Chapter Text
Damian has been in Gotham for six months now. His room is finally starting to look lived-in, like a space he would choose for himself, and he has settled into a more consistent routine as himself and in his Robin training. Damian sits on an ornate Persian rug in the center of his bedroom meditating for the morning and doing his new so-called ‘affirmations’. Grayson insisted to him that they would help him find peace, or confidence, or some other inane emotion that meant nothing to him… But Damian did have to admit that perhaps Grayson had a point, there was a strange sense of peace that’s washed over him since he started the practice. He feels more like a person than he ever has before. It is both unsettling… and feels good at the same time. He doesn’t know quite how to describe it, but he appreciates all of Gray son's care and concern.
And that is what brings him here today. He has noticed something that unsettles him. Grayson has been doing his utmost to care for Damian from day one, even more so than it felt father did sometimes. Grayson came to him with hugs and warmth and smiles. The only other person to have done such a thing is his Ummi. Grayson, despite his clear disdain for her, is also one of the only ones to ask him about his life and his childhood and not just make assumptions based on offhand statements. But, for one so wise and caring of others, it would appear his father’s oldest son does not have any sense of self preservation. He always throws himself into the line of fire, regardless of which persona he is donning with no regard to what armor, or lack thereof, he is wearing. And outside of being Nightwing? He wears no armor and carries no weapon for defense. Foolish Grayson. Now Damian needs to correct this himself.
He moves to his desk, pulling out parchment, a pen, and special ink used only by the League. He writes to his mother, something he does often enough that no one will find it odd, but inside his letter to her, detailing his activities the past two weeks, including how he is improving his English skills and how he is starting to socialize better at school; even if some of the children still look at him as if he were a wild animal, or as though everything he knew prior to Gotham was wrong. But, that is not the most important part of his letter. Inside it there is a second letter, to have his mother give to the League’s blacksmiths, for something to make for Grayson. Grayson is honorable and good and he deserves a worthy weapon to carry so he might defend himself. He sends specific requirements for a set of practical throwing knives, with just a few small details specifically related to Grayson he hopes will be well received.
Then, after he has finished writing, he seals it and heads to the roof. On his way there, he is stopped by Tim outside the door leading up to the attic. “Yes, Drake?”
“Breakfast is almost done, then we gotta head to school. Why are you going up there?” he asks.
“Letter.” Damian holds up the rolled-up parchment. Tim just nods. “I will be down momentarily.”
“Sounds good, demon brat. I’ll tell Alfred.” He heads off, and Damian continues his way to the attic, and up onto the roof from there. He tries not to dwell on Tim’s chosen nickname for him.
Once he gets to the roof, he makes his way up to the highest point. He leaves the letter in his preferred crevice and turns on a beacon. Soon, a shadow will retrieve the letter and it will be on its way. Hopefully, the gift he orders for Grayson should arrive in Gotham in about two weeks. His task accomplished, he takes a deep breath and makes his way back downstairs. He stops in his room to change into his uniform, grimacing at the feeling of the rough, tight, uncomfortable clothing. The restriction to his mobility is grating. and he wishes he could even just wear a different white collared shirt from his wardrobe, but Pennyworth insists he cannot.
He heads down to breakfast, sitting stiffly in the high backed chair at the formal dining table.
“Good morning, Master Damian.” Pennyworth sets a plate in front of him, sausage eggs and bacon all cooked in together and in a breakfast burrito, and a bowl of yogurt and berries. Thank god.
“Good morning, Pennyworth.” he replies, and pushes the plate away and eats his yogurt. As soon as Pennyworth leaves, Tim takes his plate and pushes over his own yogurt bowl. “Hm? Why—”
“You don’t eat meat. I mean I’ve seen you eat fish a couple times, but like… nothing else. Alfred uses beef sausage and turkey bacon, no pork at least, but I don’t like parfaits much anyways. Figured you'd appreciate the trade.” He shrugs.
‘Hm, perhaps Timothy doesn’t dislike me so much… Interesting.’ He thinks. It’s something he will need to update his observations about.
“Thank you, Drake.” He eats the extra portion of yogurt with a soft hum, the yogurt was strawberry flavored already, and the added blueberries were perfectly sweet and ripe. He doesn't rush as he eats, and he finishes just in time for Father to come downstairs.
“Morning Tim, Damian. You boys have a good day at school, alright? And Damian, please try to stay out of trouble kiddo. I know you have been having a hard time adjusting, but you’ve got to remember your classmates are normal children.” He pats Tim’s shoulder and gives Damian what the boy can only assume is meant to be an encouraging smile, but it isn’t convincing, not when even his father still gives him that slight look of distrust.
“Of course, father. I will do as you request. You have a good day as well.” he says, and Bruce pats his back as he rushes past to get out the door before he is late to his morning meetings.
“Young masters, it is about time we leave take our leave as well.” Pennyworth calls out to them, and Damian grabs his things before following after Drake to the car. He slides in, scooting all the way over and buckling up. The car is warm, clearly having been running for a bit so the heated space might fight off the morning chill. He doesn't say anything as Drakes bag is tossed into the car landing nearly on his feet as his brother hops in carelessly and settles in himself. Thankfully moving the runaway book bag as he does so.
The ride to school is silent, aside from the soft jazz Alfred has playing, and the patter of Tim texting on his phone. The clone, most likely. Or perhaps Brown, or his civilian best friends Ives and Dowd. Damian, however, focuses his attention right out the window. He watches the hills of Bristol pass by and eventually turn into the streets of Gotham. He sees the trees pass by at the park they pass on the way into the city. He watches, while they are stopped at an intersection, as a squirrel runs from one side of a field to the other and up into a tree, settling in for a morning nap until the late afternoon. Not unlike his or Drake's own early evening rest periods between school, and training or patrol. He shifts his gaze as the rising sun starts to peek up above the city skyline. A brief, rare moment of it shining clearly and hitting his skin. It gives him some small semblance of comfort, a reminder of the home he no longer has access to. He finds himself frowning at the thought of home. He misses the warmth, the sun, and the never-changing routines he once thrived in. He misses being able to spend his days in the warmth down in the desert, or finding his way up higher into the mountains and playing in the snow. Instead, he is now… here.
Not that there is anything inherently wrong with Gotham, no. It has its moments. The weather is usually neither so frigid his body aches incessantly, nor is it often too warm, but it is always gray. The sun hides behind clouds and he finds his skin losing its color. Where he once looked in the mirror and saw his mother, he sees more and more of his father in himself, and he can’t quite say he likes that.
He grimaces as they arrive at the school, the masses of children and teens milling about senselessly instead of heading to their classes. The chaos never seems to make any sort of logical sense to him, but Damian has gotten better at tuning it out and just focusing on getting himself to class. He has learned, with time, to fight back his instincts and he manages to not go immediately into the defensive state that was trained into him from birth, every time an errant child so much as bumps into him in their own lack of coordination. He hasn’t completely managed to stop the flinching, however, and a few students in the year above him have noticed. They take it as a sign of weakness. He does not yet see them today, but that does not mean—
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t baby Wayne.” One of the kids smirks. The other grabs Damian's shoulder and he fights back the urge to use any of the fifty methods to get away from him he currently has at his disposal. Most would cause at least minor physical harm, and Father would most definitely not approve.
“What’re you flinching for, you scared or something, baby Wayne?” The older boys all snicker. “Come on, we would hate for you to get lost or scared on the heading to class, so c’mon, we can walk you there, this way!” They start to drag him along, leading him in the opposite direction of his classroom.
“Hey! Damian!” Timothy. Damian falters and stumbles. For some strange reason, when Damian looks over at his brother Drake looks… almost concerned? Damian can’t for the life of him tell why. It’s puzzling. Another note for his observations.
“Hey, you left your lunch in the car. Figured I’d drop it by your classroom. I thought you’d be there by now, these kids aren’t bugging you, are they?” He gives the boys a sharp look, and they let go of Damian and back up; hands raised and talking over each other trying to laugh it off. They stammer and stutter as they say they just wanted to walk him to class, and there's no problems to be had.
“In the opposite direction? Yeah right. I better not see you boys around him again. I am not afraid to tell your mothers you’ve been bothering a younger student, and Brucie Wayne’s kid at that.” He gives them a pointed look.
“No, no! That’s not necessary. S-sorry Drake, have a good day!” The largest boy waves and laughs nervously as the three quickly turn away and head to their own class.
Drake looks back to Damian, an odd expression on his face. “Oi, Demon. You good? I know you’re stronger than them, why did you let them push you around?” he asks, handing over the lunch bag and gently nudging him along, walking towards his classroom with him.
“I do not wish to dishonor Father or cause another scene. I have caused him enough trouble, he already thinks I am needlessly violent. So do my classmates. I am stronger, so I must exercise more restraint.” He replies robotically, the words falling from his lips like a much smaller child who has been chided one too many times and is parroting back a summation of countless lectures on the topic at hand. “Thank you for my lunch, Drake, but I can walk to my classroom myself. You really don’t need to trouble yourself.” He flushes slightly, at the thought of his him doing so, and glances over at Drake as they walk and converse.
“Nah, it’s fine. I have a free period in the morning. For independent study for a few classes I take online. I’m ahead in them anyways, so it’s not a big deal.” He pauses for a moment as he considers his next words. “And… dude, there’s a difference between restraint, and letting yourself be pushed around. Talk to your teacher or B about it. Hell, tell me even if some kid is bugging you, yeah? I either know all of their parents or I'm in classes with their siblings and can get in contact with their parents. Standing up for yourself doesn’t have to be violent. There’s other ways to get things handled.” He says with a casual shrug.
Damian nods. “I’m aware, but I also have learned it is a social faux pas to ‘tattle’ on fellow students, and I do not wish to be rude,” Damian says as they near his class.
Drake sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I mean yeah, but that’s like, for a kid having gum or using pen instead of pencil during assignments. Shit like that, Damian. Not for kids harassing you. Especially older students, those boys are two years above you. Telling a teacher about older kids giving you a hard time won’t cause problems with your classmates. Or at least it shouldn't.” The older boy sounds confident, but Damian looks up at him, still somewhat unsure. There is not more time to discuss however, as they have reached his classroom.
“Hey Mrs. G!” He smiles and waves at Damian’s teacher as they approach the door.
“Oh! Good morning, Tim! Long time no see, and good morning to you too, Damian! Ready for a good day today?” She smiles, standing in her usual place right at the door, greeting students as they walk in.
Damian just nods, muttering a quiet good morning as he slips into his classroom. He turns back to wave at Drake, and he waves back. With that, Damian focuses on getting settled into the classroom for the first half of his day.
“Hey Mrs. G, is he having issues with kids still? Caught the Freeman boys and the youngest Friedman kid giving him a hard time. Does Bruce know, have you been talking to him about it?” Tim asks.
The teacher sighs. “The kids are wary of him. He was so… let’s say jumpy, at first… I think they’re still scared. He’s gotten a lot better, but now he’s so soft spoken and gone in the opposite direction completely. He never speaks or answers questions in class at all without being called on. I’ve tried emailing your father, er, Mr. Wayne, but never seem to get a response from anyone but occasionally your butler, Mr. Pennyworth. And even then all it says is that the situation will be handled and each time Damian comes in quieter and quieter… but I had Dick when he was here, I can’t see that being Mr. Wayne’s influence...” Tim frowns.
“That’s weird, and not like Bruce at all. Usually he hounds us if he hears something from our teachers or the office until we tell him what’s wrong… If you wanna write a note for him, I can swing by the teachers’ lounge during lunch hour to come get it and take it to him when I leave campus for my internship today. I wonder if Damian doesn’t want him to know for some reason...”
She nods. “It does seem odd, he has usually been very communicative with the school. I appreciate you being willing to do that, you’re a good brother, Tim. I’ll have that for you by the second half of your lunch hour.” She smiles.
Tim nods in thanks. “Sounds good Mrs. G, you have a good morning. I’ll see you later!” He waves as he turns away and heads off towards the high school part of the building.
Morning lessons go by easily for Damian. His teacher is thorough in explanations with what little material he doesn’t already know (mostly related to western history concepts and some small details with English), and the rest he is proficient in already and he finishes easily without any instruction. This leaves him plenty of time to draw or write in his journal, just doodles or notes about his day.
This is going fine until just before lunch. A student looks over at him, sees his journal, and covers her mouth fighting back laughs. Damian frowns and looks over at her.
“What?” he asks, bristling and tensing up. “What’s so funny?”
“Why are you scribbling like that?” She giggles. “It looks silly. It’s not even real art or anything!”
Damian’s jaw clenches. “I am writing, just not in English. That’s all.”
“Yeah, but those aren’t even letters!” She laughs harder and a couple other kids look over and giggle too.
Damian slams his hands down on his desk, as he flips his journal shut, startling them all. “I am writing in Arabic! It is a much more dignified language than English, and what I prefer to write in! This is just what it looks like, some people are intelligent enough to know that not all languages use the Latin alphabet. Others are like you.” He scoffs, and goes to pack up his things for lunch. One of the boys uses this moment to sneak over and grabs his journal from him.
“Give that back!” He demands and stands up to go get it as the boy crosses the room, going back to his table with his friends and showing them his writing. “Give that back to me, now.”
“Geez are you sure this is even a real language? It does look like nonsense.” The boys snicker. Damian tries to take it back, as they keep jeering and taunting him. Damian tries to get it back again, and the taller boy holds it over his head, just too high for Damian to reach. “It’s just nonsense, here, we will just have to get rid of it for you.”
As the boy turns to leave, Damian darts forward to trip him, and he falls, slamming his face into a desk and his nose crunches upon impact. In the commotion, Damian's journal goes flying, and he leaps for it, catching it before someone can take it again. Of course, their teacher walks back in just then from filling her water bottle. She frowns at the sight before her, giving Damian a knowing—assuming, a small part of his brain whispers—disappointed look that Damian can only take to be something akin to the pity one shows a particularly untrainable puppy. He glares briefly at his bully, now sporting a broken nose, before turning and packing his bag, already knowing where he is headed.
“Damian, where do you think you’re—” His teacher starts and he cuts her off.
“To the superintendent's, Mrs. Geraldine. Since that is where you were going to send me anyways.” He huffs softly, and keeps his eyes down, not meeting her gaze again. “I know you must speak with them as well but Fathers’ lunch is over in ten minutes, they may as well call him now. Tt.” Mrs. Geraldine nods, and Damian makes his way to the main office.
Due to it being rare for an elementary student to require intervention from the superintendent's or deans' offices, both are closer to the high school side of the building, than the elementary. So, naturally, Damian, his grip on his journal bone-white and jaw tense, gets cursed to pass Drake on his way there.
“Hey, what’s going on?” Drake tries asking, but Damian ignores him and just keeps walking. “No seriously, you look like you’re gonna punch someone. What happened?” He pushes for an answer, and Damian groans.
“It is of no concern to you, Drake. I am going to call Father.” The older boy frowns, and Damian just does not understand where his sudden concern of late has come from. Because it isn’t just today, the last month has been filled with odd assurances or check-ins from his ‘brother’ and while it isn’t altogether unpleasant, it is so unsettling that he cannot help but want to piece together why. Like. Why now? What could he possibly be wanting? When will he finally reveal whatever it is that has caused him to suddenly no longer hate him? Even that accursed nickname no longer carries the biting agitation behind it, that it once did.
“No dude, seriously, what—”
“I SAID IT IS NOT OF YOUR CONCERN!” Damian shouts, his face turning red as he turns to face Tim. “QUIT ACTING AS THOUGH YOU CARE! I KNOW YOU DO NOT!” His screams grow, and a crowd gathers.
“Quit being so weird! Quit trying to be nice! Quit acting as though you can even begin to comprehend ANYTHING about me!” His chest heaves, and he does not notice as Tim double-taps his watch. He also does not notice when his screaming turns to Arabic, nor that he has started waving his arms around erratically; his composure and ability to recognize or control himself and his actions gone as he has what he will later learn is called a meltdown.
“Quit trying to be a brother to me now, I do not deserve it! I know I do not! I have done nothing but dishonor and disappoint Father the entire time I have been here, so just… GO AWAY!” Damian's face is red, and his eyes are wet, and he has shoved at Drake at least three times throughout this whole ordeal, though no one has come close enough to intervene; not even the teacher who has come to see what the commotion is, only to be waved off by Drake.
“Move aside, Drake. I need to go call father!” he snarls, his body is wound tight, like a band about to snap once more. Drake refuses, so he attempts to shove him and catch him off balance to slip around him. Drake has other ideas however, and he catches his arm, twisting gently but just right to restrain him against his chest. Damian lashes out, fully spiraling into the meltdown once more. He tries to break free, but in his rage and upset he is too disoriented, and too unfocused, to do anything but kick his legs into Drake's as he screams, but the older boy is more than capable of keeping him held tight.
Damian starts to cry, and his brother just shushes him, eventually turning him so he is crying into his shoulder, still holding him securely until Bruce arrives a few minutes later. Bruce's eyes go wide at the sight of them.
“Boys, what on earth—” Tim cuts him off, answering readily.
“He's having a meltdown, B. I was trying to ask him what happened, for him to look like he was gonna snap and wind up all the way up here, and he flipped out. I don't know what else happened today, but he was already headed up here when I saw him.” He murmurs quietly.
Bruce nods, and takes Damian from Tim, pulling his son close and rubbing his back. “He thinks he's a disappointment or a failure or something, too. I understood that much. He started yelling in Arabic, though. I don't think I've heard him do that in a hot minute…” Tim says quietly.
Bruce sighs, shoulders slumping as much as they can while carrying his child. “It has been a few months since that last happened… We will figure out what's going on. I'm taking you both home early, unless you'd rather stay, Tim?” Drake shakes his head, knowing that what little the rest of his day in the building would be filled with gossip and stares, and questions he really doesn't care to answer or deal with. It'll be easier to post a story on his class snapchat later saying everyone’s fine and that it was just a rough day for his still adjusting brother than to deal with it in real time.
Bruce nods. “Okay then. I will call the school later to find out what happened. We should go.” He stops in at attendance to sign them both out, and he takes them to the car. he buckles Damian in, the boy having fallen asleep, exhausted by the last half hour's events.
“Let’s just go home. I’ll tell Lucius you won’t be in today,” is the last thing Bruce says before turning on the radio and driving them home.
When Damian awakes however, hours later, he finds himself in more trouble than he has been in since he came to Gotham.