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This isn’t the first time Dick has woken up tied to a chair in a decrepit warehouse, and—knowing the high-stakes life he leads—it certainly won’t be the last. But could the universe at least give him a full weekend between kidnappings? Is that too much to ask for? Dick’s muscles are still sore from the last time a supervillain got bold enough to take the Batman hostage.
“Good, you’re awake,” a voice says before Dick even opens his eyes. He does now. Talia al Ghul steps in front of him, her expression smug. “I was growing bored.”
Dick mentally sighs. “Hey, Talia. How’s your dad? Still dead, I hope.”
Her sharp eyes narrow. “Likewise.” It’s just one word, but the shot hits its target with ease. It’s only been a few months since they lost Bruce. The wound is still as fresh as it was the day it happened. Some days Dick wonders if it will ever heal.
He distracts himself by taking stock of his surroundings. “Nice place,” he says, looking around the warehouse. No visible exits closer than the one station at the opposite end of the large room. The structure isn’t familiar, but if he has to guess, he’d say they’re somewhere close to the Bowery. He could do worse, mysterious-second-location-wise.
Dick’s hands are tied with one set of handcuffs, which is strange. Most don’t trust anything with more give than solid steel chains to hold the most feared vigilante in Gotham, but Talia knows Dick better than most. The real strange part is that she only tied his hands; his chest and legs are free. Either she doesn’t intend to keep him for long, or she has more cards up her sleeves. Dick’s cowl is off, so he gives Talia his best Bat-glare.
“I know you didn’t drag me to this lovely establishment to talk about your old, dead flame. For that, I’d need some wine and a copy of Bruce’s sealed files labeled ‘Crazy Bitch.’” He manages to wrap part of a finger around the lock cinching his wrists together. Bingo. He slips a pick out of his glove.
“I am not here to discuss your father’s poor relationship skills.” Talia leans forward. “I’m here to talk about our little custody case.”
It takes too long for the words to form a meaning. Dick’s head is still swimmy from whatever she knocked him out with—gas or a concussion, most likely. Comprehension sinks in and Dick yanks on the cuffs. “Where is Robin? What did you do to him?”
Talia rolls her eyes. “Don’t dislocate yourself. Damian is perfectly fine. I assume he is wherever you left him. This spat is between you and me, Grayson.”
Dick’s heart rate settles only a fraction. Damian split shortly after they began their patrol—a decision that Dick is now thankful for, as irritating as it was at the time. Dick was cursing his name twenty minutes ago when he discovered his Robin—his partner— had abandoned his post to go off and bust crime on his own, independent of the man who was interminably responsible for his well being. It figures that this would be the one time when Damian’s insubordination would turn out to be a good thing, so long as he stays far away from his psychotic mother long enough for Dick to get a handle on this situation.
If Talia were anyone else, Dick might put actual effort into playing a more convincing Batman, but she knows him well enough that he leaves the act behind and smiles. “Loosen these cuffs and I’d be happy to fight you, then. This chair’s not super comfortable. IKEA ripped you off.”
She doesn’t give in to his game, which isn’t much of a surprise. The al Ghuls are never any fun. “Funny. Those amateurs you call rogues have made you soft, I see. You’re losing your touch, Grayson.”
“No dice? Shame. I thought you were dumber.”
A calloused yet elegant hand moves quick as a viper. Talia grabs Dick’s chin, her nails digging in like she’d like nothing more than to twist a corkscrew into his flesh. “That’s your mistake,” she says. Her voice is ice.
Dick swallows. “Getting rid of me won’t make him come back to you.”
Talia’s thumbnail digs harder into the spot where a dimple would be if Dick were smiling. It’s become a rarer and rarer occurrence beneath the corrosive weight of the cowl. “No, it won’t,” she concedes. “Your hooks are in him too deep.” She lets go. “Fortunately for me, I have a friend who owed me a favor.”
The look in her eyes sends spiders crawling down Dick’s spine. The now-unlatched cuffs fall away behind him, right in the nick of time. He doesn’t wait to hear the clank before he’s moving up, up, up. Talia’s head snaps back from the impact of his fist. Her nose makes the most satisfying crunch, which almost makes the circumstances worth it.
Dick books it for the exit, not sticking around for a proper fight. He’s gone up against the al Ghuls enough times by now to know that his best bet is swallowing his pride and prioritizing escape over victory. He can get her another time.
Talia is only stunned for a second; it’s not enough time, but she doesn’t give chase like Dick expects. Instead, she calmly wipes the blood trailing down her lip with her thumb. Her eyes cut to something behind Dick. “Make yourself useful, Psimon.”
Dick jolts at the man’s name. He’s screwed. He’s royally screwed, but he doesn’t give in, even though having Psimon in the same room means he’s already lost. Dick only makes it a few steps further before that familiar voice speaks up from the shadows.
“Psimon says, be still.”
Stone—that’s what Dick’s limbs become. His legs are cement blocks. His arms are concrete. It’s pointless to fight it, he knows as he struggles unsuccessfully against the psychic grip on his nervous system. He’s a marionette, helpless but to obey the man tugging his strings.
Talia saunters forward, a prideful smile on her vindictive mouth. “Much better. It pays to have friends in low places, does it not?”
Were Dick in control of his mouth right now, he might spit in her face. Psimon comes up beside Talia, every bit as horrible as Dick remembers: sickly pale skin, glass case serving as his skull, cruel grin. “I do like him better than this,” Psimon says. He flicks one of the ears on Dick’s cowl. “So quiet. So obedient.”
Talia flicks her fingers with disinterest. “Remember the deal, Psimon. Only what we talked about. Nothing more.”
“Far less fun, but your wish is my command.” Psimon bows exaggeratedly. His grin makes Dick’s stomach churn. “Let’s have some fun, Batman.”
In Damian’s expert opinion, Grayson is blowing the situation completely out of proportion. He’s never seen his Grayson this angry before without a gruesome Joker stunt preceding it.
Grayson has been in a ghastly mood from the minute they returned home after his “encounter” with Talia. (If you count pathetic failures “encounters.” Damian never would have fallen into one of his mother’s traps so easily.) Damian isn’t pleased to hear that his mother is in town, but his outrage is pushed aside by Grayson’s own uncharacteristic fury.
“Where the hell were you tonight?” Grayson demands. He tears off his cowl, grimacing at a twinge in his shoulder. “You disappear on me for hours, turn off your tracker—do you have any idea how stupid that was? What if Talia had found you first instead of me?”
Damian scoffs. “I can handle her.”
“I don’t care. You don’t just go off on your own in the middle of a patrol. You’re supposed to stay with me no matter what. When I’m compromised, it’s your job to help me out, just like how I’m the one who has to bail you out when someone gets the better of you.”
Damian clicks his tongue. “No one gets the better of me.”
Grayson slams his hand down on the Batcomputer’s desk so hard the bats chirp in protest from the stalactites. “I could have died tonight, Damian. And my partner was off doing god knows what, leaving me to escape by the skin of my teeth. If Bruce were here instead of me, you’d be fired so fast your head would spin.”
He’s fuming, which is a new look for him. Usually when Damian makes a decision Batman isn’t mature enough to handle, he gets a long lecture and some hand-me-down Superman quotes about integrity. Damian has to commend Grayson for finally growing a pair.
“Fine, your highness.” Damian drops his gear in a heap on the floor for Alfred to take care of. “Next time I want to go to the bathroom, I’ll make sure to ask for permission via a formally written note.”
Not that he was actually on a bathroom break when he slipped away from Grayson between the bank and the train tracks. But can he be blamed for wanting a modicum of space? He doesn’t need his hand held every second of the night to make sure he doesn’t snap and decapitate a jaywalker.
And, while Grayson was being held by Talia, Damian stopped two muggings and an attempted robbery by himself. Does he get any credit for his heroics? No, of course not. Instead, he gets a scolding for an encounter that he wasn’t even part of.
Damian departs for the showers. “Try sending a smoke signal the next time you need your sidekick to bail you out of trouble.”
“I’m not done talking to you,” Grayson calls at his back.
“Well, I’m finished listening. I have better things to do than be berated for your inadequacies.” He leaves Grayson alone to stew. Let the big baby tire himself out on his irrational anger. Come tomorrow morning, this will be a forgotten matter.
Except when Damian sits down for breakfast the following day, Grayson’s usually chipper morning greeting is absent. He doesn’t even look at Damian.
Alfred flips a crepe for Damian on the griddle. “How did you sleep, Damian?”
“Fine.” Damian doesn’t tear his eyes away from his partner, who staunchly refuses to pay him any mind. It’s a heady feeling, having this kind of power over a person. Grayson isn’t one for petty grudges; it looks like Damian single handedly drove him to that point. Not bad, if he does say so himself.
“Before I forget,” Alfred says, “Master Dick, I restocked the medical bay with some more ointment for those bruises of yours.” Grayson doesn’t respond. Alfred’s tone does not lose its levity. “I recommend you take it easy for the next few days—let your body heal before you put it through any more strain. She didn’t hold back this time, did she?”
Grayson’s expression is sour as he stabs at his eggs. “No, she didn’t.”
Alfred hums, sliding a full plate in front of Damian. “At least the night ended without too much damage. You came home to us safe in the end.” He pats Grayson’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Grayson says with false cheer. “No thanks to the boy wonder over here.”
Damian calmly picks up his fork. “If I’d known you needed a babysitter, I would have brought Superman along. The big bad Batman can’t handle a few bruises?”
“At least Superman knows how to obey the simplest orders,” Grayson retorts with ire Damian didn’t know he had. “You had one job, Damian. Stay by my side. And you couldn’t even do that.”
“Because you were suffocating me! I’m not your pet. Just say you don’t trust me if you can’t risk me patrolling without supervision for five minutes.”
“Fine. I don’t trust you.” Grayson pushes away from the table. “If you’re not going to watch my back out there, don’t even bother putting on the fucking suit.” He stomps off, leaving his uneaten breakfast behind.
Alfred comes up behind Damian and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder. “He doesn’t mean that, my boy. Dick is just stressed over last night’s debacle. Give him some time to cool off and he’ll apologize.”
Damian shrugs out of Alfred’s reach. “Let him be angry. It just means that I won’t have to endure his nagging while he sulks over it.”
Grayson has never been one to hold a grudge. Damian doesn’t think he could hold one if he tried. But time passes in lingering footsteps, and Grayson’s animosity doesn’t change. He avoids Damian for the rest of the day, acting as if Damian doesn’t exist at all whilst he solves cases alone in the cave.
Damian doesn’t care. He doesn’t. If anything, he’s relieved about this new development. He’s grown tired of Grayson’s helicopter parenting. Some distance will do them both good.
Their daily training sessions get more intense, with Grayson pushing Damian to the brink of collapse. What used to be cheery encouragement heel-turns into unforgiving criticism, which, truly, Damian prefers far more. This is how the League trained him. This is how it’s supposed to be.
Stakeouts for Batman and Robin have changed from painful hours filled with prattling about any and all topics to silent sessions, unmarred by old Titans stories that make Damian want to bash his head into a wall. Grayson is soundless and cold, like Batman is meant to be. He’s finally grown a spine, it seems.
Damian tries not to let his satisfaction at this new development show. If Grayson finds out his so-called “punishment” is flopping, he might go back to his old, annoying ways.
Three days of this perfect silence pass. Then one night Grayson announces that he will be patrolling alone.
“I’m coming with you,” Damian protests.
“No, you’re not. You’re not needed.” Grayson tightens his gauntlets, regarding Damian as if he were a mosquito.
“What am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”
Grayson’s eyes are inscrutable beneath the cowl’s lenses. “Doesn’t matter. Practice on the training dummy if you’re feeling restless.”
This isn’t the first time Grayson forbade Damian from patrolling with him, but there has always been a reason for it, like an injury or a villain he didn’t want to risk Damian going up against. It was always for Damian’s protection; never for meaningless punishment.
This must be a new strategy, Damian concludes after Grayson has left the cave for Gotham. Stop the bad behavior before it starts by dealing out sporadic punishments to keep him on his toes. It’s a respectable strategy, though he need not be so obvious about it. If Grayson wants to play games, that’s fine by Damian. He will play the obedient sidekick role if it will soothe Grayson’s fears of insubordination.
Damian spends the rest of the night perfecting his form and pointedly not thinking about stupid Grayson’s stupid personality improvement. Damian will show him. He’ll become the best partner in the world, and Grayson will eat his damn words.
The next night turns out to be more of the same. Grayson tries to bench Damian a second time with the excuse that it’s a quiet night and he wants to preserve his backup instead of tiring Damian out early on. As if that could ever be a real reason for leaving his Robin behind.
Damian suits up anyway. “If you’re going to bench me, at least have the decency to come up with a convincing lie. I thought Father taught you better than this.”
Grayson grabs the back of Damian’s hood and yanks. “Stand down, Robin. You’re staying.”
“Then drag me upstairs,” Damian counters. Grayson glares at him. “No? Then I’m going with you.” He hops into the front seat of the Batmobile. “Or, if you are too tired, I can always go out alone.”
Gratification curls in his stomach at the annoyance on Grayson’s face. He doesn’t press back, which is mildly disappointing. He climbs in beside Damian without a word.
The drive to the city passes by silently, the car’s interior coated in tension so thick you could slice it with a knife. Damian risks a glance at his partner, but Grayson is unreadable beneath the cowl. If Father were here, he would be yelling at Damian for his disobedience. He almost wishes Grayson would do the same, only so Damian wouldn’t be stuck with this brick wall.
Growing more petulant by the minute, Damian reaches out and fiddles with the knob that controls the car’s heating system, just to see if he will get a reaction. It works. Grayson slaps his hand so hard and so fast that Damian, shocked, yanks his hand back like the knob is on fire. Grayson’s gaze still hasn’t left the road ahead.
Grayson has never struck him before—not outside of a lucky hit during a sparring session. Never without tripping over apologies immediately after, as if Damian were a child who required consoling and not the fearsome warrior he is.
This isn’t a problem, he tells himself. It didn’t even hurt that badly, and Damian has had worse. It’s simply shocking to see Grayson’s demeanor change so drastically, but in a good way, naturally.
This is how a mentor/protege relationship is supposed to be. Grayson has finally caught up with the program. This is good, Damian reminds himself.
Tim is relieved to be back in Gotham. He’s been away for months at a time lately, traipsing the world on his quest for proof of Bruce’s exile in the timestream. He’s tried visiting home as often as he can, catching up with Dick and Stephanie, but he’s been slacking lately. He almost forgot what Joker gas tasted like.
It’s a quiet relief to see that few things have changed since his last homeward visit, but the consistencies are only physical. There’s a new energy in the manor—charged, dangerous, uncertain. Tim can feel it, even if he can’t diagnose it.
He unloads the cave samples he brought—the reason for his return. His shoddy hideouts across Europe are nothing compared to Bruce’s systems. It will take at least a few days for him to analyze all of the samples and chart his next destination. Plenty of time for him to get caught up to speed.
“I meant to bring you back a souvenir from Germany,” Tim is saying as he juggles a pencil, “but I got distracted by this huge metahuman case I stumbled onto in Hamburg, and—”
“How long are you staying?” Dick interrupts. He’s been on the computer for as long as Tim has been here, which is fair. He’s had his hands full with Batman and Damian; Tim can’t blame him for multitasking.
Tim balances the pencil on the pad of his finger, point-side down. “Not sure yet. A week, maybe two? I’m gonna stick around for a bit before I take off again.” Dick says nothing, so Tim fills in. “How’s Gotham been? I’ve been keeping up with news articles and texts from Steph, but there’s only so much—”
“I’ll tell you about it later.” Dick stands up and leaves the cave so abruptly that Tim doesn’t have time to wonder if he should be offended.
“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Yeah, I should get back to…” He waves vaguely toward the beakers on the table. “We can talk more tonight.” A door closes.
Tim swallows back the lump in his throat at the abrupt shutdown. Don’t take it personally. This is the problem with being Tim Drake; he can’t make it through normal interactions without taking the tiniest gestures personally. He knows whatever Dick is upset about has nothing to do with him, but he can’t help the aching pang in his chest from being turned away.
Dick must be stressed over something big. Tim can’t begrudge him his frustration. Taking up the cowl is a massive responsibility that Tim certainly couldn’t handle if he were in Dick’s place now. Dick might be one of the only people who can take the weight without being crushed by it, but that doesn’t mean it won’t still take its toll.
Tim is still thinking about it when Damian enters the cave from the training area, a towel draped over his shoulder. Tim can’t recall how long he’s been sitting here, staring off into space. “Drake,” Damian greets with pleasantry that couldn’t be genuine if he tried. “Your makeup looks terrible today. I can actually see your face.”
Of course. Now it all makes sense.
“What’d you do to piss Dick off?” Tim jerks a thumb toward where Dick just left.
Damian stops in his tracks, his usual puggish scowl deepening like Tim just insulted his ancestors. “I didn’t do anything.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Right.” He hops off the table. “Whatever it is you did, make it better. Dick has enough on his plate without you adding onto it.” He reaches for his tablet, lying among the mob of scrawled notes and crumpled papers. A knife is stabbed into the table an inch away from his hand.
Tim jerks back and meets Damian’s furious eyes. “Mind your place, Drake.”
Unintimidated, Tim yanks the knife from the table. “This is why you have no friends, in case you were wondering.” He shoves the knife back at Damian and walks away.
He doesn’t know how Dick puts up with that kid.
Dick knows there is something wrong with him.
He can’t parse out what, or why, or how, but he was raised to notice the things others don’t. He was trained to pick out the slightest shifts in pattern. There is something wrong with him. He knows it as surely as he knows that the training dummy he’s currently attacking with his escrimas wears Damian’s face in his mind. He knows it as surely as he knows that the idea of hurting Damian shouldn’t be this enticing.
“Spar with me,” Damian demands—the real one, regrettably.
Just the sound of his voice makes Dick want to punch something. Every syllable screams spoiled and princely and I’m better than you. Dick doesn’t stop his workout. “Later.”
“Why not now?” Damian says. “You’re not doing anything important.”
“Why can’t you ask Steph?” Dick shoots back. Steph is at the other end of the training room doing chin-ups on the bar, aiming to beat Barbara’s record, as if such a thing were possible.
“Don’t drag me into this,” she says. “One more Fatgirl jab and I’m going for the kitchen knives.”
Damian looks pleased as he waits expectantly for Dick’s decision.
Dick imagines Damian’s face smashed into a wall.
Psimon says—
Dick drops his escrimas. “Fine. Let’s spar.”
Damian has the gall to look smug. He follows Dick over to the sparring mat.
Dick feels a strange thrill as he faces down his partner. These sessions have always been Dick’s way of trying to connect with Damian in a way that works for them both. Damian doesn’t have much interest in Dick’s usual ways of bonding with his siblings, (his personal favorites being hugs and movie nights), and sparring is the one thing they both know how to communicate with. It’s how they’ve bridged the gap between them.
Now, all Dick feels is eagerness at the thought of finally letting loose against the little snot. He can’t pinpoint when exactly his feelings towards Damian changed. Dick used to be so fond of the kid, almost like he was a real little brother, but he came to his senses somewhere along the way.
(Dick gets dizzy trying to remember when exactly that happened, so he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter anyway.)
He can see it when Damian realizes he’s not getting the kid-glove treatment this time. Damian doesn’t speak out against the intensity of Dick’s hits. He sneers, but there’s victory in it. Like he somehow achieved a goal by pissing Dick off.
They fight harder, dirtier, with Dick taunting Damian all the while. “Is that all you’ve got? I thought you were supposed to be an expert fighter.” In an instant it plummets from a friendly spar to a battle for supremacy, and neither of them back down.
A lucky kick sends Damian sprawling, blood gushing from his nose. He grunts in pain when he hits the ground.
“Jeez, kid!” Steph exclaims. She abandons her chin-ups and goes to Damian, grabbing a towel on the way. She presses it to Damian’s chin, catching the rivulets of blood. “You okay? Here, tip your head forward.”
Damian tries to shoo Steph away, but she stays put. “Get lost. I’m fine.”
“Hold still, squirt. That might have been a break.” Steph keeps a hand on the back of Damian’s neck, guiding his head forward to keep the blood from going down his throat. She turns a glare on Dick. “I know you’re trying to teach him, but lay off the face shots, maybe?”
Dick is unperturbed. “He should have blocked that one.”
I should care.
Why don’t I care?
Damian eyes Dick above Stephanie’s fussing hands, but he does not glare, and he does not scowl. He is analytical as his eyes pass over Dick, almost fearful in their scrutiny, like his thoughts are mirror images of Dick’s.
Why can’t I care?
Psimon says—
“Come on, Damian,” Steph goes on. She leads Damian over to the medical area with a gentle hand on his back. “Let’s take a look at that schnozz.”
Dick doesn’t try to hide the small, secret smirk on his mouth. Serves the kid right. He’ll remember this the next time he tries bugging Dick and doesn’t take no for an answer. Dick retrieves a bottle of water and takes a few sips.
Tim slips out from whatever shadow he was hiding in while he watched the spar. He’s been getting better at that, at making himself invisible. Dick would be proud or concerned if he cared more.
Tim has the nerve to look nervous but hopeful, like he’s approaching the damn Wizard of Oz. “If you still want to spar with someone, I’m game. I’ll even let you do face shots if you promise not to go for the nose.” He smiles—another thing Dick should be proud or concerned about, considering how rare one of those smiles is nowadays.
Psimon says—
“I should shower anyway,” Dick says. He doesn’t look at Tim.
“You sure? It’s been a while since I’ve been in a fair fight. Cass always beats me within thirty seconds. It’s pretty sad, actually.”
“Then get better,” Dick snaps. He doesn’t know where the fire racing through his veins came from, but he doesn’t discourage it. “I don’t have time to coddle your damaged ego right now. Find someone else to annoy.” He stalks off toward the locker room, leaving Tim stunned.
Dick washes the blood off his knuckles at the sink, watching the water swirl pink. It felt good, smashing Damian’s face in, but why? Dick used to adore that kid, as unmanageable as he was. Is it his fault that he’s finally come to his senses? The rose-tinted lenses are gone and he sees Damian for who he really is: an ungrateful child who will never change.
Dick looks up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink and he can see himself younger, more naive, wearing a yellow cape and green boots. What an idiot. He jumped into this life without comprehending what it would saddle him with. He should have fled Wayne Manor the instant he realized what he was living with.
He punches the mirror, leaving a bloody crater over his fractured reflection.
Something is off about Dick lately. At first Barbara figured it was stress. No one can blame him for lashing out once in a while. She gave him time to cool off, expecting everything to go back to normal, but his scorn for Damian has just grown worse.
Barbara stops by the manor for coffee and watches Dick intently, the curve of his grin and the brightness in his eyes. Damian is doing homework; actually, Barbara hasn’t seen much of him since she arrived. If she didn’t know the kid, she’d think he were avoiding Dick.
“What’s up with you two lately?” she ventures to ask over her mug. “You and Damian.”
Dick’s face hardens at the name, but he plays it off. “What do you mean? Nothing’s up.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Nothing? Dick, I’ve seen you and Damian. You’re treating him like he killed someone.”
“He did kill someone. Several someones. He’s killed more people than most of the villains we deal with.”
“That life is behind him, Dick. You’re part of the reason he’s changed.” Barbara can’t fathom what could be making him say this. It’s like Dick has forgotten everything he and Damian have been through together. “You never used to be this hard on Tim. Or Jason.”
Dick’s eyes narrow. “Because they had Bruce for that. I wasn’t responsible for Tim and Jason. I didn’t have to be hard on them like Bruce was.”
“So, what, suddenly you’re hell-bent on turning into your dad? When you told me you were jump-starting Batman, I didn’t realize that meant signing your soul away.”
“What’s your problem, Babs? I’m still the same person I used to be.” Dick grins, so easy and carefree that Barbara can almost believe it’s true.
“Yeah, with me. The only person you seem to have a problem with here is Damian.”
“I’m just putting my foot down for once. Is that such a bad thing?”
“You have to remember, Dick, that he’s a kid. Worse—he’s a kid who grew up in the League of Assassins. This tough love strategy you’re going for might work on him now, but it’s just as damaging now as it was when he was training under Ra’s.”
“Good.” Dick drains the rest of his coffee. “Maybe he’ll finally learn something for once.”
This isn’t Dick. Dick would never think like this—not towards someone he is supposed to protect. “What happened to wanting to be a better Batman?” Barbara asks, pained. “To help people instead of punishing them?”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“Hasn’t it?” She pushes her wheelchair away from the table. “Whatever’s going on with you, you need to fix it. Fast. Or you’re going to lose that kid.”
Damian doesn’t know what he did wrong.
He’s barely sleeping anymore. Every spare moment he has he dedicates to training, working, striving to meet his unforgiving mentor’s expectations, but he falls flat every time. Damian is not used to failing. Robin is supposed to be better than this. Damian should be better.
Why can’t you do anything right? It’s like you want to fail.
His nose is still swollen from their spar the other day. Damian lingers in that pain, lets it remind him of what happens when he fails.
What would his mother say if she could see how far her offspring had fallen? What would his grandfather say? Damian was supposed to be made for greatness, and yet here he is, barely worthy of the easiest mantle known to Gotham. He’s an embarrassment.
Come on, Damian. Is that all you’ve got?
If Damian can’t even succeed under Grayson’s tutelage, how could he ever hope to be deserving of his father’s? Damian came here to make his father proud, but all he did was make a fool out of himself. He’s a disgrace to the bat.
In the beginning, Damian defends himself. He shoots back when Grayson scolds him, tells Grayson that he’s been a perfect partner and deserves to be treated better than a lackey. But as time goes on and Grayson’s scorn never ebbs, Damian finds himself getting quieter and quieter.
Damn it, Damian, pay attention!
He stops talking back when he’s given an order. He doesn’t speak to Grayson or anyone else unless he’s asked something directly, hoping it will shift the tides somehow. He skips dinner one night because he knows Grayson will be there, and then does it again the next night. And the next night.
How could Bruce take someone under his wing who clearly doesn’t have what it takes to be Robin?
He wouldn’t.
“Dick, can we talk?”
“I’m busy right now, Tim.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I need.” Dick’s glare could slice a brick in half. This is when Tim would normally back down out of self-preservation, but he doesn’t now. “Barbara and I have been talking.”
Dick snorts, but it’s full of malice. “Of course you have.”
“She’s right to be concerned, Dick. This problem you have with Damian has to stop. Have you seen him lately? You’re killing him.”
“Have you ever tried minding your own business? Oh, wait, you don’t know how to do that.”
Tim smothers the hurt that wells in his chest. “You never acted like this towards me and Jason.”
Dick faces him finally, devoid of all humor or anything resembling kindness. It’s so out of place on him that, for a moment, Tim is sure it can’t possibly be Dick. “Jason is fucking crazy. He’s lucky I didn’t put him in a full-body cast for what he’s done. And you were a stupid kid who Bruce and I were just humoring, hoping you’d take the hint. Damian is just the latest edition in a long line of mistakes.”
It hurts. It was supposed to hurt.
“What is going on with you?” Tim demands. “What happened to the Dick Grayson who believed in second chances?”
“Not second,” Dick snaps. “Third. Fourth. Tenth. He’s as much of a self-entitled prick as he was six months ago, and that’s not changing anytime soon. I shouldn’t have to put up with him anymore.”
“Where is all this coming from? You were fine with Damian just a few weeks ago. Hell, you forgave him for murder.”
“Don’t play dumb. You know how he is. You’ve hated Damian from the start.”
“Yeah, because I’m not the one raising him. I don’t have to be gentle with him because as far as he knows, I’m just his competition. You’re the one who took on the job of raising him.”
“I didn’t take on anything,” Dick spits. “Bruce dropped Damian into my lap when he died, whether I wanted him or not. This responsibility should have been Bruce’s.”
“Maybe so, but like it or not, that kid is following you,” Tim says, jabbing a finger at Dick’s chest. “You. Not Bruce. I know the brat and I have our differences, but that’s between him and me. You chose him. Don’t turn your back on him now just because you’re frustrated. If you let him go now, you won’t get him back.”
Dick shoves Tim’s hand away like it’s unworthy of being near him. “Tim, I’ve cut you a lot of slack over the years, so listen to what I say now: Stay out of it. I won’t ask you again.”
Tim can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. All of it hurts, and Dick would see right through it even if Tim tried putting up a facade of impermeability. He is talking to a stranger wearing Dick’s face. “What happened to you?” Tim asks. “Is this—I don’t know, stalled grief? Because of Bruce? I get that you’re hurting, but taking it out on Damian won’t help anything.”
Dick rolls his eyes. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then tell me what it is,” Tim pleads. “Give me something to work with here.”
“Why do you even care?”
“Because you’re my brother.” Tim is suddenly remembered of a conversation just like this one, brother against brother, both consumed by loss and unable to fix it. Except now it’s Dick pulling away, and Tim is the one trying to pull him back.
“Since when? Don’t forget, Tim—you left us. You can’t abandon your family and be upset when they get used to it. You don’t get to waltz in and out as you please.”
Tim thought he and Dick had patched things up after Tim came back to help fight the Black Lanterns, but apparently that isn’t the case. “Fine, I deserve that. But you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything. You’re not the adult here; I am. We were all doing perfectly fine without you here, did you realize that? Crime in Gotham is down by twenty-six percent since you left. Did it ever occur to you that maybe we don’t need you?”
Tim flinches back. “What?”
“You heard me.”
A dagger would hurt less. Tim swallows to rid his throat of the lump in it, then again when it doesn’t go. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to—to run me off? Do you want to be alone that badly?”
Dick waves a careless hand. “God, Tim, stop being so dramatic. Go talk to Alfred if you want someone to kiss your boo-boos.” He turns to walk away. “I’m not dealing with it.”
Tim rushes forward and grabs his arm. “Dick, wait—”
Dick whirls around and slaps him. The pain doesn’t hit immediately. It’s the shock of it that has Tim stumbling back and falling on his ass. He gapes up at Dick, trying to comprehend the impossibility of such an action coming from the person who—until now—would never in a million years lay a hand on someone he loved.
“Bruce’s credit cards are in the safe upstairs,” Dick says without sympathy, standing over Tim. “Buy a ticket back to wherever you were before this and don’t bother coming back.”
Even after Dick is gone, the sting of his hand is still hot on Tim’s cheek. He presses trembling fingers to the mark; his fingertips come back damp. He doesn’t know how long he sits there on the cold floor, his cheek throbbing and heart thudding.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Tim takes out his phone and hurriedly scrolls through his contacts. He holds the phone to his ear, waiting through the rings until it’s picked up. “Barbara? You’re right. There’s something wrong with Dick.”
“Damian?” Stephanie pushes the door open without knocking and spots the boy on the bed. “Are you okay?”
“No, I’m in agony,” he drawls sarcastically. “I didn’t invite you into my room.” Damian is sitting in the middle of his bed, a sketchbook open in his lap.
“I’d be happy to talk to you downstairs. Alfred made cider,” Steph offers. It’s a cheap trick, she knows, but it’s hard negotiating with a literal child assassin. She’ll play whatever cards she has.
Damian clicks his tongue. “Did you learn that in remedial psychology? Bribing children with snacks? It’s nice to see where Gordon’s tutelage is going.”
In any other situation, Steph would turn and leave without another word, maybe knock something down on her way out. Now, she closes her eyes and counts to ten until her blood goes from a boil to a simmer. “Do you have to be such a little shit all the time?”
Damian scowls at his sketchbook. She can’t see what he’s drawing from this angle, but he punishes the pencil with every stroke. His hand moves in hard, angry lines. Steph risks a step into the room. She closes the door behind her. “I’m sorry about how Dick blew up at you earlier.”
That’s a polite way of putting it. Damian knocked over a glass of milk during lunch and Dick flipped out on him like he’d just assassinated a monarch. Steph had hoped that Tim was exaggerating when he told her and Barbara about what Dick did to him the other night, but this is evidently a way more pressing issue than Steph thought.
“He shouldn’t have been so hard on you,” she says. “He crossed a line, and I should have done something. We all should have said something, and not just today. He shouldn’t be treating you like this.”
“Clearly you’ve never trained with the League of Assassins,” is all Damian says. He barely looks at her.
“You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It is.”
“It’s not a good thing to be abused, Damian.”
He snorts. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”
“Do you have another word for it?”
“This is how a partnership works, Brown. Punishment is the most efficient way to teach obedience.”
“Did your grandpa tell you that?” Damian doesn’t answer; he erases a botched line on the page like it personally wronged him, the paper squeaking beneath the eraser. Steph crosses her arms. “Tim met with me and Babs yesterday. He told us about how Dick’s been treating you guys. He hit Tim yesterday, you know? And now he’s screaming at you for a tiny accident.” She sits down on the bed. Damian doesn’t stop her. “I think there’s something wrong with Dick. Mind control, bipolar disorder, something to explain why he’s acting so weird.”
“Nothing is wrong. Grayson’s fine,” Damian says.
“He’s not,” she stresses. How can he still be excusing this? “Deep down, I know you know this isn’t normal.”
Damian shoves her away and clambers off the bed. “Stay out of it, Brown. This is your only warning.” He leaves the room, slamming the door behind him.
The easy part is deducing that Dick is not himself. It’s figuring out how to fix it that’s the tricky part.
Tim and Steph are sitting at the computer in the cave, talking quietly with their heads together. They’ve pulled up every resource Tim could think of to narrow down the culprit behind Dick’s personality shift. As of right now, it could be anything from one of Scarecrow’s toxins to an alien parasite to a rare, undiagnosed mental illness.
The Batmobile’s ominous rumble purrs through the cave, right on schedule. This time, however, it’s accompanied by angry voices. Well, one angry voice.
“I don’t know why I even bother,” Dick yells. He slams the car door hard enough to make Stephanie jump. She gives Tim an apprehensive look and quickly closes out the computer windows. It’s best to investigate on their own; if Dick clues into their suspicions, he might tattle to whoever is pulling his strings, if there even is such a person.
Dick yanks down his cowl, and his furious face is more effective than the mask ever was at intimidating its target. “If your goal in life is to be a pain in the ass to everyone around you, then congratulations,” Dick snarls. “You’ve succeeded.”
This is the part when Damian would spit back his own scathing remark, a matching weapon to the fury of his opponent. Instead, he shucks off his armor with his eyes trained on the ground. “I understand.”
Tim catches Steph’s eyebrow-raise at him.
“Obviously you don’t, or you wouldn’t keep pulling this shit!”
Steph jumps in before Tim can stop her. “Will you lay off him? He’s not stupid, you know.” Damian sends her a blank look, but Tim has grown adept at reading him; he knows gratefulness when he sees it.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Dick says calmly. “I’ll deal with my partner the way I think is right.”
Damian snorts quietly. “Partner.”
That was his mistake. Dick wheels on him. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Damian doesn’t raise his face enough to meet Dick’s eyes. Tim has never seen him so muted before. Damian Wayne is a boy forged in fire—has been since the day Tim met him. This boy is different; he’s cold metal, drained of heat and left to rust.
Dick appraises Damian like the boy is worth less than the dirt on his soles. “You’re done,” he says, his voice chillingly low.
“What?”
“You’re done as Robin. If you can’t be trusted as my partner, then clearly you don’t deserve to wear those colors.” He snaps the shiny “R” off of Damian’s tunic before he can protest and throws it aside. The clang of metal on stone is the only sound in the room. Damian’s eyes are fixed on the symbol where it’s landed.
“No,” he chokes out. He slowly, painfully raises his gaze. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
This isn’t Dick Grayson. The man standing over Damian is someone new—someone cold, loathing, without kindness. “It’s a little late for that. I’ve given you many chances, Damian. It’s better for Batman to not have a Robin at all than to be stuck with a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“You need me,” Damian says, sounding choked.
Dick laughs—a sharp, cruel bark. “Batman doesn’t need a Robin. He never did. Especially not if it’s you.”
“I have done everything asked of me! I’ve done everything you said.”
“It’s not enough.”
“What is enough, then? Tell me what you want and I’ll do it! I need Robin.” Damian’s voice cracks in a way that Tim has never heard from him before. “I need this. You can’t take it away.”
“If you don’t like my decisions, then maybe you shouldn’t be here at all. Go back to wherever you came from and stay there. You’re not my problem anymore.” Dick turns away, carelessly dismissive. You’d think he has no idea that he is killing his Robin—that every word out of his damn mouth is a bullet.
This isn’t Dick.
“Father wouldn’t do this,” Damian says.
Dick backhanding Damian is what finally springs Tim up from his seat with a strangled sound.
“Dick!” Steph yelps, her hands flying to her mouth. But Tim’s horrified gaze is on Damian. This is the part when Damian would fight back. This is the part when Damian would defend himself as he always had, but he just stands there, his lip quivering. It’s like the slap has startled him to a default stance: eyes shut, fists clenched at his sides, head bent low like he’s waiting for worse.
This isn’t Dick.
Dick rears back for another hit, but he doesn’t make it that far. Steph throws herself between them, her arms out to block Damian from Dick’s sight. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Dick shouts back. “You know what he’s like.”
“He’s a child. You’re as bad as Talia!”
This. Isn’t. Dick.
Everything slots into place. Tim’s numb legs shuffle forward, his mind racing. “How many people were in that warehouse, Dick?”
Dick looks confused at the question, but it’s side-by-side with the anger, ever-present now. Artificial. Tim should have seen it sooner. “What?”
“You and Talia,” Tim says, keeping Dick’s attention on him and away from Damian. “Who else was there with you?”
“No one. It was just Talia.”
“Do you remember what she said to you? How you escaped? Anything specific?”
Dick looks vexed at the interrogation. “I ran away, I told you.”
“And she didn’t fight you.”
“No,” Dick says. He blinks. “I mean, yeah. We fought.”
“Where? For how long?” Tim steps forward, holding his gaze. “Can you remember anything concrete about what happened that night?”
Dick’s eyes squint like he has a migraine. “It’s—” He balls his hands into fists. “Why does it matter?”
“Steph,” Tim says as calmly as he can, not taking his eyes off of Dick. “Can you take Dick to the med bay? I’ll call Barbara and let her know I figured it out.”
“Hang on a second—” Dick starts, reaching for Damian, but Steph is faster. She plants a hand on his chest and sets her jaw.
“Nuh-uh, Grayson. You’re not laying another hand on that kid until we figure this out.”
Steph manages to finagle Dick away, Tim presumes. His attention has swerved solely to Damian, who hasn’t moved an inch since Dick hit him. His cheekbone is already reddening and will surely be sporting a deep bruise by morning.
“Hey, kid. You okay?” Tim kneels in front of Damian and reaches for his shoulder.
Damian slaps his hand away, but even that action is lacking its usual fire. “Get away from me. I’m fine.” He doesn’t meet Tim’s eyes. Tim isn’t going to comment on the silent tears rolling down Damian’s face.
“Hey,” he says, making an effort to be gentle despite every instinct reminding him that Damian is a threat. He’s not a threat, he’s just a boy. “That wasn’t Dick. I don’t think it’s been him for a while now. Whatever he said to you, he didn’t mean it.”
“I didn’t ask.” Damian wipes his cheek dry on his shoulder. “I’m not a helpless child.”
“I know that. And Dick knows that too. He would never treat you like this unless someone was making him. We’re gonna figure out what’s wrong with him and we’re going to reverse it, alright?”
Damian’s stare is ice cold. “Stop pretending you care. I don’t need your fake compassion.”
Tim knows he deserves that. How many times did he complain about Damian? How many times did he tell Damian that Dick’s anger was his fault? Tim’s stomach rolls just thinking about it.
“You and I might have our beef, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. I’m sorry I didn’t do something sooner. I should have been looking out for you.” He squeezes Damian’s shoulder. This might be the first time he’s touched Damian like this without it being a punch. “We’re going to figure out what Talia did to Dick and undo it. It’s going to be fine.”
Damian doesn’t ask for a hug, and Tim doesn’t offer one. But they stay like that, two Robins side by side, and hopefully it’s enough.
“Psimon says, you don’t need a Robin.”
Psimon says, you don’t want one.”
Psimon says, you hate Robin.”
Dick’s vision swims as the commands lock in place and take hold. He sees a blurry Talia shake Psimon’s hand with a vicious smile. “Thank you, Psimon. This will be more than enough.”
Dick’s eyes fly open. “Oh my god,” he gasps. He scrambles for the edges of the medical cot to pull himself upward, desperately trying to drag in air through his uncooperative lungs. “Damian. Damian.”
He’s surrounded by faces that take a second to come into focus. They keep their distance, each painted with apprehension. Tim’s face sports a fresh bruise on his temple. Dick vaguely remembers elbowing him when they tried to knock him out. M’gann stands closest, the green glow fading from her eyes.
Barbara hovers warily, not moving her chair closer to the cot, though her fingers grips the wheels so tightly it’s clear she struggles to hold herself back. “Dick? This is you, right?” She looks up at M’gann. “Did it work?”
M’gann nods. She looks worn out. “Psimon’s manipulation is gone. He should be back to his old self now.”
“Oh my god,” Dick repeats. Damian. Psimon. Damian. It all comes back in slow flashes. “Oh, god.” He runs a frantic hand through his hair, yanking on the ends. “Where’s—where’s Damian? I need to—he’s—”
“Slow your jets,” Steph warns, holding an ice pack to Tim’s head. “You’re not getting anywhere near Damian until we know for sure that you’re fixed. No risks this time.”
“I need to see him.” Dick shakes his head, horror dawning as the memories just keep flooding back. “Oh my god, the things I said to him…” He feels nauseous. “I hit him. Oh, fuck.” He buries his face in his hands.
Barbara lays a hand on his back, grounding and gentle. “Damian’s fine. He’s with Alfred now. He knows it wasn’t you.”
“That doesn’t—” Dick wants to tear open his heart and throw it out a window. “I told him I hated him. Fuck, and he believed me. Please, Babs, I need to see him. I need to make sure he’s okay.”
Barbara looks at the others for an answer. “Verdict?”
“I believe him,” Tim says, as if he hasn’t spent the past week being gutted again and again by the very person he’s defending now.
I’m sorry, Timmy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry—
At the others’ questioning looks, Tim shrugs. “He doesn’t look like he wants to punch me anymore, right? I say he’s cured.”
As soon as he’s given the okay, Dick is gone, racing out of the medical bay, out of the cave, heading straight upstairs. The others don’t follow, but he’s sure they are keeping an eye out with the manor’s security cameras, just in case. Dick can’t find it in himself to blame them.
You’re done as Robin.
It’s better for Batman to not have a Robin at all than to be stuck with a kid who doesn’t know what he’s doing.
“Grayson?” Damian stands up from his seat, cautious. He eyes Dick’s hands, like he’s prepared for him to take a swing. “Are you—”
In two strides, Dick is in front of Damian and pulling the boy into a hug. Damian startles at first, stiffening. Psimon says, you hate—
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Dick chants into Damian’s hair, keeping the boy bundled in his arms. “God, Damian, I can’t believe I—that he—” He pulls away, cupping Damian’s cheeks in his hands, making him meet his eyes. “I didn’t mean any of it. Not one word. I would never want you gone. Okay? Never.”
Damian doesn’t say anything, but he nods. His eyes are shiny, but no tears fall.
Dick wraps his arms back around Damian, clutching him close. “I love you so much, kiddo.”
Slowly, Damian’s arms come up and wind themselves around Dick’s back. “I believe you.”