Work Text:
Damian, unequivocally and without a doubt, hated Jason. His mother was a selfish, revenge-centred, horrid excuse of a parent who didn't care for Damian even a little. Of course, it hadn't always been that way. When Damian was born, he was the apple of his mother's eye. A precious treasure who was cradled and loved. Until he was about four, when Jason was thrown in the Lazarus pits and abandoned Damian without a second thought, but Damian was hopeful and naive; he believed in his heart that his mother would return to him, that he hadn't been abandoned. But as the years passed and he grew, Damian's hope dwindled. Moving to Gotham had been a spark, but that too was dashed when Jason continued to show no desire to rejoin Damian or even recognize Damian.
And of course, there had been that night. When poor twelve-year-old Damian revealed the truth to his pathetic mother. And there had been that treacherous hope again. That maybe, just maybe, Jason would remember him, or even try to mend their relationship. But no. Jason had left and had made no effort. If anything, he kept more distance and was more clinical on missions. In the last five years, it would surprise Damian if the two of them had shared more than ten words outside of their night jobs. This vortex of thought was not uncommon for the now 17-year-old Damian. It seemed that most days, there would be at least a fleeting thought of the vile omega that had birthed him. And even now, as he sat at Wayne Manor’s dining room table, doing homework while he waited for Alfred to return from his phone call so he could proofread his essay, his thoughts lingered on his mother.
He heard Alfred return but did not look up from his laptop as he finished writing his sentence. It was only at the prolonged silence and sour sadness now filling the room that he glanced in the man's direction with a raised eyebrow. The butler appeared paler than average, and his eyes held something distant.
“Alfred? Is everything alright?”
“That was Mr Harper,”
Roy Harper? Why on earth would he call? Sure, he was Jason’s mate, but why not have Todd call?
“The Outlaws returned from a mission earlier today… Master Jason did not return with them.”
Damian finally closes his laptop as the words register in his mind.
“We are to be sent on a search party then?”
“Mr Harper said there would not be much to search for, he-” Alfred pauses with a hand over his mouth and a glassy look in his eyes. “...It seems Master Jason is no longer with us.”
And just like that, Damain is thrown out into the cold, wholly unprepared.
=
Bruce, of course, had to investigate himself, but whatever he found (He refused to tell any of his children, and Damian couldn't bring himself to ask) confirmed the unwanted truth. This time, there was nothing to even put in the casket. The funeral was sombre but crowded with Jason’s family and friends. Damian blended easily into the background. To everyone, Damian and Jason were the least friendly members of an already strained family. Unfamiliar but not hostile. Of course, it was the opposite, but that was a secret between Jason and Damian. Well, just Damian now. Jason had taken it to his grave, it seemed. When Damain sees Lian sobbing in the arms of her alpha father, he can’t help the combination of jealousy and understanding that fills him. The two of them had lost the same mother but in very different ways. Lian experienced Jason’s love for eight years and was never on the receiving end of his bitter rejection. Damian can’t help but lament the fact that in another, better world, the two of them would have been siblings. As he fades farther into the crowd, he's thankful he's wearing scent blockers.
=
The whole family grieves differently. Bruce and Drake pour themselves into their work, both at Wayne Industries and as vigilantes. Dick is drowning his sorrows in alcohol, and Steph and Cass are keeping as much distance from anything that might remind them of Jason (including the manor and the rest of the family). Alfred haunts the halls of the manor like a ghost, and Duke seems to be the only one treating the death healthily by going to a therapist. Damian, on his part, just stays hauled up in his art studio. He can’t bring himself to stay in his room since every time he sits on his bed, he's reminded of that horrid night. Every time he goes near his door, he can’t help but be reminded of Jason walking out, never to enter again.
Damian’s art has taken the brunt of his grief. He’s been told that some of the best pieces are made when an artist is in the throes of anguish, and yet his art feels stagnant. It was much easier to express himself when he was full of nothing but rage and hate for his mother. Now, though, Damian feels hollow. As if someone reached into his very soul and tore away any feeling, thought, or opinion of the omega. All that was left was a hollow void of pain and longing. Damian had spent so long despising his mother that he didn’t think he could feel anything other than hate for the omega if he tried. Now? Damian wishes he had at least acknowledged him more before his death.
Stop! He left you! He wouldn't have even cared if you had spoken to him!
As true as Damian knew all this to be, he still desperately wanted to hug his mother.
Damian sat in front of yet another half-started canvas in his studio, utterly frozen. Every bit of inspiration seemed to slip from his mind the moment it entered. Nothing felt good enough, nothing felt worth it. Every piece he made in response to his greatest betrayal was made with the hidden hope that Jason would one day see it. That he would finally understand Damian and begin to fix things between them. Damian knew it was childish; after all, his mother was apathetic toward him on a good day and, on a bad one, downright ran from him. And yet still, the knowledge that it was now set in stone and the other omega would never see his art made his scent curdle and sour. Damian’s scent of citrus and cardamom, which was so similar to his mother’s cinnamon and mango, was never a source of pride for the young omega. But these days it felt like a lifeline.
A soft knock on the studio door interrupts the teen’s musings. Assuming it’s Alfred here to deliver a mid-morning snack, Damian sighs and puts his paintbrush down.
“Enter.” His voice is distant even to his own ears, unlike him.
To his surprise, it is not the comforting scent of Earl Grey and clean laundry that signifies Alfred's entry. Instead, it is the unfamiliar but still recognizable flint and smoke of Roy Harper. Damian turns, confused.
“Heya, pup.” The alpha murmurs.
His eyes are bloodshot, and he looks sunken. His hair is greasy and clearly unwashed, but he still has a mournful smile on his face. In his arms is a large, well-loved, cardboard box.
“I’m not a pup, Harper.” Damian mutters.
The young omega does not want to see the mate of his deceased mother. Seeing him at the funeral was hard enough. He hopes his curt demeanour will shoo the alpha away quicker, however naive this thought process is. Harper doesn't even acknowledge Damian’s rudeness and instead steps further into the room.
“You working on anything new?” Roy asks in a frail voice.
The alpha is clearly still grief-stricken, and Damain’s mind is too clouded to even begin to understand why he's here, of all places. At Damian’s continued silence, Roy sighs.
“I finally started going through his stuff today.”
Damian looks up at the man, his eyes are distant and glassy. They don’t need to clarify who ‘he’ is.
“It only took me 4 months.” Roy lets out a wet, humourless laugh.
He shakes himself and refocuses on Damian.
“I only read the first bit of one of them before I realized they weren't for me to look at.”
Damian raises a sculpted eyebrow. Roy gives another pained smile.
“I dont know what he was to you, but I know he would have wanted you to have this.” Roy sets the box down next to Damian’s chair.
Damian’s mind is spinning so fast with possibilities that he barely notices the alpha leaving with a final sniffle.
The omega stands from his chair and takes the box to the couch on the far wall of his studio. Jon usually occupies the couch, but Damian has barely been able to stomach seeing his family recently, so the other teen has been keeping his distance.
The box is plain-looking on the outside; Damian would think nothing of it if he ever saw it in his day-to-day. It’s clearly old, has been opened, and moved multiple times. The only outlier is the fresh tape sealing it shut. Damian reaches for a nearby cart and grabs a pallet knife to cut the tape. He’s barely sliced through when his eyes tear up against his wishes at the scent.
‘Mother’
It’s heavy. Clearly, these items, whatever they may be, were handled frequently by one Jason Todd. Damian hasn't smelt his mother’s scent this heavy since he can’t remember when. All Gotham vigilantes wore the strongest scent patches on duty, and the Red Hood never stuck around much after a patrol. Through his watery eyes, Damian manages to open the box. The first thing he sees is a ratty old stuffed bunny. It’s discoloured, matted, and has multiple patches. And yet it smells so strongly of his late mother that he immediately brings it close to his face and inhales a lungful of that unwillingly comforting scent. The freshness of mango crashes with the spice of cinnamon in an inferno around the young omega. If he focuses, he can almost swear he smells the fresh hints of milk noteworthy of his childhood. The scent is so densely packed into the stuffie's fabric that it's unlikely ever to fade.
Once Damian has sat with the bunny hugged tightly to himself for some indeterminate amount of time, he opens his eyes again. The bunny has large ears, and as Damian rubs the fur between his fingers, he notices something. On the underside of the left ear is a small sewn-in tag with delicately embroidered lettering.
‘Earsie’
Damian lets out a small gasp. He was certain the older omega had forgotten. The name brings a swell of memories to Damian's mind.
=
“Earsie!”
The soft call, spoken in his Mama's gruff voice, makes Dami turn from his stick drawing in the sand and run to his mother’s legs. Well, more like toddle. He’s only 3, of course.
“What is it, mama? I wanna keep playing.” The pup’s pout usually melts his mother’s heart enough to let him get what he wants, but Mama is not sold today.
“None of that Earsie! I let you get out of bath time this morning. Not happening again, you little shit.”
Dami groans but still lets the omega pick him up and place the pup on his muscled hip. As they move through the halls of Nanda Parbat, his mother hums a longing tune. Damian wiggles in his grip idly before turning up with a curious expression.
“Mama?”
“Yes, my love?” Even as Mama turns corners, he looks down at his pup with his full attention.
“Why do you call me Earsie? That’s not my name at all.”
His mama laughs from deep in his chest and pinches one of his tanned ears and gives it a gentle tug.
“Because, pup, you’ve got big ‘ol ears. Just like your mama did when he was little.”
Dami whines and swats his mother’s hand away.
“My ears aren’t that big!”
Another low laugh.
“Sure they aren’t, Earsie!” he gives one more tug before placing a soft, apologetic kiss on the pup’s forehead. “Besides, I think I knew someone with that name a long time ago…”
=
Damian clutches the plush bunny closer to himself with a shuddering breath. He keeps Earsie in the tight crook of his arms as he returns to the box.
It’s full of journals, each thicker than the last. Some are large, others could fit in a pocket, but they're all bursting with paper. Most are green, and a good chunk are animal-related. Unsure of what to do when met with the sight, Damian reaches for the smallest one. Despite its discoloured, tiny cover, it's crammed with filled pages. There's even an elastic closure that doesn't match the rest of the journal. Upon further inspection, it appears to have been glued on after the fact, like someone didn’t expect to write so much and now desperately needed to keep it from overflowing.
Damian takes a stuttering breath and opens to the first page. It doesn't turn out to be the first one, in fact, as there seems to be a slew of torn-out pages before it. The handwriting is small and harsh. It’s in messy, dark ink and smears in some spots where tear droplets soil the paper. In the top-left corner is a date.
‘10/08/20XX’
It’s the day after Damian’s 14th birthday.
Damian’s eyes begin reading before he even directs them to.
‘Pup… baby… Dami… Ea… Damian,
I know you won't read this. I won’t let you. Not that you would even get close enough to me that I could throw it at you. Anyway, therapist says I should be working through my feelings some way other than shooting and beating, so I’m trying the journal thing. Writing to myself was stupid, and there's no one else I wanna tell about this shit, so why not my pup some kid who fucking hates me?
Whatever. You’re not even reading this, so who gives a shit? I got this idea yesterday. I saw the whole gala thing B did for your birthday and couldn't sleep. I’ve been watching you for a while. Pretty much since the first of August two years ago. That day. I’m just making sure you’re ok. Wouldn’t look good if my pup died, huh?
Fuck. I don’t mean that. I dont mean anything I did to you. But I still did it all. I’m a fucking piece of shit who isn’t fit to be your mother. I’m sorry you ever had hope in me. I was never gonna be a good mom, and I've always known that. So I’m watching you from afar. I know every achievement you’ve had in school, and I’ve seen every piece of art you’ve ever shown to the public. Even the ones you haven't. I’ll be damned if I don’t get to see how fucking awesome my pup is. Even though I’ll stay away from you for the rest of my life.
I don’t know what I’m fucking thinking. I wish I could say I’m drunk, but Roy made me throw all that shit out. Writing this whole thing is a mistake. I still have so much more I need to say to you. I’m so fucking sorry. You’ll never forgive me, and I have to learn to fucking live with that. I hope for your sake that I burn this thing.
____ ___
Todd’
The bottom of the page has a small spot crossed out so aggressively that Damian can’t begin to decipher what was written.
Damian comes back to himself. He closes the journal with a snap to prevent his tears from obscuring the heartwrenching sentences. The journal is hugged tight just like Earsie was.
It’s all Damian’s ever wanted. An apology. An acknowledgment. Of his pain, of his life, of his existence. But it doesn’t matter, he realizes, his mother is dead, and the only thing Damian has left is his written words. With that dark, unsavoury thought, Damian holds the journal away from his leaking face and opens it back up.
‘18/08/20XX’
‘Damian,
I’m writing in this again 'cause I'm selfish. I need to talk to you in any way I can.
I’m sorry. Those words will never be enough, but I’ll keep writing them till I’m back in the ground. God, pup, I never want to think about what would’ve happened had I not remembered. I never wanted to be like either of my biological parents. And seems I’m an even worse copy. I’ll never be as good as you deserve. Because you deserve everything, pup. I meant what I said about you being fucking awesome. The most perfect kid any shitbag like me could pray for. You’re the best of all those bastards by so much it ain’t fucking measurable.
Does Bruce know? I never told anyone about us for the record. Not even my therapist. She’s a nice lady, but I need to keep you to myself in any way I can. It already fucking kills me that I don’t get to be in your life. It makes me downright murderous sometimes that B of all people can watch you grow up, but I have to watch from afar.
It’s not your fault, though, pup. Don’t you dare fucking think that for even a second. I’m a rotten bastard who doesn’t get to be your mom. You made the right choice in kicking me out of your life. I just hope your life is 1000 times better than mine. Won’t be hard, you’re already halfway there with me gone.
Talk soon, probably.
Jason’
Damian ignores the hollow, ragged breaths rattling in his chest and flips the page to keep reading.
‘20/08/20XX’
’Damian,
There’s so much I wish I had done differently. I don’t sleep much these days, and recently all I can think about is what I’ll never get to see with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if I find out about your presentation from a news article months after. I hope B deals with yours better than he dealt with mine. I got so lost in my instincts that I only spoke Spanish and begged for my mom. I think that’s why B started learning, actually. Fuck I’ll never be able to teach you that either. It was my first language, which means you’ll probably never want to learn it—another reminder of your deadbeat mom.
I don’t really get nightmares anymore, but I get something far worse. In my dreams, everything is perfect. You and I are our own little family. I get to teach you how to make frituras and mofongo. I’m there for you in our nest when you present. I’m there at your graduation, I threaten your first partners, and you smile at me. God, it haunts me. Never seeing your perfect green eyes crinkle again. I can’t even remember your laugh.
Isn't that fucked? A mother who can’t remember his own pups’ laugh. I miss you more and more every second. It’s like missing a limb. Nothing will ever replace this gaping void. It hasn’t gotten easier, just easier to hide.
_ ____ ___
Your shitbag mother’
The end is once again blacked out.
Damaian is reminded of his actual presentation a month before he turned 15. Similar to Jason he had reverted back to Arabic and begged for ‘ommi’. While he's certain the others figured out what he was saying, they never brought it up to him.
How much time had he wasted? His mother was dead. He died believing Damian wanted nothing to do with him. Damian from 5 months ago would have thought the same thing. Now his absence seemed to follow Damian everywhere.
He brings Earsie back close to his face and takes a moment to sob into his matted fur. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend everything is as it should be. His mother’s scent wrapping around him, his deep comforting voice soothing any worries while a large calloused hand pets Damian's hair.
Almost.
It’s about 9:30 AM when Damian first starts reading his mother’s journals. He makes it through all twenty two by 1:47 AM the next day.
As the letters progress, Jason seems to be less angry and more mournful. He also becomes more familiar.
‘Hi Habibi,
It's Christmas Eve. Did I ever tell you I’ve been buying you gifts? I usually end up donating them but it’s the thought that counts right?
I know you probably aren’t celebrating Christmas at the manor but I hope you all have a happy Chanukah. Christmas was big for me before B picked me up. Your grandma couldn’t afford a Christmas tree and she hated those plastic ones so we always had this rickety wooden thing. I think you’d like it. I know you love animals and looking back this was very environmentally friendly. Gifts weren’t easy back then so mom usually made me something. I’m nowhere near as creative as her though. I think you get your artistic spark from her.
If I still had her stuff I’d have given it to you. Or well, I’d probably anonymously sent it. That is if I built up the courage.
Whatever. Point is I know you don’t want anything from me but I’ve been trying to keep you close.
Merry Christmas, Puppy.
Mom.’
Damian sorts through notebook after notebook, reading every entry big or small. Sometimes they’re simple life updates.
‘Hey Papito,
I saw your work got put in another gallery. Fuck yeah! That’s my badass kid right there. I hope you’re celebrating right now.
I’ve just got patrol tonight, but I’m convinced Harper is gonna ask me out. That idiot isn’t subtle. I’m sure you’d be teasing me if you could stand to be near me.
Keep up your amazing work, pup.
Mom.’
Sometimes the entries are much more heart wrenching.
‘Dames,
I died today. Well, I died about 16 years ago today. That’s a big fucking number at this point. I’ve worked through most of my shit about it but the anniversary still always hits hard. What I’ll really never move on from is forgetting you. Having and loving you was the greatest gift I've ever gotten. And forgetting you was my greatest mistake. Did you know I had you the same age your grandma had me? 18 is a rough fucking year I guess. You better beat that teen pregnancy shit ‘ya hear me?
What am I saying? You’re better than I’ll ever even hope to be. I love you, my precious Earsie. And I swear I’ll never forget again. It's the least I can do.
Love you
Mom’
Damian eventually reads to the point his eyes are dry and burning for multiple reasons. Snot and long dried tears coat his face as his body sags with exhaustion. But he’s made it to the final entry.
It’s dated a week before Jason’s death.
‘Puppy,
Your sister is in a big dressing up phase lately. God knows she’s got more style than me and Roy combined so I’m not gonna stop her. Every time I see her in her fancy outfits I can’t help but think what a good big brother you'd make. Sorry I don’t mean to guilt trip but your mom’s getting sentimental at his old age.
I’ve got that mission in the alps tomorrow so I won't be able to write too much. But I’ll be back soon enough. My hope is to scope out the rooftop where I'll watch your graduation at the end of the year once I'm back.
Love you!
Mom’
Damian’s tears have long dried up. But another sob ribs from his torn vocal cords at the final note. His mother was planning all this… watching him for all these years… longing.
Just like Damian was.
He puts the final journal back in the box and forces his dead limbs to place the box on the ground. He intends to drag himself to his room, but instead takes Earsie close and curls into a ball on his couch.
He’s out before he can even fully close his eyes.
=
*CRASH*
Damian automatically shoots up and reaches for the nearest weapon. He's reminded that he’s not in his room when his hand comes up empty in its attempt to grab the dagger from under his pillow. The sound is coming from the storage room connected to his art studio. In a fluid motion not befitting his exhaustion, Damian grabs a palette knife and holds Earsie as close to his body as he can to not lose him. Not very intimidating to see a teenager clutching a stuffed rabbit but he’s sure his skills will compensate.
He approaches the room on silent feet, listening as thumps and grunts echo behind the closed door.
Perhaps it’s because Earsie is clutched so close that he smells no difference.
Just as Damian swings the door open with a hand raised to slash, he hears a familiar voice whisper curse.
“Fuck!”
The voice gives Damian enough pause to not immediately slash, instead he assesses the scene before him.
What greets him takes his breath away.
The figure is dressed in a dark blue shirt and pants, but they look dirtied. Their feet are bare, and leave mud tracks where they've half fallen in through the window. Light caramel skin is heavily scared and the intruder looks down while trying to pull themselves through.
Damian’s entrance signals for the intruder to snap their head up and…… no.
Dark curly black hair with that signature striking white hiding lazarus green eyes. It’s Jason. It’s Damian’s mother.
The palette knife clatters to the floor and Jason smiles sheepishly.
”Hey there, Habibi.”
Damian just gapes.
”Shit- I- sorry! I know you don’t want to hear me call you that.” Jason laughs humourlessly.
At Damian’s continued silence, Jason sighs and steels himself.
”Look Damian. I know you hate me. And I was prepared to stay away from you for the rest of my life. But it took me almost dying again to realize I don't want that. At all. As much as you despise me, and believe me I understand why, I’m still your mom. And I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. But I love you and I can’t keep living without my puppy in my life. You’re my son and I love you- OOF!”
Before another word can leave his mouth, Damian launches into the other omegas’ arms with one single thought.
“MAMA!”
The tears come back even stronger. The pure relief as he realizes, his mother isn't dead. His mama is here and real and tangible. He prays and prays to everything he doesn't believe in that this isn't a cruel dream. He doesn’t pinch himself to check.
”It’s ok, Baby.”
His mama comforts with one hand reaching to stroke his hair and the other hanging at his side. Damian spares half a glance before having to double take at Jason's right arm. Half way down his mother’s bicep is nothing. A stump where there used to be a full appendage.
”Mama?”
”Mama’s ok, Papito. Well, actually I was supposed to stay another two weeks to rest but I wasn't gonna spend any more time away from you.”
“Promise?”
”I promise, baby.”