Chapter Text
Damian Al Ghul Wayne was a lot of things.
He was the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul, heir to the League of Assassins. He was a blood-born Wayne, son of the Batman. He was a trained killer, fluent in more languages than most could name, capable of disarming a man with nothing but a glance and a flick of the wrist. From the outside, he was perfect—sharp in mind, honed in body, unshakable in purpose.
Mind.
And
Body.
Damian Wayne was perfect.
Or, at least, that's what he was told. Perfection wasn’t a compliment—it was a command. It was the mantra of his childhood, drilled into him with every bruising strike, every endless hour beneath the sunless sky of the League’s mountain compound.
"Pain is weakness," his grandfather would say, just before dragging him from bed in the cold hours before sunrise. The training grounds were slick with dew and blood. The air was thin, biting, almost metallic, and Damian’s muscles burned long before the day began. He didn’t cry. He didn’t complain. He endured. He outlasted the pain. Because that was what perfection demanded.
And he never stopped. Never slowed down. Not when his limbs trembled. Not when his vision blurred. Not even when the moon rose high overhead and the other acolytes had collapsed, half-conscious and aching in the dust.
He was the one who stood.
He was the one who endured.
He was the one who was perfect.
Perfection didn’t stop at combat. In the rare hours he wasn't training his body, he was honing his mind. He spoke Arabic before he could walk, and by the age of ten, he could debate philosophy in French, decode ancient Tibetan scrolls, or give orders in flawless Russian. His reading list was older than most civilizations—Aristotle, Sun Tzu, Gibbon, Al-Farabi. He could suture a wound in the dark. Diagnose over fifty poisons from scent alone. Write legibly with both hands. Read a man's intentions by the twitch of a brow.
Damian Wayne was told, over and over again, that he would be the League’s greatest creation.
The perfect weapon.
The perfect heir.
The perfect son.
The perfect Robin.
But perfection, as Damian was beginning to understand, did not quiet the emptiness in his chest.
It started—of course it did—on a Wednesday night. Because what else would spark an existential crisis if not a random Wednesday night?
The Batcave was unusually quiet, its cavernous belly humming softly with the low murmur of idle tech. Stalactites dripped somewhere in the distance, the echo too slow and rhythmic to notice unless you were really listening. The air was cool, almost damp, and it carried the scent of metal, oil, and stone. The signature musk of Wayne legacy.
Damian was sitting near the Batcomputer, legs folded beneath him, a cloth in one hand and his katana in the other. The blade shimmered in the pale blue glow of the monitor. Beside him, Titus lay sprawled across the stone floor, his giant head resting against Damian’s thigh, breath warm and steady.
He could hear Drake typing away at the secondary workstation nearby aggressively, like the keys had insulted him. What had insulted Damian was Drake's desk. The desk was an abomination. Empty Red Bull cans clinked when he shifted, crumpled soda cans clinked around his chair, and old iced coffee cups leaned precariously at the edge, looking less like coffee and more like cheese at this point. Wrappers from those cheap Twirlers were scattered everywhere, like confetti from a sad birthday party, along with empty chip bags and candy.
It made Damian want to vomit. How Darke was still alive was beyond Damian's comprehension.
How he could even function in such a disarray state baffled him as well. Proper work takes pristine, clean space. Perfection.
How Father allowed such a disgraceful mess under his nose was beyond comprehension. Even now, Bruce was off-planet with the Justice League, trusting this man-child with Gotham in his absence.
Damian scoffed under his breath and turned his attention back to his blade. He wiped slowly, methodically, as he’d been taught. Clean the steel. Honor the tool. Maintain the edge. Discipline is shown in the details. Return it to its perfect state.
Titus stirred, groaned lightly in his sleep. The dog's massive weight pressing into Damian’s side was oddly comforting, grounding even. Like an anchor tethering him to something real in the middle of all this sterile, fluorescent silence.
He glanced at the digital clock glowing on the wall: 1:38 AM.
If he got to bed by 2:30, and woke up at 6 for his morning routine, he’d be fine. Functional, if not fresh. Just enough time to train, shower, and make it to school without dragging.
He was just placing the katana back into its sheath when the silence shattered.
ZOOM.
A roar of engines thundered through the cave, ricocheting off stone walls. Damian just sighed standing up, followed quickly by a startled Titus, who jumped up to Damian’s side quickly. In a blur of sound and screeching tires, two motorcycles peeled into view—one red and aggressive, the other blue, sleek and dark.
Red Hood’s bike came to an unnecessarily dramatic halt, tires squealing. Nightwing coasted in behind him with a smooth, almost smug grace. The smell of rubber caused Damian to frown further
“Told ya I’d win!” Jason whooped as he swung off the bike, leaping off the bike practically skipping towards the Batcomputer and pumping his fists in the air like a boxer in a victory lap. Damian scoffed. Todd looked worse for wear. He could use some deodorant. And a shower.
He strolled in wearing his usual sad attire, a torn, patched-up leather jacket, streaked with grime and blood. His right glove was missing, revealing knuckles scraped raw. A cut near his temple was wrinkled with dried blood. He looked like he’d just walked out of a bar fight with a dumpster.
Damian, standing off to the computer's right with Titus beside him, observed Todd silently. Todd was limping, favoring his left side, though he tried to hide it with ‘swagger’ as he called it. Typical.
Behind him, Dick followed, slightly hunched and nursing his ribs with one arm. His suit had fresh tears where he was holding his arm. He’d ditched his domino mask the moment he was parked in the cave, wiping a hand over his sweat-covered face and hair. There was a dried smear of blood along his jaw that he somehow hadn’t noticed yet.
Both of them were collecting themselves, catching their breath, but grinning like idiots.
A few feet away, Tim was perched on a rolling chair, fingers flying across three different keyboards. Multiple screens flickered around him, bathing his face in pale blue light. He didn’t look up.
Jason trudged closer, dragging his boots a little, until he reached Tim’s desk.
“Hey, Replacement. Need help with this,” he said, leaning up against Tim's monstrosity of a desk, and slapping an ancient, half-dead laptop onto the chaos that was Tim’s workspace. Old RedBull cans and candy wrappers clattered to the floor.
Tim flinched as the echo bounced off the cavern walls. Slowly, dramatically, he turned to face him. God, Damian thought, He looked awful.
“Jay. I am busy.”
“’Kay, first, you look like ya are rotting. When's the last time ya slept, Timmy?” Jason said, throwing his hands up in a sense of surrender. Tim just scoffed, flipped him off, and continued typing “An second, I need help, an’ I died once so, it's fair if I come first.” Todd purred out, somewhat proudly, crossing his arms and leaning back up against Drake's desk.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” Tim snapped, pushing the laptop aside like it was contagious.
“Ohhh, pretty please, Tim-bird?” Dick chimed in, suddenly looming on Tim’s other side. He slung an arm around Tim’s shoulders and leaned in like they were posing for a selfie.
Tim groaned audibly.
“Pleaaaaase,” Jason added, dangling his weight against Tim like a toddler demanding attention.
“Either you help us, or it's immediately up to bed for you, seriously, when's the last time you had real food?” Dick said, looking around Tim's desk, picking up some wrappers and old cans, dropping them with a shudder.
“FINE!” Tim shouted, throwing his hands up. “You two are like actual children.”
Grinning in unison, Jason and Dick released him and high-fived with synchronized glee.
“We're still gonna make you go to bed after this. Don't make me get Alfred involved.” Dick added, patting Tim’s shoulder.
Tim muttered, “I hate this family,” and reluctantly pulled the battered laptop toward him.
“What is this?” he asked, already cracking the casing open with a tool from the mess on his desk.
Jason leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his arms with a smug grin.
“We found it at an ole’ port warehouse. Been tailing this knockoff wannabe cartel ganstas for weeks. Sloppy’ crew. Keep ditching locations every few nights. But someone wasn’ exxpectin any company so when me and Dickie bird droped in, we were able to grab a few things.” He stayed waving his eyebrows and pointing at the laptop. “Guess they ain’t know much about computers tho, didn’ try too hard to protect it, left a shit ton of stuff. Stupid Fucks”
He nudged the laptop with his knuckle. “So, I figured I coulda spent a few days trynna dig through all’ this shit- or even better- you could work your keyboard magic, an’ dig up what they’re planning, and boom, job done. Easy peasy.”
Tim grunted something noncommittal and started typing.
Off to the side, Damian stood silently with Titus lying at his feet, turning back to finish his post patrol duties. The Batcave around them was dim, running on auxiliary lighting. Most of the overheads were off, leaving only soft pools of white light around the workstations and vehicle bays. The vast ceilings above stretched into shadow.
Damian’s blade gleamed under the low light. He grabbed his cloth, he dropped and went back to the meticulous and tedious work he was doing before these barbarous fools, his brothers, decided to interrupt him. He had just finished when his brothers had decided to burst in, and with the spook it gave Titus, some of the dog's slobber found its way onto his katana. He scoffed, annoyed and tired, trying to finish his already good enough job. But he didn't want ‘good enough’, his katana polished to near mirror finish. His strokes were methodical. Controlled. Perfect.
He wasn’t paying attention to the others, not fully. They were loud, and careless, and bruised. And still… laughing. Todd’s busted-up shoulder. Grayson’s bleeding mouth. Sloppy.
They were always laughing through failure. The idea of returning to the cave in such utter duress and shambles was just below Damian.
He wasn’t like them. He wouldn’t be like them.
He just wanted to get done and go to bed.
Lost in his thoughts-he almost missed it- but he caught motion in the reflection of his blade — someone approaching. Tall, loose posture. Bare feet.
Grayson.
Too close.
“Grayson,” Damian said tightly, still focused on the katana. Glaring at him through the reflection of the katana as Grayson crept up behind him, “I just finished polishing this. If you get even a drop of your blood on it, I swear—”
He didn’t get to finish. Dick leaned down and wrapped his arms around Damian’s middle, hoisting him off the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Tt–Grayson!” Damian scowled, kicking his feet as Titus gave a single thump of his tail but made no move to help. Damian immediately went on the defensive, twisting in Grayson’s grip and hissing out a stream of sharp Arabic curses. Grayson didn’t flinch — he simply laughed and held tighter, eventually setting Damian down with a grin.
“I cannot fathom why you insist on these unnecessary displays of public affection,” Damian grumbled, brushing imaginary dust off his pants, as if the mere thought of being touched by the others was beneath him. He placed his freshly polished katana on the nearest table — the blade gleamed under the cave lights, spotless.
“How’s my favorite little Wing?” Grayson beamed, crouching down to meet Damian at eye level.
Damian scoffed and pushed past him, heading toward the opposite side of the cave to remove his suit for Alfred to mend.
“Awww, is the baby bird all grumpy again?” Jason called out, puckering his lips as he approached, limping slightly, still half-covered in dirt and dried blood.
“You go out on patrol?” he added, sidling up next to where Grayson was standing, now petting Titus who sat at his side, tossing a smirk toward Damian.
Damian didn’t reply. He kept unfastening the armor plates on his shoulders and chest, placing them with clinical precision in the tray marked for repairs. Removing his shirt in the process, letting the cold air in the cave help calm him down.
Jason didn’t back down. “Ya didn't cha? What, was it too much for Little Wing to handle?”
Yeah, the cold air wasn’t gonna calm him down. Fuck Todd.
Damian let out a long, irritated groan. He turned sharply to face them, scowling.
“No. Patrol was tediously predictable. Nothing of value occurred. It was a complete and utter waste of my time and talents — as expected,” he spat at, glaring at them.
Jason snorted. “Awww, not enough ass-kickin’ for babybird? Boo hoo.” Todd made a whiney face gesture with his hands, which prompted Damian to flick him off as he turned around and started continuing removing the rest of his suit. “Wheres B? He let ya go out alone?”
“Father is out of world. I was working closely with Oracle and had Red Robin available if I needed his help- which is least effective. I would rather die.” Tim flipped him off from where he was sitting yelling over his shoulder, “He snuck out. He was supposed to stay home.” Damian's glare grew as he snarled back, “There was nothing that required father, I am not a child.”
Dick just put a hand on his shoulder, giving Damian a kind of look that made his stomach pool with dread “You are a child Damian. You're only eleven” Dick said, seriously. Damian just shrugged his hand off his shoulder.
Before Damian could snap back, however, Jason slung an arm around his neck and yanked him into a loose headlock, knuckles dragging through his hair.
“Damn kid, ya can't just run off. Do I have ta knock that sense into ya?”
Damian grunted, struggling. “Release me this instant, Todd!”
He twisted sharply, elbowing Jason in the ribs with precision. Jason let out a choked breath and stumbled back, releasing him.
“TT’ Learn some personal boundaries, Todd” Damian scoffed, brushing himself off with exaggerated dignity
“Ahh— shitty lil’ brat. Fine, get killed on patrol from ya damn stubornness I dont give a fuck” Jason muttered, rubbing his side as he flopped into Bruce’s oversized command chair.
Damian smoothed his hair back into place with quiet dignity and scoffed. “You are all far too comfortable with manhandling.” Damian scoffed, turning from Todd. Grayson just sighed “We’ll talk about this later.” he said, ruffling Damian's hair, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, giving Damian a warmth and comfort he loved, even though he wouldn't dare to ever admit to it out loud.
See that was the thing with this family. They were far too comfortable with touch-manhandling, not understanding boundaries, whatever you wanted to call it. When Damian had first come to live in Gotham, it had taken him some time to adjust to the constant, incessant displays of affection.
There were the girls, of course — Barbara, Cassandra, and Stephanie — who were always present, always there. He couldn’t understand it at first. Why did they need to be so close? Why did they touch so often?
Barbara had a habit of holding your wrist when she listened to you speak. Not in a patronizing way. Just... present. Grounded. She’d done it to him the first time they met, and he’d nearly jerked his hand away in instinctive defense. But she didn’t release it. Her hold was firm, sure, but not invasive. It felt... comforting. In a way, it unsettled him. And then there was Cassandra and Stephanie.
Damian had learned quickly never to sit near them during downtime — debriefings, family dinners, movie nights — it didn’t matter. If you had hair, they would find it, and they would braid it. He learned this lesson the hard way after a particularly grueling week in the field. He had come home, irritated and tired, but decided to sit on the couch, just for a few minutes, to catch his breath.
Within five minutes, Cassandra was beside him, and Stephanie had snuck in from behind, hands already in motion. They began weaving and tugging at his hair with practiced ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Damian had tried to stand, to move away, but their hands followed. It was an unspoken rule: you didn’t move during the braiding. It was like an impenetrable shield that they wielded together, in perfect synchrony.
It started with Grayson, who adored the attention, his perpetual smile never fading when anyone—anyone—touched his hair. He was a willing participant, often teasing Damian when they’d all gather for movie night. "C’mon, kid, let them braid your hair, you look like you need a makeover."
Damian would rather have been on the front lines of a battle with the League than let anyone touch his hair. It was a ridiculous tradition, one born of overzealous affection that he neither understood nor appreciated. But Grayson’s smile always seemed to soften at the edges, like it was a universal language he could never escape.
Then came the horror: Damian once walked into the living room after a brutal mission, bleeding and battered, only to find Todd — Todd of all people — sitting in the corner sporting a man bun. And if that wasn’t enough, Drake sat beside him, two tiny pigtails behind his head, a devilish grin on his face as he adjusted his makeshift hairstyle.
Damian’s jaw nearly locked in horror. What madness was this? This was unacceptable. He had to step away, just to breathe.
After that, he kept his distance. And if someone dared to touch his hair — if they even touched it — he would lash out.
But, of course, it wasn’t so easy. He couldn’t run from them forever.
It wasn’t until he had accidentally fallen asleep in the study, after a 43-hour stakeout — which, to be perfectly clear, was not a moment of weakness, but simply a lapse in awareness — that the problem truly presented itself. He had been exhausted, utterly drained from the relentless hours, the endless chase after Gotham’s criminal underbelly. And he had found a rare moment of quiet. He never expected to wake up to this.
He blinked awake in a fog, his senses slow to engage. It took him a few moments to register what was happening — they were braiding his hair.
It wasn’t a dream.
There they were: Cassandra and Stephanie, both of them hovering over him like smug, scheming demons, fingers working with the fluidity of experienced hands. The memory of it was etched into his mind forever. He could still hear their soft laughter, their quiet banter, as they wove strands of his hair into some elaborate pattern he would never understand.
He had not been pleased. Not in the least. His anger had been immediate.
But... somewhere beneath the irritation, Damian felt something stir — something entirely foreign to him.
It’s just hair, Damian. It’s just a bit of human touch. The internal voice was small, quiet, but undeniable. And so he lay still, seething silently, until they finished.
Since then, he made a habit of avoiding them during films. And if you were unfortunate enough to sit in front of them, they would find your hair.
It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the gesture. He could never admit that. He wasn’t some... soft child who needed constant attention. But if he was being honest, he couldn’t deny it either. The touch was... nice. In the way sunlight felt after days of rain. It reminded him of his mother- when he would sit before her and she would absentmindedly play with his hair. Brief, but not unwelcome. And sometimes, when no one was looking, he would slightly lean into it, his usual rigidity easing just a fraction.
But it would never be enough for Damian to admit it. No. Not to them. Never.
The same, however, could not be said for his brothers.
Grayson was the worst offender. Affectionate to the point of absurdity, the man had no concept of personal space. He reminded Damian of an overgrown golden retriever—warm, clingy, and hopelessly loyal. If Damian sat alone on a couch, it was only a matter of time before Grayson appeared beside him, all smiles and sunbeam energy. And somehow—somehow—they’d always end up asleep, tangled together like puppies. Damian denied it every morning, even as the evidence piled up.
Jason and Drake were… different. Less golden retriever, more feral alley cats. Their version of affection was physical, bordering on violence. Roughhousing, Father called it.
When tensions were high, Damian and Drake could go from passive-aggressive bickering to full-blown sparring in seconds—fists, knives, and all. It usually ended with Jason trying to stop them but somehow joining in, whether for the fun of it or because they pushed his buttons too far- no one knew- which then would inevitably lead to someone getting tackled, furniture being broken, and Alfred threatening to quit (again).
Usually Dick or Alfred could end those brawls. On rare occasions would the father have to jump in and intervene. And only under even rarer, emotionally-charged circumstances—after patrol injuries or near-death experiences—would Damian allow himself to be touched without resistance.
He would deny all evidence of falling asleep on Drake during movie nights, feeling Jason carry him to bed when he worked himself to exhaustion in the training rooms, or even the occasional times when he'd gotten hurt on patrol and he'd clung to father as his lifeline, to carry him home in the comfort and warmth of his arm.
He would deny and never ask for physical touch. Not that he didn’t want it.
He craved it more often than he cared to admit. The vanilla scent of Dick’s hoodie. Jason’s body heat, always running warm like a furnace. Even the quiet steadiness of Bruce’s arm around his shoulders, as rare as it was. Sometimes even Drake's quiet present is just in their same room. Only sometimes.
Most of the time Drake could go straight to hell.
Damian shoved the thought aside and kept walking, ignoring Jason’s muttered curses behind him.
“Are you sure you're alright?” came Grayson’s voice from where he now sat next to Drake, face creased with that infuriatingly gentle concern.
“There is no problem, Grayson. Unlike the rest of you degenerates, I have morning obligations—namely, school. Some of us still value discipline, structure, and our physical well-being.” Damian scoffed
“Fancy for ‘i’m jus tired” Todd quipped in a few feet away, sat to next to Drake as they were hunched over the seemingly working computer
“Why dontcha finish getting changed and go up to bed” Drake quipped as Jason snickered next to him”
Damian tugged off his last boot and slammed it onto the table next to all of his gear, seething.
“Wow, what a brilliant deduction, Drake. Remind me—was it the cape or the condescension that earned you the title of detective? Because clearly, stating the obvious is now a skill.” Damian snapped turning now to face where Todd and Drake sat
Drake scolded at damian as Todd burst out into laughter, echoing throughout the cave
“Welp fuck you. I don't know why I ever bother.” Drake said as he turned and went back to his work and continued typing away.
Todd gasped as he came back from laughing, sitting his elbows up and sat in Bruce's chair. “Jus’ a wonderful ball of joy, ain’t cha brat” he said wiping his eye.
Damian just scoffed as Grayson smiled looking between them all. Seeing as how the three of them sat at the computer, Tim in the middle going through the laptop, Damian got ready to go upstairs. He walked back across the cave, his footsteps echoing throughout as he melt next to Titus waking him up
“Yalla Titus” Damian said, crouching down by his great dane had decided to lay back down, as he nudged him. Once Titus stretched with a big yawn, Damian stood up.
“Ohh commmer puppy” Jason yelled twisting in his chair calling out to Titus, who, walked up to collect cuddles from him immediately
”Please, Todd, unhand him. I do not wish for him to get ticks- or possibly rabies from you” Damian scrolled, standing there shirtless in the cave. He was getting cold and was- quite frankly- tired
”Aww come one dames be nice” Dick said, still looking at the computer as Tim typed away
“Okay this hard drive is a war crime” Tim says, running a hand through his hair as he continues working. “Seriously, I think someone tried to wipe it with bleach?” He scoffs leaning in with his terrible posture
“At this point i’ll trust Titus to decrypt it faster” Dick yawns stretching across Tim’s back to pet where Titus is sat by Jason
“You say that as if he hasn’t outperformed you all in measurable metrics” Damian scoffs “Yalla, Titus, lets go.”
Titus gets up and walks away from where Dick and Todd were petting him, and walks over to Damian, sliding up by his legs and sitting down looking up at Damian.
Tim made an audible grumble that caught the attention of both Dick and Jason, turning back around, backs to Damian ,as they all started talking to each other
“Good Boy Titus,” Damian said, patting his head. “Come, let us go take our leave. “
“Goodnight baby bat” Dick cooed over his shoulder
“Dont let the bed bugs getcha Ain’t fun” Jason added
Damian just scoffed, “ain’t’ isn’t a word, Todd”
”mi mi mi mi” todd said throwing his hand up and moving it open and close, sticking his tongue out at Damian.
“ugh this damn ass computer” Drake grumbled, shoving his elbows out, knocking some empty cans to the floor.Damian paused at the sound and sight of his three brothers huddled around Tim’s monstrosity of a desk, casting a disdainful look over his shoulder. "Try not to contract tetanus in the time it takes you to get into that computer, Drake". He was half joking- half serious. Drake had a horrible immune system. And Damian purely didn't want him to get sick purely because he didn't want to get stuck taking care of him. Purely the reason. He didn’t care about Drakes health. He wasn’t worried. Not at all.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "‘Con-tract tetanus’?" he repeated, leaning forward.
"Listen to this guy, trynna lecturing us. "Drake said with a smirk, already slipping into imitation. "‘Try not to con-tract te-ta-nus, Todd.’” Drake said, pushing back and into Todd's side, lifting his head up high with a smug smile
Jason laughed, leaning into Drake, he continued, "Careful Drake” he said, doing something weird that made Damian's stomach twist. He was pronouncing the words wrong. Elongating the vowels for some odd reason.
"No," Tim corrected, adopting a fake haughty tone and straightening his posture, lifting his hand up like a hamlet version "more like, ‘Gentlemen. I believe we have entered a severely unsanitary environment.’" He said, also doing the same thing Todd was. Why?
Jason, lowering his voice dramatically. "Your negligence is both predictable and disappointing, Drake. Do better." He deepened his voice, tried to sit up straight stiff and regal like Damian, and threw in some exaggerated hand movements.
“You fight like a child who has never held a blade. I am dishonored.” Jason continued.
Jason’s fake accent was some weird Hollywood villain and street-side falafel vendor mix, and it made Tim choke on his water. Damian did not understand what they were doing.
Tim was laughing now. "‘You’ll never be League material with posture like that, Todd.’"
Dick glanced up to them with a small grin.
Damian blinked, taken off guard. "Imbeciles! What are you doing?!"
That only made them laugh harder. A sudden pit formed in Damian's stomach as he swallowed, taken aback by his brother's reactions.
“Jus doin’ our best demon brat imprestions” Todd said
“I don't sound like that.” Damian stated, a weird tightness was gnawing at his chest “You made me sound- sound- I do not know! I do not sound like that!” He yelled, as Todd and Drake just chuckled, clearly enjoying how riled up they were getting their brother.
“Yeah ya do.” Todd said
“No, you make me sound like I can't speak English. I can. I don't make weird notes or whatever you were doing.” Damian started stopping his foot down, borderline tantrum. The tightness in his chest growing.
“You mean your accent?” Drake said
The tightness in Damian's chest dropped into the deepest pit of his stomach.
“I do not have an accent. I speak english perfectly” Damian seethed out, Drake and Todd smirking at each other. Dicks smile was slowly fading,as he seemed to be studying Damian's reactions, watching him.
"Sure, sure. Perfectly," Jason drawled, slouched back again. "Except for the part where you pronounce ‘schedule’ like you’re narrating a BBC documentary."
”I think your accent is super cute dames!”Dick added, smiling at him as he hunched back over the computer with Drake.
"I do not speak with an accent, in fact, I speak English perfectly. " Damian muttered, more to himself than to them. For some reason he could feel his heart pounding against his ribs.
"Far from perfect, demon brat, you speak like you’re reading straight from the dictionary or something" Tim added distractedly—finally turned back to work and was more focused on the screen now. "Got it. I cracked it."
"Finally," Dick sighed, leaning in. "You’re a genius, Drake."
As the three leaned over the monitor, diving into decrypted files and half-finished leads, Damian stood frozen in his spot for a second longer.
Their voices blurred into background noise as he walked out of the cave, barely noticing Titus now.
Not perfect?
Those words echoed in his mind as he walked up into the manor, turning the corner and walking up to his room.
Not perfect…
No way. Damian Wayne had to be perfect. I mean- according to the media he had the perfect life. Son of Bruce Wayne, billionaire philanthropist, successful brothers, rich. Perfect life.
However, Damian was also aware of the way the media had portrayed him when he first came to Gotham—bratty, quick-tempered, entitled. Different. Darker. He had been labeled a problem child before he even set foot in the city, and, in a way, it wasn’t entirely his fault. Who wouldn’t have an attitude problem if you’d gone from being a literal prince, with riches beyond imagination, to just... another billionaire? A Wayne, yes, but still just rich, not royalty. That was fine. He could deal with that.
But it wasn’t the name-calling or the press that stuck with him. No, it was something deeper, something that hit harder than all the accusations and harsh words. It was the way they referred to him—the way they saw him. More specifically, the way they saw his skin. Darker. Always darker.
Damian knew his skin was different. He wasn’t blind. His brothers were all pale, especially Drake and Jason. They all shared the same sharp features, but sometimes they looked more like Bruce than he did—simply because of their skin. It wasn’t a major thing, really. He could ignore it, mostly. But it was there, in every glance, every whisper. He felt the difference.
He hated that they made him feel it.
He knew how the other kids at school saw him—dirty, unworthy of their time, their respect. He’d caught their looks in the hallway, the way their eyes flicked to him and then away like he was something... off. It wasn’t just words, though. No, it was the way they treated him. It was in their silence, in their whispers.
One day, during art—seemingly the only class he actually enjoyed—he was working on a landscape. A view of the Annapurna Massif in Nepal, the mountains surrounding his home. He had been there with his mother once on a mission, and it was the first time she had ever told him she was proud of him. That memory had stayed with him—had to. It was all he had of her, really. So he painted it, carefully sketching out the peaks, the valleys, adding layers of color to reflect the way the sunlight had touched the mountain tops that day.
But when he returned the next day, his work had been destroyed.
Red and black paint splattered across the canvas, obscuring the once-beautiful image. A single phrase was scratched into the surface: Go home.
Damian stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning the damage. Then, after a long beat, he just shrugged. “Fine,” he muttered to himself. He hadn’t liked that painting much anyway. Whatever.
He wasn’t surprised. Not really.
He knew how they felt.
He could feel it every time he brought in the food Alfred made for him—traditional Arabic dishes, fragrant and full of care. The other kids would wrinkle their noses, complain about the smell, make snide comments. "I can’t believe you're eating that," they'd say, loud enough for him to hear. There was even that one time when he was walking through the halls, his lunch in hand, when someone tripped him—exactly like in those silly movies—and his carefully prepared meal was ruined. It hit him harder than it should have.
It wasn’t just lunch.
It was Alfred’s time. His effort. His care. All of it, gone in an instant. And they laughed. They mocked him. Mocked them.
They called him a stain on the Wayne legacy, told him to speak English, told him his family had washed him out. They tossed around slurs, racial comments, as if those were somehow justified by his skin color, his blood. And it was fine, really. He expected it. He knew not to fight it. There was constant bad press about his family. That's common, being a Wayne. He wouldn't fight it, wouldn't bring attention to it as to not bring shame to the family.
But there were a few things he'd fight back on.
Anything about his family.
They could call him whatever they wanted. His skin, his food, his art, his temper—they could say it all. But his family? No. That was the line.
One day, in the middle of the cafeteria, someone—just some kid, trying to get attention—had the audacity to make a comment.
“No wonder his whore of a mother just slept with Wayne and left him the kid. I’m sure most would do the same, seeing how easy Brucie—”
The rest of the sentence was lost as Damian’s fist collided with the kid’s face, cutting off whatever bile was about to spill out. He didn’t think so. He didn’t care.
He got three days of detention for it, but that didn’t matter. He could’ve broken a few fingers, maybe snapped a wrist. But he didn’t. He kept it civil. Barely.Because if you insulted his family—any of them—he wouldn’t stop.
But Damian also thought you also could say he wasn’t perfect. Damian Wayne was perfect. In every sense. He had to be.
So the fact that his brothers had brought up his accent..
Did they also think Damian was gross? Did they agree his accent was wrong? Did it bring shame to the family? Did they also think he was dirty? Too dark? Too out of place? Too wrong?
Damian's mind was buzzing, feeling faint and fuzzy, unsure of how long he'd been staring into the mirror, suddenly every feature fell off. The way his skin clung to his body felt wrong. Something wasn't right. Sighing, he left his bathroom, shutting off the lights, changing into his pajamas, and flopping back down onto the bed. Looking at the clock, he had only a few hours before he had to get up for school.
Ok. Sleep.
But as the night went on, the words echoed in his head. Not Perfect. Shame on you. What do your brothers think? What does father think? Dirty. Failure.
Damian didn't sleep that night.
Leaned up against the school bleachers, Autumn air ruffled through Damian's hair. He hadn't slept much, if at all last night. He knew the problem and had decided he had to fix his issue. He simply couldn't bring shame to his family. Nor in hisSo,now that he is finally on his lunch break at school trying to decide the best course of action. Asking his family was out of the question- he already knew how they felt, they must not like the accent or else why would they have brought it up? So, they were out of the question.
Although he wondered why they could tolerate Todd's thick accent and not his. Maybe my father felt too guilty. Or maybe it was ok because he was American and Damian was Darker. Yes, probably. He can worry about that another time.
So his family was out of the question. He needed to find out exactly what he was saying wrong, what he wasn't pronouncing correctly, and how to fix it. He decided there would only be one person he trusts enough to help.
He quickly grabbed his phone and despite being in school called.
Sent to voicemail.
" Fuck you” Damian muttered calling again
And again
And again.
Till finally he picked up
“D, i swear, this better be some kind of emergency, i had to leave class you psycho”
“Hello to you too, Jon.”