in the Middle East. Here, Damian feels so utterly and undeniably small, caught amongst the floods of passersby. Perhaps it is the towering buildings or the incessant rumble of traffic, but he finds that Gotham is far more unappealing during the day compared to the night. At least when it is dark, there are few people out and deep shadows lurk at every corner for him to hide himself in, should he ever feel unsafe.

This freedom, this ability to wander this vast city with no one but himself… it’s different. New. He enjoys it.

As the day goes on, the crowds thin and thin and thin until the constant buzz of chatter no longer fills the air. Soon there is orange streaking the sky and the bright blue sky has already begun to darken. Still, there are no stars to be seen through the thick gray pollution.

He has been walking aimlessly throughout the vast city for the majority of the day, and he recognizes the area that he ends up in. From here, it is only an hour walk—or forty-five minutes, depending on if he uses the rooftops or not—back to his hideout.

He should return, he knows. He should wait for the sun to set before taking advantage of the cover that the night provides and moving out to finish his mission. He should.

Something catches his attention before he can. A tantalizing scent wafting through the air, so rich and familiar—yet simultaneously not—that he can nearly taste it on his tongue.

Damian knows this smell inherently.

When he was younger, and even on rare occasions now, his mother would often bring sweets and treats for him from her trips across the globe. Oftentimes it was accompanied by a soft smile or a gentle hand in his hair, a reward for his progress in training. And every night after her return they would sit in one of Grandfather’s gardens and munch on the treats together, listening to the sound of the wind and the ripple of water and feeling cool night air soft on their skin.

It is largely for this reason that the smell of warmth and sugar is what catches his attention wholeheartedly. Damian catches one whiff of it and immediately starts in the direction.

The source of the heavenly smell, Damian realizes soon, is a cozy little bakery near the end of the street. 

However, what surprises him is not the area itself or even the bakery, but rather the people dotting the streets. There is a couple strolling by, shopping bags in hand and holding hands as they talk. In front of the couple is a man walking his dog, a fluffy looking golden retriever that wags its tail happily and looks at him with wide doe eyes before stopping to sniff at a particularly interesting spot on the street.

And, just a few meters in front of him, staring at him from the hood of a car with a phone lifted to his ear in one hand and a paper bag in the other is one Richard Grayson, dressed head to toe in the standard uniform of the Gotham Police Department.

The shock of it has Damian halting midstep, faltering in his stride because what are the chances? To encounter his target twice in less than a week—unintentionally, no less—in this city of millions of people is statistically almost impossible.

And yet here they are.

Grayson blinks at him. Damian stares back.

He says something to the person on the other line, then is lowering the device and slipping it into one of his pockets in one fluid movement. Briefly, Damian entertains the idea of pretending like they hadn’t locked gazes and simply walking the other direction to make his grand escape, but Grayson is already approaching, his smile just as kind and gentle as it was the first time they met.

“Hey. You’re the kid from a few nights ago, right?”

There's no use in denying it. The question is likely rhetorical. Damian gives a sharp nod, meeting Grayson’s blue gaze without fear. 

Grayson blinks down at him, dark hair falling into his face, then abruptly sticks out his right hand. “Dick.”

Instinctively, Damian flinches back from the outstretched limb in anticipation of it being an attack, and something unreadable flickers over the man’s features before he just widens his smile. Grayson’s hand hovers in the space between them, not making any moves to press farther, his fingers spread expectantly and his smile looking as if it is meant to be assuring.

… What?

Apparently his confusion and apprehension must write itself over his face, because with amusement swirling in his cobalt eyes, the man says again, “Dick. Grayson. Well, technically Richard Grayson, but.”

He’s… giving Damian his name?

“... Grayson,” Damian says carefully, after a long moment passes where he acts like he hadn’t known it in the first place. He is not quite sure how to respond.

“Everyone calls me Dick.”

“No.”

“Alright.” 

Grayson must notice his gaze flitting to the bakery to their right, because he allows his hand to fall back to his side and jerks his head sharply to gesture towards it, smile soft. “Hungry?”

“No,” Damian says again. His stomach growls at that exact moment—traitor—and Grayson laughs, a light, happy little thing that feels like it belongs everywhere but Gotham. Damian scowls, though it lasts for only a fraction of a second as Grayson offers out his hand again—this time, the brown paper bag with the donut shop’s logo stamped onto the front is clutched in his fingers.

“Here,” he says, kindly. “You can have mine.”

Damian eyes the bag suspiciously—an attempt at poison, perhaps?—but Grayson’s smile is unwavering and Damian thinks that there would be no reason for Grayson to try and poison him, considering that he clearly has no idea who Damian really is. If anything, Damian is just a random kid he’s run into on the streets, not the al Ghul heir and most certainly not the assassin sent to kill him.

With hesitant, careful fingers, he slowly reaches forward to take the small bag from Grayson’s hand. Grayson’s fingers are warm when they brush against his, and they unfurl easily to allow Damian to withdraw his arm and cradle the paper bag almost protectively to his chest, like it is a thing to be treasured.

“Thank you,” Damian says, slow and deliberate and testing, because even if he is wary he is nothing if not polite.

Grayson’s eyes are still kind, still soft, still so warm with sincerity. 

“Of course,” he says, then adds, throwing an arm out behind him to wave down the street, “If you need anything, my precinct is just three blocks in that direction.”

I know, Damian thinks, but refrains from saying as much.

“Okay,” he says instead, and takes that as his cue to leave. Grayson’s gaze presses against the back of his head as he turns and walks off into the dusk.

Damian realizes then, after he has turned the corner and the weight of being watched disappears, that Grayson never asked for his name, though he gave Damian his.

How peculiar.

Grayson is missing from his apartment again, his closet door slightly ajar and a few discarded pieces of clothing scattered along the floor of the bedroom.

Damian exhales a sharp puff of air through his nose, irritated. He slips his dagger back into its sheath and leaves through the window, hands curled into fists so tight that they make indents in his hands through the fabric of his gloves.

Another night, then.

Nightwing finds him sitting a few rooftops from Grayson’s small apartment, legs dangling over the silent streets, mask still pulled over his nose and his hood hiding his ears from the frosty air.

Damian hears his step, muted as it is, and is instantly on guard, hand going for one of his hidden daggers as he whirls into a defensive stance. It befuddles him when he takes in Nightwing’s relaxed posture, especially when the vigilante holds his hands up in an attempt to be placating and says, “I’m not here to fight you, kid.”

Seriously?

“Do you think I am some fool?” Damian sneers, curling his fingers around the handle of his blade so hard that the leather padding makes indents in his palms. “Your attempt at trickey is pathetic, frankly.”

Why would Nightwing not attempt to fight? It makes no sense—Damian had attacked him, the first time they met. It would be only logical to seek out revenge, or to try and apprehend him.

“I’m not trying to trick you,” Nightwing says patiently, and his tone sounds genuine but his words scream lies. “League or not, I try not to spend my free time fighting with kid assassins.”

His escrima stay attached to the holder on his back, but Damian isn’t naive enough to think that he isn’t a threat even without them. But the vigilante stays rooted in place, making no effort to move or so much as twitch a finger, and that doesn’t… that doesn’t make sense.

Even so, he finds his hands slowly dropping from his blade anyway. Damian still eyes him warily, and tenses when Nightwing drops his hands down to his sides and takes a stride forward.

But all the man does is walk over to the edge of the building and drop down to sit on the concrete ledge, just as Damian had been just moments ago.

“So,” he says conversationally, keeping his eyes fixed on the clouded sky. “Talia’s your mom?”

“Who else would it be?” he snaps, and immediately expects Nightwing to bristle in response to his aggression.

Yet all Nightwing does is shrug, tilting his head back and exhaling a puff of white into the cold air. “And your father is…?”

He phrases it like a question, but it is obvious that it is not. Batman, Damian doesn’t say. Nightwing doesn’t either, even though Damian knows that he knows, and vice versa.

Almost anticipating Gotham’s Dark Knight to drop out of the sky or emerge over another end of the roof, he glances around. Nightwing must notice this, because the corners of his lips twitch, as if wanting to curl into a smile.

“I didn’t tell him, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he says, not unkindly. “I said I wasn’t gonna try and fight you. No need to be scared.”

Damian scoffs. “I’m not scared of you.”

“‘Course not,” Nightwing agrees easily, amused but not exactly disbelieving. Damian bristles and prepares another scathing insult that teeters on the tip of his tongue because what about this is funny? but it quickly shrivels up in his mouth as Nightwing pats the space next to him invitingly, and confusion takes over.

He ends up confused a lot when in Nightwing’s presence, it seems. Damian doesn’t move out of wariness and an instinct beaten into him since he was young, and Nightwing doesn’t invite him again, accepting his refusal wordlessly and without argument.

The silence draws out for what must only be a few seconds. It feels like years.

“How are you liking Gotham?”

The question takes him off guard—of all the things to say, or to ask, that is what he chooses? Damian frowns to himself, trying to root out any alternative meaning behind the words, to work out just what the vigilante is getting at, but is unable to.

It’s just… strange. The questions and Nightwing’s treatment of him are so strange, and Damian doesn’t know how to react to it. None of his training has ever prepared him for this.

After a moment of inner turmoil, he answers.

“Gotham is filthy,” Damian says flatly, honestly. “I understand now why Mother sent me here instead of coming herself.”

Nightwing’s face is turned to the left—away from Damian and down the street to watch a stray dog dig inside an upturned trash bin—but the smile in his voice is audible. “It’s not all bad,” he says.

Damian thinks of Grayson, and the too-sweet donut he had given him, and the Chinese restaurant with the nice Asian lady and the park and the stray cat that had crossed through the grass in the darkness.

“No,” he admits grudgingly, “I suppose not.”

Then he thinks of Batman—his father, of Grayson’s inevitable death by his hands and of eventually returning back to Nanda Parbat to receive more assignments and continue his training.

“It is still horrible, though.”

Nightwing makes a noise that sounds like more scoff than laugh. “You get used to it.”

“I won’t have to,” he says. “I will return to the League by the end of the week.”

A thoughtful hum. “Do you like it there?”

“It is my home.”

“But do you like it?” Nightwing asks again, and he turns to look at Damian now, his eyes hidden behind his domino mask but the slight, almost curious tilt of his head saying enough.

A moment, then, again, “It is my home.” He’s not sure what the man is getting at.

“Sure,” says Nightwing, “is that what you want, though? Living there? Training every day? Killing people?”

“Training makes me capable.” Damian frowns. “And it has nothing to do with what I want.” This is the life I was born into, and the life I will live. It is my destiny.

Nightwing’s cryptic smile is just barely visible. “Doesn’t it?”

“Stop talking in riddles,” he snaps, annoyed. “I am heir to the line of al Ghul and the League of Shadows, there is nothing more to it. The League of Shadows will change the world for the better.”

Another small smile, this time wry. Wry and sad, like the very thought of Damian’s childhood is upsetting. “Destroying people’s lives in the name of some old maniac’s twisted idea of a ‘good’ Earth is better to you?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “Do not slander my grandfather to me,” Damian hisses venomously. “He will make the world great, with my mother and I, and we are going to rule it. Together.”

“Even if you have to kill?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Damian says, but the words feel heavy on his tongue. The truth is that they are not so much of his words as they are his mother’s and grandfather’s, lessons and teachings and ideals that have been hammered into him since the day his training began and even before then, when he was just a baby fresh out of an incubation jar, not even old enough to curl his tiny fingers around the hilt of a blade.

Nightwing turns to look at him then, face impassive. Softly, he asks, “Is that what you really think?”

Damian holds his stare, nails digging into his palms through his gloves, refusing to cower. “I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says, backing up towards the edge of the roof.

Nightwing must notice—if he is as well trained as he seems to be, there is no chance that he doesn’t—but he makes no move to stop him, even as Damian steps off the concrete and into the air, allowing himself to disappear into the shadows of the alleyway, the vigilante’s words still ringing in his ears.

Is that what you want, though?

“You like cats?”

Damian watches as a tall shadow looms over him, neither surprised nor wary at this point, his hand stilling in the fur of the rumbling feline rolled over on his lap. There are many stray animals in Gotham; this one has been particularly friendly, and Damian has always held a fondness for all kinds of animals.

“They are a good source of company,” he says absently, rubbing a finger beneath the cat’s chin. It purrs louder, tilting its head back to allow him better access, and little black furs stick to the cuffs of Damian’s clothes.

Grayson comes to sit on the other side of the small space, one leg propped up for one of his arms to rest on. Some passing civilians direct strange looks at the two—a police officer and a ten year old sitting at the entrance to an alley—but most mind their business, too preoccupied with their own lives. 

“I’m more of a dog person, personally.”

“What’s the use in having a preference?”

“Fair enough,” Grayson smiles. The cat notices the new arrival, and climbs to its feet to meander over to Grayson, who pets it with soft eyes and gentle hands. “Have you named it?”

“Her, not it.”

“Have you named her?” he amends.

“What is the point? She is not my cat.”

“She’s not anyone’s cat, by the looks of it,” Grayson muses, scratching behind one of the cat’s ears.

“So?”

“I think Midnight would be a good name,” Grayson says, ignoring his words. This makes Damian frown and cross his arms.

“That is horribly generic,” he sniffs. “The least you could do is be creative.”

Grayson tilts his head in thought, eyes going distant as he considers Damian’s statement.

“How about… Minerva? Like from Harry Potter?”

Damian stares blankly. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“You’ve never read Harry Potter?” Grayson asks, baffled, then seems to have some sort of epiphany, as his face crumples into one of realization and distraught. “Of course you haven’t. You’ve gotta read it sometime, kiddo. It’s a classic.”

Kiddo.

His nose wrinkles. Damian doesn’t think when he huffs out a sharp, “Damian.”

Grayson blinks, startled, hands stilling the cat’s fur. “What?”

Suddenly, Damian’s stomach twists with regret and shame—he shouldn’t have even said it in the first place, shouldn’t have given Grayson his name because Mother has always said that names have power, but—

But Grayson so easily gave Damian his. And it seems a bit unfair, for Damian to know nearly everything about him while he doesn’t so much as have Damian’s name.

And it’s too late to go back now, anyway. It is a better alternative, rather to being referred to as a child.

“Damian,” he says, covering up his lapse in judgment with a dark scowl. “Not kiddo.”

Grayson tilts his head, his grin damn near blinding. It is enough to make Damian scoff and turn his gaze down to coax the cat back to his side. She slinks over happily and flops onto his legs again, thoroughly enjoying the attention.

“Damian,” Grayson says slowly, as if testing how the word feels on his tongue. He says again, “Damian.”

Then smiles a happy, pleased little smile as if it is something to be proud of. As if knowing even a tiny part of Damian is something to be proud of.

“Don’t wear it out,” Damian snaps, feeling his ears burn pink. He ducks his head and focuses his attention on petting the cat, and Grayson falls silent, though the smile stays on his lips.

It makes Damian’s chest feel warm, a warmth that resembles the feeling after drinking warm tea during a cold day, or the warmth of pride he feels after completing a task successfully and having Mother place her slender hand on the top of his head, telling him that he did well.

It is a warm that feels like the sun is rising inside of him, but that can’t be true. Because the sun is there, in the sky, hidden behind dark clouds bathed in orange that promise rain and dipping just past the horizon.

“It’s a nice name,” Grayson says, and he sounds like he means it, for a reason that Damian does not know. “It suits you,” he adds, and Damian dips his face lower, hopefully so that the man does not see the way his cheeks burn at the compliment. Grayson probably notices anyway.

“Richard is a suitable name for you also,” Damian says eventually. It comes out as more of a mumble than anything.

Grayson only smiles, wide and happy and bright.

“Why have you not told Batman about me?”

Nightwing is humming, perched on the top of the gargoyle of a skyscraper that overlooks a park that Damian has learned is named Robinson, his escrima sticks attached to his back and fingers tapping on his leg to the beat of whatever song he has playing in his head.

He does not flinch at Damian’s sudden presence, does not even look over his shoulder for a greeting. Damian could stab him in the back right now. Or throw a shuriken and slice his neck open. Or push him off the edge of the roof and cut his line when he attempts to grapple.

Even while he knows that Grandfather would probably want him to, Damian does not intend to do anything of the sort, and he thinks that Nightwing may know that too. It befuddles him though, this easy trust that Nightwing has placed into his hands despite only knowing Damian in short moments.

“It didn’t seem like you wanted him to know,” Nightwing says easily, disrupting Damian’s musings and sending him spiraling into even more confusion.

“Why would you care about what I want?” Damian asks, because logically, he shouldn’t.

“He’s your dad.” Nightwing shrugs. “Not mine.”

“I’m an assassin trespassing in your territory,” Damian scowls, taking a few steps forward so that he can see more than just Nightwing's back. The streets peer up at him as he peers over where the small ledge ends, a fatally far drop to the ground. “The logical thing would be to tell the Batman about me, to push him to drive me out of the city. Or do it yourself, unless you are really that incompetent.”

A sigh that precedes a small huff of breath that could be considered a laugh. “You’re a kid,” Nightwing corrects. “And I’m the guy who runs around every night in spandex and masks, so what part of me screams logical to you?”

“Don’t call me that."

“Call you what?”

“A kid. I am not. I am an assassin from the line of al Ghul, as well as heir to the Demon Head.”

Damian has heard the vigilante speak enough to know that he is smiling when he responds, proven by the slightest quirk of his lips, though his face is still turned slightly away from Damian. “Technically, you are,” Nightwing hums. “Eight year olds are considered children, you know.”

“I’m ten, imbecile.”

“Still applies,” he says easily, entirely unruffled by the insult. “Two years doesn’t really make a difference.”

“It does in the League of Shadows.” Damian scowls.

He seems to agree with that, at least. “Yeah,” he concedes, with a small bob of his head and a quiet sigh. “I guess that you’re right.”

And he seems sad, for some reason. Looking at Damian with a small, melancholic sort of smile, but that—that doesn’t make sense, because why would he be sad? He doesn’t really know Damian, and Damian doesn’t know him, and so why would he care? Who is he, to look at Damian with pity etched into the furrow of his brows and the downturn of his lips?

A sudden anger flares up inside him, and he takes a step back, eyes narrowing. 

“I don’t need your pity,” Damian snaps.

Nightwing just blinks at him again, chin dipping slightly down.

“Yeah,” he says, soft. “I guess not.”

Damian’s scowl only deepens. “You’re an imbecile.”

Nightwing’s laugh fills the air, warm and light, and his voice is infuriatingly (yet somehow at the same time, not) amused. “Sure,” he agrees, and must know that Damian is already edging away, preparing to slip back into the shadows of the Gotham night, because he allows them to stew in silence for only a short moment longer before speaking again. “It looks like it’s gonna rain soon.”

The sudden change in topics has Damian blinking from bemusement. He opens his mouth to sneer out a reply, an insult or something dismissive, but nothing quickly comes to mind and so he settles instead for a sharp: “Does it matter?”

“Dunno,” Nightwing hums, kicking his feet in the air cheerfully. “Rain in Gotham can be pretty bad. We’ve been due for a thunderstorm for a while now.”

Damian is silent as Nightwing continues. “The roofs can get pretty slippery, especially without a grapple. I’d be careful running around from building to building when it does.”

“A little rain will hardly hinder my abilities,” Damian scoffs. “I have been trained to function in worse weather.”

The vigilante smiles again at that, a small, hardly noticeable smile. “Just giving you a heads up.”

“I didn’t need it.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Damian scowls at his side profile, but Nightwing still doesn’t look at him, so instead he decides to leave. There is hardly any use in sticking around, and even still Damian does not really know why he chooses to converse with the vigilante, though it seems that Nightwing tends to find him more often than the other way around. Tonight was just a coincidence.

He should have just left him alone, Damian decides, and yet wonders why there’s a twist in his stomach when he leaves and Nightwing says nothing more.

It doesn’t end up raining that night, but it does the next. It begins in the evening and carries on well into the night, the downpour harsh and unforgiving as thunder crackles menacingly in the skies. Damian navigates through the sodden city with careful steps—not that his steps aren’t always careful, but a bit more so now that Gotham is being soaked down to its foundations.

He does not run into Grayson in the evening like he has been these previous days. Instead, he sticks to the cover provided by the distinct lack of sun and the torrents of rain, avoiding the few people who are still running about on the streets, keeping his face turned down and his hands in his pockets.

The day is a sum total of loud and wet and chilling all at once, and Damian travels through Gotham with his hood pulled tight over his head, shielding his eyes from the downpour.

Perhaps the loudness—the sound of fat raindrops colliding mercilessly with hard surfaces and the roar of thunder in the sky—is part of the reason why he does not notice he has attracted attention until there is the telltale wet scuff of shoes against concrete. Damian whirls around instantly and comes face to face with a tall woman, one holding an umbrella over the head of her and her two companions.

“Hey there,” she says, her words gentle and her smile intending to be kind, but Damian can see the sharp edge to it and the cunning glint in her eyes. “What’s a little thing like you doing alone out here in the rain? Are you lost?”

Damian’s hand itches to get ahold of one of his daggers, but he keeps himself still and instead straightens, ignoring the way his hair presses flat against his head and a sudden chill sinks into his bones. The rain pelts down even harder.

“No,” he says. “I am not.”

The woman’s smile stays plastered over her face, and one of her companions—a rugged, muscular looking man, sneers, “It’s not safe to be out in the dark alone in Gotham, y’know.”

Human traffickers, Damian concludes, and fights the urge to narrow his eyes as he considers his options. There’s three of them total, and the woman, though she’s trying to give the appearance of a kind, concerned citizen, holds herself in a way that suggests she has some sort of weapon on her. The man who had just spoken is strong-looking and clearly has an experience fighting, if the jagged scar running down the side of his face suggests anything. The other likely has a weapon too, though he’s stayed silent so far.

“I’m aware,” he responds smoothly, lying with all the ease of breathing. “My home is just down the street, there,” and he gestures towards a scraggly, old apartment building across the street where the shutters on all the windows are closed and yellow light slips through the cracks in the blinds.

The woman tilts her head and her eyes narrow just slightly, hardly enough to be noticeable if Damian wasn’t so attuned to reading body language. “Do you need help crossing the street?” She asks. “Crosswalk is just down that way.” She points down the sidewalk, but Damian doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“You might catch a cold if you’re out here any longer,” the same companion from before says. “Why don’t you let us escort you home, at least?”

“I can get there myself.”

“It’s not safe for a little kid like you to be walking around alone at night, especially in this storm.” The woman squints, mostly for show and utterly failing in fooling Damian. “Honestly, I can hardly see in this storm myself. It’s the least we can do.”

“I can get there myself,” Damian repeats, firm. The woman’s eyes glimmer with impatience and frustration, emotions that she covers up with yet another false smile.

“No, really,” she croons, sweet and enticing. “It’s no trouble, darling—” And reaches out manicured nails to grasp for his wrist, her fingers frigid against his skin.

Damian has a dagger in his hand and is embedding it into her arm in the next second, tearing himself out of her grip and ducking beneath the meaty paw of her male companion as she releases a loud shriek that is swallowed up by the roar of the thunder.

“You brat!” She cries, clutching her bleeding limb to her chest and snarling viciously, gesturing at him to her two companions. “Grab him!”

With a furious shout, the smaller one launches himself at him. Damian swerves out of the way, nearly slipping on the rain slicked sidewalk, jerking sharply to the side to avoid the large hand that comes grasping for his arm and lashing out in response, landing a thin cut that slices across the man’s arm and tears through the fabric of his jacket. The red of his blood begins to get washed away by the downpour, and the other surges forward with a yell, managing to hook his fingers into Damian’s hood and pulling.

Rain obscures his vision as the cover is ripped off his head and he is yanked roughly to the side. Damian snarls, twisting to bury his dagger into the offending hand and stumbling when the man shrieks and retracts his hold. He blinks water out of his eyes and lands a sharp elbow into his attacker’s side that makes him keel over with a grunt.

The other enters his peripheral vision and Damian reacts instantly, smoothly ducking beneath the punch that comes flying towards him and darting around the grab that the thug makes for his face, evading all the outstretched limbs as he sinks the sharp end of his blade into the man’s knee and listens to the way his howl of furious agony rises above the pounding of the rain.

“He’s just a fucking kid!” The woman snarls over the noise a moment later, and perhaps that is why Damian does not hear the click of a gun safety being flicked off, too caught up in the rush of an unbalanced battle as he flips and ducks and twirls over every attack. “Useless fuckin’—I’ve had enough of this shit—”

The crack of a gun being fired splits through the air. Only a split second later, Damian feels something that can only be likened to a lightning bolt ripping through his side.

“Idiot! You’re not supposed to shoot the merchandise!” One of them barks, low and angry, and whatever else is said is lost to the rain as Damian falters, hand going down to his waist and coming away red.

He’s experienced far worse pain than this, but the raw, needle-like agony of a gunshot is something he is unprepared for. The League, even with all its rough and merciless torture training, does not fancy the use of guns, and though Damian is aware of how to use one and how they function, he has always been taught how to avoid getting shot, never really how to deal with the pain of one. It is just as unfamiliar to him as the feral snarl that rips out of his throat, cold fury bubbling up in his chest as he flings an arm out, his dagger catching against the skin of the larger man’s neck and tugging sharply, mercilessly, blood spilling out onto the concrete.

The man chokes and falters, crumpling to the ground. Damian does not even glance at his body, whirling around and pushing past the pain to fling his blood stained dagger at the woman with deadly precision. The blade, just as it had with her companion’s, sinks into her throat faster than she can blink. Blood roars in his ears.

He turns towards the last, chest heaving, side burning, blood splattered across his clothes and face and hands.

Merchandise, he thinks, lost in the haze of adrenaline and anger, the disgust and hate and pain. They had called him merchandise. As if he was an object to be owned, to be sold and used and discarded for personal profit.

Damian draws another dagger.

The last trafficker, the lone survivor of the trio—but not for long, Damian thinks—scrambles to his feet with wide eyes and trembling limbs. “What the fuck are you?” he cries, backing up as Damian stalks towards him, completely numb to the blood spilling from the wound in his hip and the burn of his exhausted muscles. Damian keeps his stare blank, eyes flat and emotionless as he grips his blade and strolls closer.

And the fool runs.

It is almost funny, in its own sick, twisted kind of way, how this man thinks that running will save him from Damian’s anger. Raising his arm, he flicks his wrist and the blade is sent swirling towards the coward, digging into his back and piercing his heart. The man crumples to the ground instantly, in a way that is laughably pathetic.

He finds himself standing rigidly one moment and kneeling on the ground the next, palms pressing into the wet concrete as his vision swims. Damian grits his teeth, his fading adrenaline bringing back the searing pain of his injury as it steals away the strength in his limbs. 

A hand presses against the wound. Damian inhales sharply when he feels thick blood slipping through his fingers, unable to do anything but roll onto his back and grit his teeth. He should get out of the street. He needs to get out of the street—the consequences of being stumbled upon like this would be far too dangerous. He has to…

A wave of nausea overtakes him. Damian blinks slowly, staring up at the sky as he tries to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Gotham’s sky is as cloudy as ever, the moon kept hidden by the rainclouds.

He just needs a moment to gather his bearings, that is all. Then he will retreat, tend to his injuries, and then he will complete his mission and return to Nanda Parbat.

He blinks again, slower, eyelids feeling suddenly very heavy.

A voice calls out in the distance, barely audible over the roar of the storm. Damian exhales slowly, thinking it must simply be his exhaustion and the rain combining to make him think he’s heard something he’s not.

Except that it calls out again, closer this time, accompanied by the slap of boots against wet pavement.

There’s someone calling his name.

Why?

Damian is tired. He is just going to rest for a moment. Then he’ll get up and tend to his wounds and complete his mission and go home.

He closes his eyes, feeling his own blood thick on his hand.

Just a moment. A short one.

“Damian,” someone says. It sounds vaguely familiar, but that cannot be possible, because no one in Gotham knows his name. His eyes flutter for the briefest of moments only to close again, but he catches a vibrant shock of blue, blue, blue. Blue like the ocean, like the night sky, blue like polished sapphires and lapis lazuli and—

Blue like Nightwing’s suit, like…

Nightwing?

Gloved hands, pressing against his cheek. Gentle, persistent, prodding at his skin as they puppet his head to turn to the side. A worried voice repeats, closer, as if crouching over him. “Damian, can you answer me? Open your eyes, kiddo—”

Kiddo, he thinks, and nearly laughs, eyelids fluttering.

“Damian? Damian! No no no—hey, don’t fall asleep on me now, c’mon kiddo—”

He fades.

This ceiling is unfamiliar.

And yet it is not, somehow. At the same time that it is completely foreign he still feels an inkling of familiarity. Damian blinks up at the ceiling, inhaling, feeling soft blankets brush against his arms.

Arms that were covered up by his League uniform, so why…?

Damian frowns, yanking himself into a sitting position and hissing at the way his waist jolts. Instantly, a hand flies down to press against the spot, and he’s surprised to feel the unmistakable light padding of bandages around his side.

He’s not fully undressed, just left in the flexible undershirt he wears beneath his uniform. The slightly damp material sticks to his skin uncomfortably where it had been soaked through by the rain.

The room he has been placed in is startlingly familiar. Damian has yet to see it outside of the darkness it is bathed in whenever he had entered previously, but still, he knows it well after having to sneak around it nearly every night searching.

This is Grayson’s apartment. Why is he in Grayson’s apartment?

The door clicks open just as Damian moves to throw the blankets off. Grayson steps in, holding a glass of water and his phone in hand, only to catch sight of Damian sitting up in the bed staring at him with wide, surprised eyes and blankets bunched up beneath his fist..

He blinks and falters briefly, foot pausing where it is halfway raised to take a step, then seems to restart after a second of eye contact, resuming his stride towards the bed with a small, relieved smile. “Oh, hey, you’re awake.”

Damian stares at him, thoughts running at the speed of light. Grayson is acting so casual about his presence as he takes a seat by the bed. He is not even dressed in his police uniform, just light gray sweatpants and a dark shirt with a Wonder Woman logo on it. And that—that does not make sense, because the last person Damian remembers seeing that night was Nightwing, not Grayson.

But he has woken up in Grayson’s apartment and the man did not even look surprised to see him, and someone dressed his wounds and placed him in this bed, which can only mean…

He shuffles through his mental catalog of languages like picking a card out of a playing deck. Farsi, Mandarin, Japanese, Russian, Tagalog, German… English. There it is.

Throat dry, he forces the words out. “You know.”

Grayson hums a little questioningly, his face remaining unchanging, the picture perfect look of innocence and concern wrapped into one. “Know what?” he asks.

Damian isn’t stupid. He recoils from the fingers that come reaching for his forehead, fear curling up into a ball in the pit of his stomach as he scoots towards the top of the bed furthest away. Grayson frowns at him, though his features soften after a split second, and Damian—Damian is…

Angry. Confused. Fearful. Ashamed.

“You know,” he repeats, twisting his fingers into the blankets and tugging his knees up to his chest. His injury twangs with a light pain, which he ignores. “You know that I—that I’m—you—you’re Nightwing,” he says. Spits, like it’s poison in his mouth, chest cold and aching with betrayal. “You—I—you knew the entire time? And you still…?”

Grayson—Nightwing—Grayson, tilts his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says evenly.

Damian snarls, feeling like he’s suffocating. “Liar. You called me Damian, before. Last night, when I—” he can’t bring himself to say it, to admit to his failures, so he doesn’t. “When you came, as Nightwing. I have not told my name to anyone in this city except—you. And you brought me back here, why did you—?”

He cuts himself off abruptly, chest heaving, breaths coming out rapidly. He knows why he’s here. Why else would Grayson even bother to bring him back to his apartment? Why else would he bother trying to get close to Damian? It is obvious, now, isn’t it?

“You’re—” he stares holes into the bedsheets, dread welling up in his stomach. It comes out as a whisper. “You are going to kill me.”

Of course. It is sort of what he deserves, isn’t it? For being so stupid, for being so blind. The answer was right in front of him this entire time; the conveniently empty apartment whenever Damian snuck in to attempt to complete his mission, Nightwing’s interest in him, Grayson’s ‘coincidental’ run-ins with him in the evenings. Damian has attempted to kill one of Batman’s closest allies and he is going to pay for it in full.

“Damian,” Grayson says. His voice is sweet, gentle, like talking to a wounded animal. Damian flinches anyway. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Don’t lie to me.” He tears his gaze from his hands and forces himself to meet Grayson’s eyes, raising his chin, refusing to show fear.

“I’m not,” Grayson stresses. His blue eyes are soft, and Damian is almost inclined to believe him, but—but that wouldn’t make sense. It doesn’t make sense. “I’m not going to hurt you, Damian.”

“I was sent here to kill you.” Damian says, his words cold and hard, unforgiving. “It was my mission. You should. It is the logical thing to do. I am meant to kill you.”

Grayson levels him with an even look, face betraying nothing but idle curiosity. “Are you going to?”

Damian goes still, hesitation overtaking him. “I…”

And at that, the realization hits him all at once, like a bucket of frigid water being poured over his head or a strike to the sternum. 

Perhaps in the back of his mind he had already known as much, but simply chose not to acknowledge it for fear of his mother’s disappointment, and maybe even a sense of duty to his al Ghul lineage. But now, with Grayson looking at him so plainly, and him sitting in Grayson’s apartment after he had saved Damian from bleeding out in the filthy streets of Gotham—and even now, with Grayson being so gentle and caring and patient—it is infuriatingly impossible to ignore.

He doesn’t want to kill Grayson.

Because Grayson was—is kind. He has been kind to Damian through everything, even after Damian tried to fight him, even after Grayson realized that Damian had been sent here to assassinate him, even after every scathing remark and insult that Damian had spat in the moments they had spent together. In and out of the suit, Grayson’s gentleness had been unchanging.

Grayson is kind.

When was the last time that anyone other than his mother had ever shown him kindness?

“You’re…” Damian falters. Grayson raises an eyebrow, though his expression remains soft, maybe even a bit amused.

His ears are burning. Damian stares down at his hands, fisted into the blankets. “You’re illogical.”

“I spend my nights running around Gotham in spandex,” Grayson says, his quiet laugh filling the air. “I’m far past the point of logical, haven’t you noticed?”

A sudden wave of exhaustion overtakes Damian’s body, making him lean against the headboard with a frustrated sigh and heavy limbs.

“You are a fool,” he says, and means it, though it comes out half-hearted at best. Grayson’s face is earnest and his words are too. It still does not make sense, but Damian somehow believes him, even if Grayson killing him would be the most reasonable next step to this situation.

“I get that a lot,” Grayson smiles. “Now, I have painkillers, water, spare clothes, and a shower. Which one do you want first?”

Damian scowls. “Why did you not bring me to a hospital?”

“Would you have preferred it?”

He hesitates for a split second, then admits grudgingly, “No.”

“I figured,” the man shrugs, fingers idly playing with a corner of the blankets. “It would’ve been difficult to come up with a cover story, anyway, and I have more medical knowledge than it seems, y’know.” He picks up the glass on the nightstand and holds it out. “Water?”

Damian looks at him carefully, taking the glass and searching his face for any signs of deceit or malicious intent. He remains casual under Damian's scrutinizing stare, leaning back in the chair to watch him with blue eyes.

“It’s not poisoned.”

Damian eyes the water and says nothing, but tentatively lifts the glass to his mouth and takes a small sip. When nothing happens after a few minutes, he takes a larger one, relieved at the feel of cool liquid soothing his throat. Grayson watches him with an odd look on his face, though it is not sad or entertained or relieved like before.

It almost looks… fond. Damian dismisses the thought and settles the glass in his lap.

“I don’t understand you,” he says finally, quietly. And it feels like a weakness to admit—al Ghuls are supposed to be perfect and knowledgeable; as heir, meeting such standards is even more important for him. But Grayson only smiles, bright like the sun as harsh rain comes down in buckets outside.

“Not many people do,” he says cheerfully, and stands. The chair makes a muffled noise against the carpet as it slides. “Now, do you want to shower and change your bandages, or did you want those painkillers?”

Damian does not accept the painkillers, even though his injury hurts everytime he moves the slightest bit and even when he is still. Grayson may have taken him to safety and cared for his wounds, but Damian is still an assassin, and he is not so much of a fool to accept pills from a man who knows that Damian has been sent to kill him.

Even if Grayson is gentle and kind and everything about him screams sincerity. Even if some part of Damian yearns to wrap himself in that kindness for as long as possible, before Mother eventually comes to collect him and he is forced to return back to Nanda Parbat in shame and disgrace.

The rain still pours outside, unrelenting. Damian, stepping out of the bathroom and wearing Grayson’s spare clothes, watches the raindrops splatter against the window through the doorway.

The sweater he has been lent dwarfs him, and for once in his life Damian feels oddly small. Cotton sleeves slip past his hands and pool around his arms, bunching up around his elbows when he pushes them up. It is warm, though, and Grayson allows him to change his bandages on his own with a look on his face that could be called understanding… or sympathy.

The gauze is soft in his hands as he wraps it carefully around his side in practiced movements. Grayson is not so incompetent after all, it seems—the wound has been seen to well, and although it still twangs with a light pain at every step he takes, Damian does not seem to be in danger of bleeding out or infection.

Grayson is nowhere to be seen in the bedroom now, though he had been there offering patient smiles and gentle eyes when Damian had slunk off to the bathroom. The soft crackle of a sizzling pan is a clear tell to his whereabouts and the smell of warm food makes his mouth water. 

Curious, he approaches the door and tugs it open. It creaks as it swings to reveal a short hallway that peers into Grayson’s living room, the kitchen connected to the same open space and the sound of old wood swallowed up by the sizzles and hisses of cooking.

Grayson, back turned to him, hums a song as he flits about the kitchen.

How could you turn your back to me, knowing what I have been sent here to do? Damian wants to ask, but the words catch in his throat so he swallows them down and steps forward.

His footsteps would be silent if not the floorboards that creak beneath him as he approaches. Grayson does not give him an explicit greeting, but when Damian comes to a stop at the other side of the small island that separates the living room from the kitchen space, he turns around and slides a plate of eggs and pancakes across the granite. The same glass from earlier follows shortly after, refilled again with more water.

There’s no surprise to Grayson’s features when he catches sight of Damian standing a few steps from the hallway, and he smiles as if he had known the entire time, offering a cheerful, “I thought you’d be hungry. I don’t usually do a lot of cooking, to be honest—Alfred’s always taken care of that—but I can make some basic edible stuff.”

Damian’s stomach chooses that exact moment to growl. Grayson laughs, a light, happy thing that fills the apartment from corner to corner.

“Here,” he says, digging through a drawer and sliding a knife and fork over, along with a bottle of syrup that he digs out of a separate cabinet. “Eat up.” 

Damian stares at the utensils, the granite of the island cool beneath his fingertips.

Grayson gave him a knife.

A knife.

Damian cannot decide whether Grayson is simply far too trusting or a massive idiot.

Nonetheless, he reaches out and takes the utensils. He sniffs the food once, takes a small bite just as he did with the water, and when no ill effects come, begins to eat at a steady pace.

After a little bit, Grayson shuts off the stove and appears with his own plate of food. Damian watches him proceed to drown his meal in syrup, wrinkling his nose at the sight. Grayson looks up midway through doing it and their gazes meet.

“What?” He asks innocently, a smile dancing on the edges of his lips.

Damian scowls and turns his gaze back to his food.

A sudden realization hits him only a moment later, whilst he is in the middle of pushing around the last eggs on his plate. Damian pauses, fork stilling.

“If you are Nightwing,” he says, slowly, “then that means that… Batman must be—”

“Bruce Wayne?” Grayson fills in. “Yeah, pretty much. I would’ve thought that Talia told you, but you didn’t seem to know my identity, let alone Bruce’s, so…”

Damian lifts his gaze to find Grayson with a thoughtful look on his face. Some relief floods him at the lack of mockery in his words and features; Grayson does not mock or think him weak for not knowing. Rather, his tone is simply factual.

With a breath and a tightening of the grip he has around his fork, he speaks carefully, looking for changes in Grayson’s expression out of the corner of his eye. “Mother always simply referred to him as the Batman or my father, never… that. Grandfather calls him the Detective. I was not permitted access to the files before being given this assignment.”

“Leave it to Ra’s,” Grayson scoffs lightly. “Killing two birds with one stone.”

Damian frowns in confusion. “What?”

“Sending you here to Gotham,” Grayson explains. “Killing me means one less person to stop Ra’s next time he tries to pull something big while testing you in the process.”

“Oh,” Damian utters, and suddenly feels very foolish for not having realized this sooner.

“Don’t worry about it.” Grayson smiles an easy smile at him, then glances past, towards the one other window in the apartment where the rain can be seen pouring past. “Wow, it’s really coming down out there.”

Damian has nothing to say to that, so he focuses on finishing the rest of his food instead.

A brief, thoughtful silence blankets over them, then, “Do you want to meet him?”

“I doubt that he even knows of my existence.”

“It wouldn’t be hard to explain.”

Damian mulls it over, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. He only knows vague details of his father—Mother has always told him stories, but meeting the man is…

“He…” Damian hesitates. Dares to flick his eyes up to look at Grayson’s face. Says, uncertainly, “Would he not be disgusted with me?”

Surprise flickers over Grayson’s face. “No, of course not. Why would he be disgusted with you?”

Suddenly restless, Damian shifts a little in his seat. "Mother has told me that he does not kill, and does not permit any of his… associates to do so. I have killed many people, therefore I assumed that he would want nothing to do with me, even if he was aware of my existence.”

Grayson blinks in realization, then his face instantly softens. “Oh, Damian,” he sighs softly, “that’s not your fault, you know that, right? The killing. The League made you do that.”

Damian swallows, his tongue feeling heavy, because Grayson isn’t wrong but he is not entirely right either, and that is what bothers him. Most of his kills, his missions and tests and lessons—they were not life or death like Grayson might believe. Yes, in a way it was between him or them, but failure would only result in punishment and a harsher training regime and Mother’s disappointment.

But they would have died anyway, had Damian been the one to slice their throats open or not.

Killing is not something he regrets. But he does not find a particular joy in it either. It is not fun nor a burden, killing just simply is.

A necessity of the role he was placed into, Damian supposes.

“It’s not…” he glances away, uncomfortable and uncertain. “It is not that easy.”

And, honestly, he does not know exactly why he does not want to meet his father yet. He just knows that he doesn’t, perhaps because he is still growing accustomed to Grayson’s overwhelming kindness, or maybe because he simply fears the fierce warrior from Mother’s stories.

He expects Grayson to object, to try and convince him even more. But instead, Grayson only smiles that soft, gentle smile that he always seems to give Damian, and says, “That’s alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Perhaps.” The words feel bitter on his tongue, nearly tasteless.

Grayson takes his plate from him, the sound of ceramic sliding against granite filling the silence between them, and moves to place it in the sink. The faucet begins to run, and Grayson hums as he cleans their dishes.

Grayson seems to do that a lot, Damian notes. Humming.

He glances out the window. The rain has become such a steady presence that the sounds of it hitting against the glass and roof of the apartment building has become a background noise, lost in Damian’s confusion spurred by Grayson’s befuddling behaviors.

Grayson’s hums mix with the sounds of the downpour.

It pours like that for almost the entirety of the next week.

Damian learns rather quickly that Grayson is a strange, strange creature.

For one, he insists on showing Damian the entirety of the Harry Potter movies. Damian does not think that watching films is a particularly productive way to spend their time, but Grayson insists, and hands Damian a giant bowl filled to the brim with popcorn (“You’ve never had popcorn, have you?”) that is soaked sweet with butter.

“This is disgustingly unhealthy.” Damian had wrinkled his nose as he stared down at the food.

Grayson had only shot him a beaming smile, saying, “That’s the good part about it, though. Try it,” and against his better judgment, Damian had listened. 

He ended up eating most of the bowl by the time the second movie was finished. He thought that Grayson would’ve been angry at him for being so selfish, but the man had only ruffled his hair with an easy smile and warmth in his eyes before moving away to the kitchen to make more.

Grayson allows Damian to sleep in his bed every night. Damian still is not sure exactly why this happens, aside from the simple fact that Grayson is just kind like that. He makes breakfast every morning, introducing Damian to various American foods that, although he had been slightly familiar with, he never had the chance to try himself.

“Jay’s the better cook out of the lot of us,” he always says. Damian presumes that the lot of us refers to the rest of his father’s adopted children, all people that Grayson has mentioned in passing over the past days. 

He knows Todd at the very least, if only from the long period of time that he had spent in the League after Mother dragged his corpse from his grave and began investing her time into caring for him. They had never been close, not after Mother began to throw a Pit-mad Todd at him in some semblance of training.

Even then, once Todd had regained control of his mind and began his own training, Damian did not see him anymore after that. He wonders if he remembers all the times they had spent in the sparring rooms together.

Grayson continues. “He’s really good at it, honestly. I’m not the best, but I’m better than Bruce.”

Seeing Damian’s questioning stare, he smiles, nostalgia written over the lines of his face. “Bruce lost kitchen privileges after he burned milk trying to make me hot chocolate when I was eight. Every now and then he tries his hand at doing something that requires kitchen skills, and every time it always results in Alfred almost having an aneurysm.”

See, that’s the thing about Grayson. He never actively forces Damian to do anything. He tells Damian stories about his father without even being prompted, and treats him with patience and care and kindness.

The days go on much like this. As opposed to disappearing off to his precinct for work, Grayson instead completes it from the apartment, spending a majority of his time working on his laptop whenever they are not doing things like gorging on popcorn or watching children’s movies upon Grayson’s insistence or participating in other inane activities.

Grayson still patrols, however, if only in brief intervals. He once offers to take Damian out with him, docked head to toe in Nightwing gear barring only the blue domino mask and Damian, fleetingly, had thought—how had he never seen the similarities? It seems so obvious now.

He refuses, still wary of a surely approaching Mother and Gotham and perhaps even Grayson himself. Grayson does not push. He leaves and he comes home dripping wet from the rain, the spandex of his suit sticking to his skin. Damian makes tea as he showers, if only for something to do and definitely not out of concern for Grayson’s wellbeing.

It is an odd sort of comfortable, something new and unfamiliar, but Damian finds that he does not mind it so much. 

The pacing of the days is much different now; in the League, each day had passed seemingly in a blur, most of his time taken up by lessons or sparring or even assisting in training new League recruits, and when he was not doing that, completing the assignments given to him by his mother or grandfather. 

Here, in Grayson’s small apartment tucked into one of the safer corners in Gotham, the days crawl by at a snail’s pace. An hour spent listening to Grayson’s stories could feel like three.

Damian spends most days familiarizing himself with both the environment and Grayson. 

The thing he knows is this:

Grayson is a man of many quirks. 

He has an unusual addiction to cereal, especially that of the sugary kind. He sits in odd positions—once, Damian had walked into the living room to find him upside down, legs slung over the back of the couch and head hanging over the edge of the cushion as he typed on his phone. His eyes crinkle at the edges every time he smiles in even the slightest way. He owns a concerning amount of clothes that have some sort of superhero branding on it. Most prominent are ones of the Flash and Batman, though the latter is of no surprise.

Perhaps it is the regularity of Grayson’s stories about his siblings (and by extension, Damian’s siblings, he is always told, because apparently family is not simply built on blood) that causes the visit, or maybe it is just an odd coincidence that it happens.

Drake appears on a quiet night when the rain has lulled into a soft, soundless drizzle. Grayson is in the shower, and Damian is sitting on the couch with a sketchbook that Grayson had purchased for him immediately after seeing Damian doodle on a spare piece of paper he’d found left on the coffee table. 

He hears the creak of the fire escape first, the softest rattle of metal bars beneath a heavy weight. The footsteps are enough to set him on edge—they are deliberately quiet, which takes a certain amount of skill considering the age of that old, crickety fire escape. It had creaked quietly even under Damian’s weight, and he had been taught to walk silently since the moment he could stand.

Damian is up in the next moment, gliding quietly across the space of the living room as he moves towards the door to Grayson’s bedroom. If it is an assassin, they have more than likely come to finish Damian’s job. While he does not doubt Grayson’s combat skills in the slightest, Grayson is still in the shower and thus not at all prepared for battle.

Pressing his ear to the door as one of his hands curls around the hilt of one of his daggers, he listens carefully for the slide of the window opening. Following closely after that is a grunt of exertion, then the muffled thuds of boots against wood.

The intruder calls, voice roughed from smoke, “Your fire escape is, like, two seconds away from coming down, Dick.”

Damian frowns bemusedly, hand settling on the doorknob to the bedroom. More footsteps, this time coming closer. The bathroom is just across the hall, water still running, and Damian can see the yellow light spilling out from beneath the door. Grayson hadn’t heard, then.

He yanks the door open and draws his knife in the same second, blade out and pointed towards a brightly colored chest.

The intruder comes to a screeching halt, immediately rearing back into a battle position. Damian glares at the man—no, man is inaccurate, because this boy can be no older than sixteen—he’s tall, taller than Damian and yet shorter than Grayson, clearly built, although he is favoring one leg. Injured, then.

A black domino mask obscures his eyes from sight, white lenses widening slightly as they stare down at Damian, and there’s a bo staff clutched in his right hand that makes Damian shift into a subtle, more defensive pose. Black hair drips with excess rain, some strands plastering to his forehead.

A bo staff? He wonders, and the gears in his mind whirr to a sudden stop. Damian does a double take, raking his gaze over the teenager once again, taking note of the brightly colored garments, the ‘R’ plastered in a symbol over his left pectoral, the black and yellow cape.

Robin, he recognizes instantly. This is the third Robin, from Mother’s stories. Tim Drake, from Grayson’s stories.

He relaxes slightly, though Robin—Drake—does not do the same. Instead, the lenses of his mask narrow and he shifts his weight from one foot to another. “Who are you?” His voice is cold. “Those are League clothes. What did you do to Dick?”

Damian takes a step back, not lowering his knife. He isn’t sure whether Drake would attack him or not, and he doesn’t want to take any chances.

“I am no threat,” he says instead.

“The knife you’re pointing at my chest says otherwise,” Drake snaps. A fair point, but Damian doesn’t dare to lower it in the presence of someone potentially deadly. “I’ll ask again. What did you do to Dick?”

“Nothing,” Damian says. “Grayson is fine.”

“Am I supposed to just believe that a League operative is going to show up in his apartment and just… what, sit down for a cup of tea? Where is he?” Drake hisses. He takes a step forward. “Where is Dick?”

At that exact moment, the door to the bathroom opens. “Damian? I heard you talking to someone, is everything—uh, Tim?”

Though the mask hides his eyes, Damian can still feel the way that Drake’s steely gaze immediately slides behind him, to the man that has just stepped out of the bathroom. Grayson’s hair is still dripping when Damian also turns to look, cool relief filling his chest at Grayson’s appearance. He had not wanted to fight Drake, especially not in the cramped hallway.

“... Dick?” Drake says slowly, carefully. “Why is a baby League assassin in your apartment? Why are you acting like this is normal?” A pause, then, incredulously, “Please do not tell me that you’ve picked up Bruce’s habit of adopting every stray child he gets his hands on.”

Grayson sputters. “It’s not like that!”

“I am not a baby,” Damian snarls instantly, bristling. Drake regards him warily, though he has relaxed his posture somewhat and is no longer looking ready to launch into a battle at any given moment.

“What are you doing here?” Grayson asks instead. His gaze darts to Drake’s injured leg, then Damian, brows furrowing. “Are you bleeding? What happened?”

Drake looks at Damian, then his gaze flicks back up to the other vigilante. A few moments pass before he sighs, straightening and clicking a button on his staff that has it collapsing into a small silver rod less than one fourth of its original size. 

“I was fighting some of Penguin’s goons and one got a lucky shot,” he says. “I didn’t want to risk bleeding out before I could get to the Batcave, and you were nearby, so I thought I could stop by for some supplies, but…” He looks towards Damian again.

“Oh.” Grayson winces. “Ouch. Here.” He settles a warm hand on Damian's shoulder, not reacting to the way Damian instinctively tenses before he reminds himself to relax, and steps past. “I can patch you up in my room and I’ll…”

Grayson turns back to look at him almost apologetically. “Sorry, Dami. Do you mind waiting in the living room? I’m just gonna help Tim with his leg and…”

Explain everything, he doesn’t say, trailing off into silence. Damian hears it clear as day anyway.

Damian keeps his expression flat and turns on a heel to stride back towards the living room with dignity. “Tt. It is not as if it matters much anyway. Do what you want.”

A beat passes before Grayson calls after his retreating form, “If you still want to watch Frozen after, we can!”

Damian does not answer. There is a brief moment where the gaze on him lingers, then the soft sound of the door clicking shut.

His sketchbook does not keep him seated for long. There is nothing to draw at this time of night anyway—the moon is still hidden behind fat rain clouds, there is nothing interesting outside aside from an empty plastic bag drifting along the sidewalk. Damian doodles a bird and a sword before curiosity takes over and he is getting to his feet again, slinking quietly over to press an ear to the door to Grayson’s room.

Muffled voices come from inside, just loud enough for him to be able to make out snippets of the conversation. Damian stills his breathing and listens.

“ —sent here to kill you—”

“—’s a kid, Tim—”

“ —lucky you haven’t been stabbed—can kill—anytime—Ra’s—brainwashing—”

“—not like them—hasn’t tried to—trust—”

“—oing to tell Bruce?”

A sigh and some shuffling. Grayson says something that Damian can’t hear, and Drake responds at the same volume.

With silent steps, Damian slips away back into the living room. He isn’t sure exactly how to feel about the words said, but his chest is twisting in with an unfamiliar feeling that has him curling up on the far corner of the couch—the one nearest to the window—with his sketchbook clenched tightly in his hands.

The door clicks open only a few minutes later, the last remnants of Drake and Grayson's conversation spilling out into the hallway.

“—not bad,” Grayson is saying, words quiet. Drake grumbles something, and Damian knows that they have parted ways by the single pair of footsteps that come shuffling down the hallways. Grayson likely went to put the medical supplies away.

Sure enough, Drake appears at the edge of Damian’s vision, his brightly colored suit out of place amidst the rest of the dim apartment. His hair seems drier from what Damian can see from his peripheral vision alone, and white bandages are wrapped around the leg that had been injured, stark against the black of his pants.

Drake stands there for a few long moments. Damian stares holes into the wall above the television in the meanwhile.

“So,” Drake starts. Stops, as if apprehensive. Shuffles in place and awkwardly comes to sit on the other end of the couch, cape swishing gently around his ankles. Starts again, after a few more beats of tense quiet. “You’re Talia’s kid.”

A pause, then. “And… Bruce’s.”

Damian does not exactly know what to say to that, so he settles for an affirmation. “Yes.”

“Okay.” Drake says. He seems unsure of what to say. “I’m Tim.”

“I am aware.” Damian replies stiffly. After a moment of consideration, he adds, “Grayson talks about you and… the others.”

(It occurs to him here, briefly, that perhaps he should have given Drake his name, since Drake has so easily given up his. Oh, well.)

“He does?”

“He tells me stories.”

“Oh.”

Damian takes in the thoughtful look on his face, a small frown pulling down his lips, and says, “I have no intention to kill Grayson.”

Drake blinks, the statement only taking a few seconds to process before red stains his cheeks. He sputters. “I-I wasn’t—”

“Your concerns are valid.” Damian grips his sketchbook tight, and thinks of the way that Grayson had smiled when handing it to him with a bag of art supplies, sopping wet from the rain and dripping all over the floor but his expression so victorious that one could think he had just conquered the world.

Completely dry, he had said cheerfully, the rain started back up when I was halfway home but I managed to keep it safe.

He thumbs a page of the sketchbook, averting his gaze to stare at the floor, and repeats, “I am not going to harm Grayson.”

Drake’s calculative gaze burns into him for a few long moments. Then it slides away and Drake makes a noise that is halfway between a sigh and a laugh, throwing his head over the back of the couch.

“Leave it to Dick to charm a baby assassin into not murdering him,” Drake mumbles, barely loud enough for him to hear. He raises his voice higher in a statement meant for Damian. “Dick trusts you, y’know. And you’re Bruce’s son, so I guess that means that we’re kind of brothers? In a way.”

A pause. “I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Drake agrees. There is another lull in the conversation before he says, “I won’t tell Bruce because Dick asked but he’s—he’s not bad, you know? He won’t hate you for the way that you—grew up. If anything he’ll just get pissed at Talia. But, you know, the Manor, it’s—you’re always welcome. The others would love to meet you, uh, if they knew you existed.”

Damian blinks. He doesn't quite know what to say, mouth opening and closing for a few seconds before he settles for: “I see.” Then, adding on, “Thank you.”

In an uncharacteristic moment of perfect timing, Grayson bounces into the room on light feet. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Damian looks at Drake. Drake looks at him back.

“Nothing really,” Drake says, when Damian’s gaze inevitably flickers away.

“Cool,” Grayson says cheerfully. “Are you staying the night, Timmy? I can give Bruce a call and I have some of your clothes from the last time you slept over.”

Drake shakes his head. “It’s probably better that I don’t. I parked my bike two buildings down, I can make it back with this leg.”

“I can drive you back?” Grayson offers, frowning. “With that leg, it’s—”

“It’ll be fine,” Drake rolls his eyes beneath the mask. “If I get into trouble, I’ll just call Jay, alright? No need to ditch the kiddo in your apartment.”

Grayson only frowns more. “Jason is out of the Manor already? I thought he was still on Alfred’s house arrest after he got into that scuffle with Ivy.”

“You know how he is.” He shrugs. “He was okay enough to flip me off and tell me to ‘fuck off and die’ earlier, so.”

“Oh,” Grayson says. “I guess he’s fine, then.”

Damian watches them silently. He is in both parts confused and wary, but neither of the other two pay him any mind as they chatter.

“Anyway,” Drake huffs, grunting as he pushes himself off the couch and stands. He tests his weight on his bad leg and winces, but eventually settles the foot onto the ground. “I really gotta get going before Bruce thinks I’ve died and loses his mind. Thanks for the—uh—” he waves a vague hand, “the supplies. Remember that Sunday brunch at the manor is coming up, but if you can’t go,” his eyes are still covered with the mask, but Damian feels when his gaze flickers briefly over to him, “it’s fine. I’ll cover for you.”

“We’ll see,” Grayson tells him. “It’s only Wednesday.”

“Alright,” Drake says. He smiles at Damian, small and almost hesitant but kind nonetheless, then pulls out a grappling gun and shuffles over to the window.

“Text me when you get home.”

“Sure thing, Mother Hen.”

“Whatever. Just get out of my apartment.” Grayson’s words scream annoyance, but his tone is fond.

Drake grins, bright and teasing, and slides the window open. Then he is gone, and there is no sign of him ever having been there except the warm spot on the couch where he had sat and the cool breeze coming through the open window, small droplets of the returning rain already beginning to splatter the sill.

Grayson watches after him for a few minutes, the expression on his face soft.

Damian wonders fleetingly if that is a look Grayson got from Damian’s father, just as Mother’s frown resembles Grandfather’s and the way that Drake smiles is like Grayson and how his mother has always told him that he has the shape of his father’s eyes.

Then, selfishly, he wonders if his father would ever look at him like that, if they ever met.

It’s a selfish, irrational thought. Why would he ever? His father doesn’t even know he exists. 

And yet—the thought does not leave his mind for the rest of the night.

Damian wakes up with a funny feeling in his chest.

He knows what it is instantly, and the dread that had been slowly building in the very bottom pit of his stomach makes itself known all at once. It is no one’s fault other than his own, because Damian had known this day was coming, had known it just as well as he knows that the sun rises at dawn and sets at dusk.

He is being watched.

The very knowledge of it—and who it is—makes him uneasy. Damian is jumpy and wary the entire day, which is definitely noticed judging by the thoughtful frowns that keep being shot his way when Grayson thinks he isn’t looking.

“Are you okay?” Grayson asks eventually, a look of concern on his face. Damian shrugs off his worry and tosses a fleeting glance towards the window, the downpour having lightened into a barely noticeable rain that thrums gently against the glass.

“Fine,” he answers, tucking his knees close to his chest and glaring at the television. “Something must have upset my stomach.”

Grayson looks unconvinced, but he allows the topic to drift away. Damian opens a page in his sketchbook and pretends to draw, though he only succeeds in making one stroke before he begins to simply color in the right corner of the page with his pencil.

The day drags on, and this time the slow progression of it does nothing but make Damian more restless.

Grayson leaves for patrol two hours after dusk, when the sun has long since set and the moon has taken its place, hidden behind thick gray clouds.

“Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone,” he says brightly, as he always does. And if things were normal, Damian would respond with a sharp quip or a witty reply that would make Grayson laugh.

But now he only nods, watches him clamber out the window and into the rain, the old fire escape clunking unsteadily beneath his weight.

He allows himself to wait only an hour, until he is almost certain that Grayson must be well and truly gone, nowhere in the area. Then, pulling on his hood and his mask and his gloves and double checking all of his knives, he scales the side of the building, making his way towards the roof.

The building is slick with the effects of the storm, difficult to climb and even more difficult to see with the dark and the rain. The clouds look lighter though, and Damian suspects that they will disappear soon enough.

She is nowhere to be seen when he finally makes it to the top, boots skidding against the wet concrete. Damian breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, resigning himself to having to wait.

It takes exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds for her to arrive. He does not even hear her steps, only the telltale swishing of her robes and her smooth voice coming from behind him.

“You kept me waiting.”

“I apologize,” Damian says. He turns around, water dripping into his eyes that he blinks away, and his mother stands before him, long hair cascading in waterfalls down her shoulders. A long brown cloak keeps her protected from the downpour, shadowing over her stoic face.

“Mother,” he greets.

“Damian.” She regards him coolly, with a tilt of her head and a step forward. “I see that you have neglected to complete your assignment.”

Damian has no argument for himself, no defense, so he keeps his head bowed and says: “Yes.”

At first, he expects a strike, a slap or the sharp press of her nails digging into his skin. But his mother is only silent, the sound of the slowly lightening rain filling the silence between them, and Damian dares to look up.

Her gaze is fixed behind him. Damian holds back the dread welling up in his throat and turns around.

“Richard,” Mother says placidly. She stands straight, as though she has no intention of battle, but Damian is acutely aware of the quick and deadly movements that she is capable of.

“Talia,” Grayson intones. The lenses of his mask are slits, his escrima clutched in his hands, and even through the dark Damian can make out the thin slice of red cutting across one of his cheeks.

“As you can see,” Mother steps forward, a hand settling on Damian’s shoulder, her voice calm. “I have come to collect my son.”

“Do you want that?”

He can practically hear how Mother’s brows furrow. “Of course—”

Grayson cuts her off, a daring feat considering that his mother has an entire league of trained assassins beneath her command. “Respectfully,” he says smoothly, “I wasn’t talking to you.” Then his head tilts down, gaze directed towards Damian, and Damian feels every inch of his blood run cold.

Mother’s grip on his shoulder tightens. Damian can imagine the way her nostrils are probably flaring, the only sign of her irritation besides the sharp sting of her nails pressing lightly into his skin.

“Damian,” Grayson says, prompting. “Is this what you want?”

And if Damian were truly honest with himself—a grand feat in of itself—the answer is there, sitting plainly at the forefront of his mind.

The simple fact of the matter is this:

Gotham may be cold and dirty and dark and unwelcoming and by all means a terrible city, but in the time he has spent here, he has grown fond of it. Damian likes Gotham. He likes jumping from rooftop to rooftop and coaxing stray cats into his lap and buying food from cozy restaurants with kind, old cashiers and tasting American pastries. He likes strolling through the streets amidst seas of people that hardly even glance at him. He likes the feeling of freedom, of being able to go anywhere without the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing on his shoulders.

He likes being with Grayson, with all his kind smiles and carefree laughter and the infectious feeling of happiness that he emits.

Damian likes Gotham, and he likes Grayson.

He turns around, the hand on his shoulder falling away with the action, blinking more rain out of his eyes and curbing the trembling of his fingers into two tightly coiled fists at his sides. Mother stares down at him, her face passive and expecting. The slightest furrow of her brow is the only sign of her trepidation.

Damian holds his head up high, stands straight. Keeps his breathing steady, feeling raindrops splash onto his face and slide down his cheeks. And wonders when—when had he grown so attached to a city that he had previously thought to be so disgusting, so filthy?  

“I want to stay in Gotham.”

Mother’s eyes narrow.

“With—” Damian fumbles, breath hitching, and adds, “with Ri—Grayson. I want to stay. And—” these words come hesitantly, but he forces them off his tongue, “And I want to meet my father.”

Mother stares down at him, green eyes burning into him like the acidic waters of the Lazarus Pits. Damian can’t read the emotions on her face, and that in itself is enough to have him biting the inside of his cheek in anticipation, stomach coiling and twisting with every second that passes.

“Talia,” Grayson says before his mother can speak, closer now—when had he approached? “I think we should talk.”

Damian watches his mother’s attention shift away from him, her eyes like cold steel.

Eventually, after a few tense moments, her lips part. “Very well.”

And like that, they step away. Damian’s mother and Grayson, an odd combination and even odder when not locked in battle. Their words are inaudible, and he just watches, taking in the scowl that twists his mother’s lips, the furrowing of her brows and Grayson’s calm demeanor.

The conversation does not last long. Grayson says something and Mother gives a tight, curt nod, her lips pursed. Grayson’s mouth curves into a dry smile, head inclining slightly. He speaks again. They part.

Mother comes back to him while Grayson stays in place, gaze flicking to Damian’s—he offers a gentle smile—before he turns away, allowing mother and son time to converse in private.

Mother is stiff-faced when she approaches. Damian knows what that means and doesn’t know exactly how to feel.

Happy, yes, but Mother’s expression is unnerving and worrying and Damian cannot help but regret, because for all that the League may have been harsh and brutal, his mother has always loved him, has always been as kind to him as the League would allow.

Mother, who brought home sweets and gifts from her trips across the globe; who gifted Damian his first sword and assisted in bandaging his wounds after his training; who brushed gentle fingers over his cheek and gazed at him softly whenever Grandfather was not looking; who, when sleep came scarce, told him stories about his father and tales of the greatest conquerors known in history as she carded fingers through his hair.

Because for all of her flaws and all of the painful training she put him through, she only ever tried to raise him to be able to survive, to prosper in a place as harsh and pain-filled as the League of Shadows. Damian cannot fault her for that.

Mother kneels down to meet his eyes, slightly shorter than him like this. She places a hand on his cheek, warm and soft despite the blood and death that has stained it throughout the years. 

“If this is truly what you want,” she says, rubbing a manicured thumb just below his eye, “I will not stop you.”

Damian’s nails are digging into his palms. He sucks in a trembling breath, silent for only a moment, then says, “Grandfather will be furious.”

“He will,” Mother agrees. “And that is something that you must accept if you wish to stay in Gotham.”

“Are you not?” he blurts out. “Angry at me, too?”

“Angry?” She smiles that fond, amused smile of hers that is hardly more than a quirk of her lips and the crinkling of her eyes. “No, Damian.”

And that is… that’s—

“All I have ever wanted,” says his mother, “is for you to be safe. But if this is what you want—if this is what will make you happy, then I am in no place to stop you. You have been old enough to make your own decisions for a long time now, habibi, and old enough to reap the consequences.”

He casts a fleeting glance to the black-and-blue clad figure standing halfway across the roof. “Richard,” Damian begins hesitantly, “the contract—is—will the client not…?”

“It will be dealt with.” His mother gives him another smile, briefer this time. Her lips are soft against Damian’s forehead as she leans forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

“I will miss you dearly,” she tells him, standing. The hand on his cheek drifts to his hair, resting atop his head. “But this is not a permanent goodbye, my love.”

“I know,” Damian says, and means it.

She runs her fingers through his hair once more before drawing her hand back to her side and turning towards where Grayson is waiting, beckoning him over with a wave of her hand. Richard smiles at Damian when he approaches, his escrima now tucked safely into the holsters on his back.

“I trust you with the care of my son,” Mother tells Grayson, her voice no longer gentle as it was with Damian but instead calm and professional.

Grayson nods.

Mother’s lips purse, and she gives a curt nod in return. “I expect that you will stay true to our agreement?”

A placid smile. “You know that I will.”

“My beloved would have not raised you to do anything less,” says his mother. “Then, I shall make my departure. Goodbye Richard.” She turns to Damian. “Goodbye, Damian.”

“Thank you,” Damian says, because that is all he thinks he can manage without every other emotion welling up in his chest spilling out of his mouth and into the air.

Like that, his mother is gone, disappearing into Gotham’s shadows without even the slightest rustle of her clothes. Damian watches the place where she had left for a few moments, then turns to Grayson, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue.

How did you know? He wants to ask. What did you say to her? 

But Grayson is looking at him too, always with that same softness, the kindness that Damian has grown so accustomed to over the short time they have known each other, and the only thing that leaves his mouth is a watery, simple, “Why?”

Grayson kneels down to his height, a hand reaching up to peel his mask off his face so that blue eyes (sapphires and oceans and clear skies and lapis lazuli) can meet Damian’s green.

“I’m going to hug you,” Grayson tells him seriously. It is not a question, simply a warning, and hardly even a second later there are strong arms wrapping around him. They are both wet and it is cold but Grayson’s arms are warm and safe and Damian cannot—Damian cannot remember the last time that anyone has hugged him.

Cheek pressing against the side of Damian’s face, Damian both feels and hears the quiet sigh that passes through Grayson’s lips. His eyes are stinging, and Grayson still has not let go, which only makes them sting more until there are tears pouring down his face, mixing with the raindrops splattered on his cheeks.

“Why?” he chokes out, again. His arms hang limp at his sides. “For what—what reason could there be for you to—”

“You’re my brother,” Grayson says. “I don’t need any other reason besides that.”

Silence. Then:

“I don’t understand you,” he whispers, emotions balling so tightly in his throat that he thinks he may suffocate on it.

He feels it when Grayson smiles. “That’s okay. All you need to understand is that I love you.”

And that, Damian thinks, is something so very Grayson to say. Because since when had that—when had love—ever been enough?

That, he supposes, is just another one of Grayson’s oddities.

He breathes in, breathes out. The cool air fills his lungs and loosens the tightness in his chest, calming the rapid beating of his heart.

He feels lighter, somehow.

“You stink, Grayson.”

Grayson laughs against him, warm and soft, still not letting go.

And despite Damian’s complaints, they stay like that until the rain finally subsides and slivers of the moon begin to peek through the clouds.

The light from the television splashes onto the couch and Grayson’s face, the only source of light in the room aside from the open window that allows moonlight into the apartment. Damian pulls the blanket further over his legs and breathes in slowly, head tipping back to rest against the armchair, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments.

“Tired?” Grayson asks, a smile in his voice, splayed out along the expanse of the couch. His voice is soft over the singing of the characters on screen, a kaleidoscope of different colors—red, yellow, blue, white—flickering over his face as the dancing and singing progresses.

Damian opens his eyes and straightens. “No,” he says, and it is the truth but at the same time it is not, because he is not tired— not in the sense that Grayson is likely thinking.

He is weary, that is all. The day’s events have been energy consuming, but even so he does not think he’ll be able to sleep if he tried. Not yet, at least.

Grayson accepts his answer easily, his attention darting back to screen. Damian’s, on the other hand, drifts towards the window, the curtains opened and pale moonlight filtering through the screen.

The rain has stopped completely now, no longer persisting in the on-again off-again pattern that it has over the past few days. Gotham’s sky is no longer cloud-filled and depressing. Rather, it is remarkably clear, only a few remaining clouds drifting past the crescent moon.

“If you look,” comes Grayson’s sleepy voice; he’s dozing, worn out from both his patrol and encounter with Damian’s mother. Apparently, Grandfather had sent not only her, but also a handful of assassins to attempt to carry out Damian’s mission, which is how Grayson had been able to know and return so quickly.

Damian blinks over at Grayson, who is looking at him with a small smile.

“If you look,” he repeats, soft, “you can see the stars.”

Damian’s breath catches in his throat when he instinctively turns to look. 

Grayson is right. Just behind a passing cloud, glimmering against the dark blue of the night sky, there is the smallest, faintest shine of stars.

The rain has washed away all of trademark Gotham smog, leaving only clear skies and cool breezes.

Without thinking, he reaches for his sketchbook, oblivious to the fond look that passes over Grayson’s face. In some ways, he thinks, the view of the stars here is even better than in Nanda Parbat, with tall buildings and towering skyscrapers and rustling trees to give the city an air of serenity, of peacefulness.

It is a sharp contrast to the quiet and lonely atmosphere back when he was surrounded by towering mountains and thick snow, the desert empty in the distance.

Damian breathes in, breathes out, draws the first stroke of a beginning skyline on his paper, eyes fixed on the star-filled sky. The movie continues its song, something softer and sweeter than the previous chorus. 

Grayson’s humming, soft and low, rises to join it.

Wayne Manor stands tall against a blue sky, an intimidating, large building that Damian eyes with uncertainty as Richard steers them past the gates and around the large fountain in front. He holds his sketchbook tighter to his chest, counting the varying different vehicles that can be seen parked in front.

A motorcycle, painted a dark red with a black helmet settled on the seat. A blue car similar to Richard’s, not an expensive brand like one that would be expected from his father. This must belong to one of his father’s unofficially adopted children, then, perhaps?

Richard parks the car and peers over at him questioningly. “All good?” he asks, likely taking note of Damian’s fidgety behavior.

He’s not nervous, per se.

Simply… wanting to make a good first impression.

Damian loosens his grip on his sketchbook, tightens it, loosens it again, fingers flexing around the pages. He turns his head again to stare at Wayne Manor, where his father and his father’s adopted (and not adopted) children are already gathering.

Are they late? They must be late.

A hand reaches over to settle in his hair. Damian nearly jolts from surprise, but manages to quell his instinct to lash out into a minute tensing of his muscles, and that’s—that is progress, he thinks. That’s progress. It means something; it has to, right?

“I already notified Alfred that I’d be bringing someone along,” Richard says, words coming out gently. “But if you don't want to do it anymore, that’s okay.”

“No,” he says instantly. “I want to.” And repeats again, chest tightening, a little quiet, “I want to. I am just… deciding what to say.”

“Okay,” Richard accepts this in stride. “You’ve met Tim already, you know.”

“I know,” Damian says, and thinks of Drake’s kind smile and easy acceptance of him. “I know.” He takes a breath. “I’m ready.”

“Alright.” Richard gives a short ruffle of his hair. Damian scowls, reaching up to fix it, then exits the car. Richard rounds the side to meet him, and together they stroll up the steps of his father’s manor.

Damian stops at the front door. His heart thuds in his chest.

Another heavy hand in his hair. Damian looks up on instinct, and Richard is smiling down at him, encouraging and kind and gentle all at once.

He offers out a hand. After a moment, Damian takes it. Allows himself the comfort.

Grandfather would have called it a weakness, he knows, and it is. To have placed his heart so willingly in Richard’s care, allowing him to uncover and peer at all the delicate feelings bottled up inside.

Yet, Grandfather would have seen it as something to be eradicated, something to tug out by the roots and burn, because weakness is shameful and al Ghuls are everything but. Richard, on the other hand, treats it as something to be treasured. As a sign of trust. He has never punished or taken advantage of Damian’s weaknesses, not even after everything.

That, he supposes, is the most basic difference between Grandfather and Richard.

And Richard’s hand is warm in his, warm and welcoming despite the years of fighting etched into the calluses on his palms.

Perhaps, Damian thinks, this is a part of what love is.

Richard squeezes his hand. After a brief pause, Damian squeezes back, and the man smiles wider, as if Damian has just handed him the world on a silver platter.

Damian knocks on the door once, twice, three times. Richard does not let go of his hand, even now.

He tilts his head back and breathes. In, out, letting a breeze ruffle through his hair and lift away the weight in his chest.

The sky is clear.