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At first, it had been an expectation, then a safety net, and then a bad habit.
Damian had never had the luxury to choose to be defenseless, it had always been a matter of circumstance. He had been too weak, too slow, too loud, and too small. He had remedied these shortcomings for his own safety, and as an investment in his future. He had armed himself with anything he had available— because you always had the right to be challenged physically in the League, no matter that he had been seven years old.
He had made his first kill in the arena, it had been a structured event, and his opponent had been an official challenger. It had been a test— he often found this to be the case when his mother had spent an unusual amount of time with his grandfather. He could never hesitate, his actions were a direct reflection of the legacy of his family, and there was no room for failure in the family of the Demon’s Head.
His second kill hadn’t been in an arena, it had been in his sleeping quarters. He had used a small bone dagger that had been gifted to him by his mother the year prior. It had been messy but surprisingly quick.
Sleeping had been difficult in the weeks that followed, where could he rest his head?— let his guard down— where he wouldn’t be under attack. He had to adapt to his environment.
Damian had learned to channel his breath, in order to calm the aching he felt in his belly— the ball of anxiety that weakened him, and hitched his breath and darted his eyes from shadow to shadow. He had learned to be a light sleeper, always at the ready for an attack, but to never look as scared as he felt. Surely fear would be seen as a weakness too, and Damian seemed to feel it all the time.
The threat of violence had always been implied.
Living with the Wayne’s had been a test, surely, he never felt an attack looming but it had been too soon to tell. Then when he had lived there a year with still nothing— Damian felt on edge, restless in a way he had never felt before. He felt no threats but Damian knew that they could be deceiving, that he had made that mistake before. He slept every night with his bone dagger.
Waiting for this long was exhausting, but he persevered, he felt that the space he occupied made the other occupants of the house uncomfortable. In the League, that perception had been responded to with swift and brutal retribution. Perhaps their retribution was a more drawn-out, painful death.
Or perhaps they sought to make his adolescent heart give out from the stress of their marshmallow-soft attitudes. There were only so many times he could scowl in disbelief before he felt a headache coming on— that was the only reason he hadn’t rebuffed their affections as of late.
It was ridiculous.
Damian had been trained to utilize the implication of violence. Weapon’s poised to strike often implied the threat quite nicely— only to correct the person’s behavior, it was never wise to telegraph your attacks if you didn't want them met with defense. His new family never seemed to acknowledge his threats with anything other than a deep sigh, sometimes a smile, and often a look of disbelief— it depended on the recipient, much to Damian's chagrin.
Dick had taken to removing Damian's weapons before they went on a ‘brotherly bonding outing’— they had gone to the mall to get Damian some new winter clothes, as he had grown out of his old ones— and disaster had struck in the form of a very persistent helper robot that followed them through several stores.
Damian hadn’t taken the threat well and had, maybe, been outwardly a little frightened.
He tended to mask this fear with anger— but both his anger and his threats had fallen on uncomprehending robot ears. His hysterics had continued to build until Dick had scooped him up from under the arms, and carried him in a bear hug until he had calmed down. While Damian had been embarrassed by his outburst, he felt a surprising mix of relief and sadness at how the situation had been resolved so quickly, and how his reaction had been accepted with literal open arms.
He felt the need to return the favor, he couldn’t rely on Dick’s presence to save him. What would he do when he left him? If that robot had been dangerous Dick had turned his back to it in order to soothe Damian, he could have been gravely injured. Damian would have to do better, he had felt the absence of his weapons and knew that their relinquishment had been an oversight on Dick’s part. It was a mistake on Damian’s.
Damian always learned from his mistakes.
Jason had likewise made him remove his weapons before they had gone to get waffles— another suspiciously similar bonding activity— he had, admittedly, expectedly drawn his weapon at the gathering mass of people who had recognized them and insisted on bombarding Jason inappropriate and rude questions.
He had drawn a weapon to neutralize the threat.
Jason had smoothly taken it from his hand, and Damian's other hand had immediately raised— wielding another slightly smaller knife.
Jason had done a double take, grabbed his shoulders, and steered him out of the crowd. He had absolutely no idea how they ended up at build-a-bear, but Damian had projected wrath and sharp disinterest until he saw a bear dressed in a simplified Batman costume. If Jason had bought it for him and helped him smuggle it into the house— for fear of his reputation— he would take it to his grave.
Falling on his sword seemed like a noble end when Bruce walked into the dining room looking sheepish, holding what looked to be Damian's Batbear. He must have accidentally left it on the couch when he had stayed up last night watching a movie with Cass.
Damian had never felt such burning shame, with a small nod, he knew what he had to do— his grave would be well tended to, it was a fitting end.
“It even has my old utility belt.” Bruce’s voice sounded happy, with a touch of wistful.
Struck with disbelief Damian remained predatorily still.
“And it’s so soft!” Bruce’s voice held admiration, how he was able to produce that tone so easily and for a toy no less, Damian had no idea.
Clearly, Bruce was trying to build something, but Damian could feel the eye roll taking over his whole body.
“– I didn’t know you liked stuffed toys, if I had known— well, maybe you and I could go pick out some more this weekend.”
Damian’s century-long eye-roll came to an abrupt finish, and he stomped over to where Bruce was still standing and snatched the bear out of his hands. He didn’t know what possessed him to dignify Bruce with a response.
“Yeah, maybe…” Damian’s voice was soft, still annoyed at what he was sure wasn’t mocking, but remained embarrassed.
It had been a barely audible mumble, and he had retreated immediately afterward, and yet he still found himself at the mall with Bruce that weekend. Damian went home with a stuffed animal in each arm, and one more held by Bruce. Dick had tagged along and acquired what could possibly be the most well-dressed bear Damian had ever seen, it even came with a small book and pen— he suspected it was an upcoming gift for Jason.
Damian felt that his image was being tarnished, he had to remind his family who was in control— who wielded the knife.
Alfred had taken his knife out of his poised hand when he had brandished it at the dining room table, directed towards a somehow both smug and unsuspecting Tim. He had settled for sliding as far down as he could in his chair— just the top of his head has been visible— and giving his shin a hard kick, Tim’s yelp had been satisfying enough, though he felt foolish when he had to cut his vegetables with his fork.
He thought that perhaps having a brother could be fun.
Tim had been given a small amount of trouble at school and Damian had practically materialized peeking from around the hallway’s corner, with a particularly sharp pencil in hand.
Intimidation was reserved for family only.
It came as a surprise to Damian when he learned that the ‘Wayne family’ apparently extended to individuals residing in both Kansas and Metropolis. Suffice it to say, Damian was skeptical, until he met Clark Kent— aka 'the invulnerable boy scout’.
It was a well-known fact that Superman had impenetrable skin. This skill was immensely useful when protecting the world, dealing with harsh climates in pursuit of a story, and fascinating Damian to no end.
Clark was a good sport, while conversing with Bruce he let Damian poke and prod at his arm with all kinds of cutlery, and later his knives, just to watch the metals bend. Damian had then wordlessly handed his horrifically bent dagger to Clark, who had gotten the message and used his super strength to straighten it out.
Damian had beamed at him with so much respect and awe that Bruce practically had to squint at the newly formed second sun. When Clark then had to leave because of ‘urgent business’ at The Planet, Damian wasn’t convinced.
Bruce had looked at him in sheer disbelief later on when Damian had imbedded his dagger in the kevlar chest plate of a spare Batsuit in the display case— while maintaining eye contact.
“This material isn’t nearly durable enough— See?— My knife goes right through the fourth and fifth rib. You must remedy this, lest you succumb to your wounds in your next battle.”
Cass had later disarmed him when he had suggested to spar with weapons by simply drawing his weapon mid-fight, his reasoning being that ‘Bruce clearly needs backup with an edge’ and that ‘there is no honor in battle’, so he ‘might as well use a retractable blade”. Cass had maintained her position, though she couldn’t help but make small hums of agreement with a bob of her head at his points.
She would allow blade-sparring another day.
Damian didn't really like knives. He didn’t really like violence— although it could be funny sometimes. It was just what he knew, the familiarity that was comforting in a way.
He knew that when he felt the weight of his blades’ hilt he would hear the truth, he knew his tools well, and had utilized their purpose in the environment he was raised.
The environment he currently inhabited could not have been more different.
There was a time he could extract any information he needed with a certain amount or point of pressure.
It didn’t work, however, when the recipients knew he didn’t wish to fatally harm them— like his entire family. Which made for a particularly pout Damian around Christmas and birthdays and pretty much any holiday or occasion with gifts involved.
He maintained that it was essential, for espionage’s sake, that he was informed of the wrapped gift’s contents. Every. Single. Year. He tried to threaten, bargain, and manipulate his way into acquiring the information.
There was only one time he succeeded: Wayne family thanksgiving.
“I’m not telling you, Damian. Alfred just found a place for it, you'll just move it again.” Jason sounded bored, his worn copy of ‘Emma’ by Jane Austen enrapturing all of his attention. He didn’t even look up at Damian, who stood over his prone form on the couch.
“You will, eventually.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Jason glanced up from his book, a spark of something— like not knowing if all his loved possessions were accounted for— glimmered in his eye.
Damian shrugged noncommittally, then pulled out his phone showing the screen to Jason who let out a horrified gasp.
“Where is it?” Jason’s book was closed now, it was time for business.
“A secure, undisclosed location. You’ll never find it without my help.” Damian was experienced in hostage negotiation.
“... Fine.”
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.” Damian’s hand came up to gently cup his own ear.
Jason looked at him with a mixture of annoyance, nervousness, and— to Damian’s glee— not even a hint of surprise.
“I’ll tell you where it is. But you’re not going to like it.”
That was how Damian ended up in the attic, the dusty, unused, slightly— very— creepy ‘roof basement’ of his nightmares. Looking for his old League uniform, which had been put into storage last year— after he had, finally, been convinced that Bruce was not going to send him back to the League.
Tucked between a few boxes and on top of what Damian was pretty sure was called a ‘vanity’, was his uniform, in all its stark white, worn and painful glory.
He took it in his hands and felt the still air. A pause felt necessary, a moment of silence. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t have to.
Wedged under the crook of his shoulder he carried it to his room. He felt a wave of calm wash over him as he placed the garments underneath his bed.
He was ready to give thanks.
The food selection was a hodgepodge of everyone’s favorite dinner foods, foregoing the turkey, instead opting for a roast chicken— on account of Dick’s general dislike for turkey and Jason wanting a chicken pot pie. Combined with Damian’s vegetarianism and Cass’s dislike for the texture of most meats, there would have been too many leftovers that no one would end up eating.
After the meal, they all went to the lounge room so they could have dessert and set up a movie to watch together.
It was after the plates had been cleared and the movie was coming to an end that Damian bid his sibling's goodnight and then, as they’d been shuffling out. He told Bruce to ‘wait’ and got up and left without another word, returning minutes later with his old League uniform folded in his hands.
He stopped in the open double doors and took a small breath. The words felt heavy in his mouth, but Damian knew if he didn’t start to speak the moment would pass. Then the words would be locked inside him forever.
“When a member of the League leaves, their training clothes are burned,” Damian looked down at the bunched outfit in his hands, he then walked to the fireplace and placed them on the open flames. “It is supposed to symbolize that we cannot go back— and that we must let go of our former lives, in order to devote ourselves to the League.”
Bruce was standing near the sofa, his hands at his sides. His expression was thoughtful exuding focus and assurance. He nodded at Damian in understanding and urged him to continue. It seemed even he could see the words trapped, bubbling under the surface.
“I was born there— it’s my former life. I’m not sure what I'm devoted to now, but I know that I’m no longer a part of my past.”
Damian’s voice grew more confident as he drew on, seeming to gain a new understanding of his own words as he said them.
“I like to think it means that everything I have been through, every fall, loss, and stitch placed to fix my mistakes— are all gone. That I have learned and grown, and I don’t need it anymore.”
Bruce looked deep in thought, and then somber. His lips were lightly pursed but as he looked at the newly burned fabric and the ashes billowing in the fireplace, his expression was overtaken by a small smile.
His arms were open, perfect for Damian to wrap his own arms around Bruce's middle. Bruce's face came to press into Damian's hair, where he left small kisses on his head. He spoke, slightly muffled, thick with emotion.
“I’m so proud of you, I wish I had been there to help you through it— I’ll be by your side from here on.”
Damian felt his face warm from the tears he knew were soaking Bruce's sweater.
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
The aching in his chest felt like affection, it felt familiar, it felt safe. He would ease it bit by bit by giving it to his loved ones.
It felt like home.