Work Text:
It’s Monday.
Against his protests, Damian is being forced to start school—despite the fact that he’s already passed college-level courses and could easily qualify for university.
But of course, Bruce insisted. Damian needed to be around “kids his age,” build a “good reputation,” and—most laughable of all—make “friends.”
Friends… What even are friends? Damian certainly has no use for them.
——
“Bye, Dami!” Grayson called out from the car with a grin.
“TT. Goodbye, Grayson,” Damian muttered, already turning away.
He watched the car disappear before heading toward the building—his new school. A prestigious place meant for the children of the wealthy and powerful.
Everyone he passed was white. Every single student. White uniforms. White faces. Contrasting Damian’s warm honeyed beige-brown skin.
The stares came almost instantly. Curious. Judging. Mocking. He heard the whispers, saw the smirks. Of course he ignored them. They didn’t matter.
He moved through the halls, passing the junior section where colorful playgrounds stood in stark contrast to the cold, polished school. Laughing children ran around, oblivious. Damian didn’t even glance their way as he made his way to his first class. At least Father allowed me to move up to middle school instead of having to go to “junior”
Finally, he arrived at his classroom. No students had shown up yet. Good.
Inside, the teacher stood sorting papers at her desk. Damian stepped in, straightened his posture, and gave a polite bow.
“Good morning,” he said, voice crisp and precise. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I trust today’s lessons shall be of sufficient challenge.”
The teacher blinked, caught off guard by the formal greeting from such a small, serious boy.
“Oh! Please, no need to bow,” she said quickly, recovering with a warm smile. “You must be…”
“Damian Ah G—W–Wayne. My name is Damian Wayne,” he said, cursing himself silently for the stammer.
“Damian! A pleasure to meet you. Please, take a seat while we wait for the others to arrive.”
Damian gave a slight nod of thanks before walking to the back of the room. He removed his bag and placed it neatly beneath his desk, then carefully unpacked his stationery, arranging each item with exact precision.
As he sat down, his eyes flicked back to the teacher. She was still sorting papers, focused and unaware of his quiet scrutiny. A young woman—brown hair, tied back. Grey slacks, a white dress shirt, and a black jumper. Her eyes were blue, soft, and far too kind for someone working in a place like this.
He would learn everything about this school soon enough—names, connections, secrets. For now, he would observe.
—
The first class had been tolerable—just a general welcome and a brief explanation of the day’s structure. Nothing of substance. Once the so-called “lesson” ended, Damian quietly packed up his stationery and moved on to his next class.
Math.
He sat at the back again, as far from everyone else as possible. Math was a subject he took pride in—not that he’d ever say so aloud. It was his second favorite, after science. Challenging, precise, logical. There was always something new to master.
At the moment, the class was waiting for the teacher to return from the printer with a practice test meant to gauge their skill level.
In the meantime, chaos.
Damian had expected more from a school meant for the children of the elite. Manners, perhaps. Discipline. Instead, it was an undignified mess. The moment their teachers left, it was as if all the etiquette drilled into them at home vanished completely.
Disgusting.
He sat in silence, arms folded, eyes scanning. He caught sight of one boy doing something bizarre—crouched, scooting across the floor, wiggling his rear in a way Damian could only describe as undignified. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be… but it most certainly wasn’t respectful.
He folded his arms, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes. The League would have never tolerated this level of disorder. In his grandfather’s halls, even a glance like that could cost someone their tongue.
As Damian mentally calculated how to escape this school with minimal consequences, a girl approached.
White, blonde, her hair pulled into such a tight ponytail it looked like it might peel her scalp off. Even her eyes looked like they were being dragged upward. She strutted toward him with mock confidence, and he noticed several students watching her with barely-contained amusement.
Her skin was tanned unnaturally, sprayed and polished, her lips too shiny, her eyes shaped by cosmetic strain. Even the way she walked seemed rehearsed.
Damian immediately sensed trouble.
The other students noticed her approaching too. Girls elbowed each other and giggled behind hands. The boys leaned in, eager. Like this was all part of a show.
She stopped at his desk with the smug confidence of someone who’d never been told “no.”
Damian looked up slowly, meeting her eyes with cold indifference. His face didn’t move, but his thoughts were already sharp and violent.
He didn’t like her.
He didn’t like the way her nose scrunched when she looked at him. He didn’t like the amusement dancing in her eyes. He didn’t like how close she stood, like his space was hers to invade.
“Hey, monkey boy,” she said with a smirk.
Damian’s fingers curled slightly under the desk, one hand brushing against the hidden knife in his thigh pocket.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
The girl grinned wider, encouraged by the silence. “What? You understand English, don’t you?” She leaned forward. “Or do you only speak… sand-people?”
A few students behind her gasped. Others stifled laughter.
Damian’s blood simmered.
He said nothing. But inside, something ancient stirred. Something inherited. Proud. Furious.
His blood burned—not with shame, but with ancient fury. The kind passed down through bloodlines that built empires and razed kingdoms. He was the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul. He had trained in the League of Assassins. He’d bested warriors twice his size before he could even drive a car.
This girl?
She was nothing.
He blinked slowly, then tilted his head, voice quiet and ice-cold.
“Is that truly the best you can muster?” he said, voice low and calm. “You insult like a child. If you’re so eager to understand fear, I’d be more than willing to give you a demonstration.”
Something in his tone made her flinch.
Damian leaned back in his chair, hand still near the knife he wouldn’t need to draw—not yet.
—
The final bell rang.
Damian stood at the gates, his arms folded tightly across his chest as the other students swarmed past him, chattering and laughing like they were in some sort of circus. The noise was almost unbearable—how could they be so loud and careless? And to think, he had to waste an entire day here.
His first day of school.
It was pointless.
He didn’t belong here. He’d been trained at the League of Assassins from the moment he could walk, taught subjects far beyond what these children could ever comprehend. Combat. Strategy. Languages. Philosophy. Even the college-level courses they pretended to teach here were nothing compared to what he had already mastered.
He didn’t need school. He was already prepared. Why should he waste his time sitting in these classrooms with clueless children when he could be training? When he could be sharpening his skills further?
Damian glanced at his watch again. Alfred was late.
The irritation gnawed at him. He could already hear his father’s voice in his head, the reason for this ridiculous arrangement: “You need to be around people, Damian. You need to make friends. You need to learn how to fit in.”
Friends? Fitting in? He had no interest in either. He was the grandson of Ra’s al Ghul. He was a trained assassin, a weapon honed to perfection. He didn’t need friends. He needed purpose. And this place? It was a waste of his time.
As he stewed in frustration, he heard the sound of light footsteps—familiar, and distinctly annoying.
She appeared beside him. The blonde girl. She had been insufferable since their first interaction.
“Well, well,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Still here, monkey boy?”
Damian didn’t turn to face her. He kept his posture rigid, his expression carefully blank.
“Do you always harass people after school, or is this a special occasion?” he asked, his voice quiet, unbothered.
The girl’s laugh was harsh, as though she expected some sort of reaction.
“You’re funny,” she said, looking him up and down. “For someone with sand in his blood.”
Damian’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t move. His anger simmered beneath the surface, cold but controlled. This girl had no idea who she was speaking to. No idea what kind of training he had received—what kind of legacy he was carrying.
But it didn’t matter. She was a distraction. A minor annoyance. And he wouldn’t waste his time with her.
“Your ignorance is staggering,” Damian replied, voice even. “But I’m not interested in a lesson for you.”
The girl’s face twisted into a scowl, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Excuse me?” she snapped, stepping closer. “I don’t think you understand who you’re talking to. I’m not some… street rat you can ignore. I’m someone important. You’d do well to remember that.”
Damian’s gaze shifted slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. His voice was calm and steady, unbothered. “And I don’t think you understand who you’re speaking to. You’re no one. And you’re beneath me.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she took a step back, clearly seething. But she wasn’t done.
“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Her voice was tight with barely restrained fury. “Your family may have some money, but it doesn’t mean you’re above everyone else here. There are things going on behind the scenes you wouldn’t understand.”
Damian raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t respond. The girl was still talking, her tone growing more spiteful with each word.
“You really should be careful with who you associate with,” she said with a sharp smile. “I wouldn’t want you to end up on the wrong side of things, especially when certain… deals are starting to fall apart.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Just remember, your father’s business deals aren’t as secure as you think they are. People like my father don’t stay in these arrangements forever. Things are changing.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t understand what she meant by this cryptic warning, but the girl’s words left a strange unease in his chest. He had heard his father mention business deals before, but he had never been told much about them—certainly not anything that would suggest they were in danger.
The girl straightened, taking a step back, her smile returning, though it was colder now. “Just something to think about, Damian. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With that, she turned and walked away, her steps confident and purposeful, leaving Damian standing there, still, lost in his thoughts.
Her words lingered in his mind, twisting and turning, even as he tried to push them aside. Business deals? What could she mean by that? What did her father have to do with anything?
He didn’t have time for these games, but something told him this wasn’t over.
He would find out what was really going on. But for now, all he could do was wait for Alfred to arrive.
—
The letter from the Blackwells lay crushed on the floor like the air in the room—heavy, still, suffocating.
Bruce stood in the center of the living room, his voice sharp as broken glass. “They said you ruined it. That you threatened her, humiliated her in front of other students. Now the agreement’s gone. Millions lost. And my name’s been dragged through the dirt because of you.”
Damian stood in front of him, expression unreadable, arms by his sides, eyes dark and unfocused. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak.
“They pulled out of the deal because of you, Damian.” Bruce was shouting now, his voice echoing off the walls. “I gave you a chance. I brought you into this home. And this is what I get?”
There was a pause. A beat. Just enough silence for something worse to break through.
“I never wanted you.”
The words dropped like a blade.
The room went still.
“I didn’t ask for you,” Bruce continued, quieter now but no less brutal. “Dropped into my life like a weapon. You think you know what this family is? You don’t. You’ve done nothing but bring chaos since the day you arrived.”
Weapon.
Damian’s lips pressed together. His fists clenched, then slowly loosened. His chest didn’t rise. He didn’t breathe. At least not where anyone could see it.
He had dreamed of this. Of his father.
When he was small—before the League trained it out of him—he used to imagine what it would be like. Meeting the great Bruce Wayne. The Batman. He thought maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d teach him. Maybe he’d look at Damian the way he saw him in the files—like a legacy. A son.
Now here he was.
And all Damian could feel was cold.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t defend himself. He just stood there, letting the words hit him one after another. He didn’t flinch, didn’t cry, didn’t show anything—but inside, something had gone quiet. Still.
“I should’ve known this wouldn’t work,” Bruce muttered, turning away, running a hand over his face. “This was a mistake.”
Damian blinked once.
That word echoed louder than anything else had.
Mistake.
Dick shifted at the doorway, guilt pulling at his face. Tim looked like he wanted to disappear. Alfred stood silently, jaw tight, his eyes flickering from Bruce to Damian—but he said nothing.
“Get out of my sight,” Bruce said without looking back. “I can’t deal with you right now.”
Damian nodded once, almost mechanically. Then turned and walked away, his footsteps the only sound in the vast manor.
Up the stairs. Down the hall. Behind the closed door of his room, he sat down, back straight, staring at the floor.
He didn’t cry. Not because he wasn’t hurt.
But because he didn’t know how to anymore.
—
The silence in his room was crushing.
Damian sat on the edge of his bed, the manor around him too large, too empty. His fingers trembled slightly as he reached under the mattress and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. The fabric was worn but cared for, handled with reverence.
He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a janbiya—a traditional curved dagger with an ornately carved hilt, the edge still sharp, still clean. It had once belonged to his mother.
The weight of it in his hands was familiar. Heavy. Comforting, in a strange and twisted way.
“She would not strike me herself,” he whispered to the room, voice barely audible. “Not when I failed. Not when I embarrassed her in front of the League.”
He stared down at the blade.
“She would give me the knife. Her knife. And tell me to choose the punishment. To make myself stronger.”
The metal reflected the dim light, flickering across his expression. His jaw was tight, his eyes glassy—but dry.
“She’s not here now. But I know what she would want.” He ran a finger slowly down the curved edge, just enough to feel the sting. “To bear the weight. To bleed for my failure.”
He placed the tip just against the skin of his inner arm, where the mark wouldn’t show. Where the weakness could be carved out and hidden.
“I failed the mission,” he whispered in Arabic. “I dishonored the family I was sent to serve. And he… he said he never wanted me.”
His grip faltered, but the blade stayed in place.
“I dreamed of him,” he admitted softly. “Of being worthy. Of finally being seen.”
He looked down at the janbiya again—at her blade. The one she had trusted him with. The one she had placed in his hands, not out of cruelty, but out of love twisted by the only world she knew.
“I will not shame her.”
He stared for a long time.
And for once, he didn’t know if the pain would fix anything.
Only that it would feel like home.
And so, he pressed the tip of the blade into his already scarred skin, sinking it deep until crimson bloomed beneath the steel. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged it down his forearm. Beads of blood welled up, sliding in thin, glistening trails. Another mark. Another memory etched into flesh. One more scar added to the collection that painted his body like a canvas of survival.
It felt like home.
Pain had always been there—unwavering, familiar. Not like people, not like promises. It didn’t leave. It didn’t lie. It was the only friend that never betrayed him.
No one ever stayed.
But pain did. Pain listened. Pain reminded him he was real. That he was still here, still breathing, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.
And in that moment, with the janbiya in his hand and his father’s words still echoing in his head, Damian allowed the pain to settle over him like a blanket.
Cold. Comforting. Constant.
It reminded him of his Mother. And he missed her.
He missed the weight of her hand on his shoulder when he succeeded. He missed the quiet approval in her eyes—rare, but real. He missed her voice, sharp as steel and just as steady. She had never said she loved him, not in words. But she gave him the janbiya. She trusted him to endure.
Now, she wasn’t here to tell him what to do.
So he did what she had taught him. What he thought she would want. What she would understand.
Because if she were here… maybe she would’ve stayed. Maybe she would’ve looked at him and still seen someone worthy.
And that hurt more than the blade ever could.