Chapter Text
A year ago- Location unknown.
The air is thick with molten heat, the sun unforgiving on Damian's back as he deflects a swinging fist. The attack is followed by a thrust to his chest, the dagger his opponent is holding gleams harshly under the sun- if Damian does not want to be blinded he must avoid looking at the object directly.
The fabric wrapped around Damian's head does little to keep the high temperatures at bay, Damian's honey tanned skin is covered in light colored clothes and loose fabric and yet he can feel the sand somehow shift its way onto his skin. Even the terrain is biting and scratching at Damian.
The fight moves with brutal efficiency- Damian’s young body trembles with the effort to keep up. His wiry muscles ache with a kind of soreness that only comes from pushing the body too far. Yet he stands firm, his job is almost complete.
He throws his body forward, sweeping the feet of his opponent out from under him, the sand under them flies with his move, spraying outwards in a wave of boiling powder. Damian's hair sticks to his neck with sweat, his panting has grown more labored then he would like but he keeps moving. His fists do not flatter and though he sees spots in his vision he does not back away.
The man in front of him is dazed for a moment before leaping onto his feet, his back bending and core flexing as he launches into his next attack- parrying Damian in hand to hand combat.
It's a foolish way to fight, Damian has long past the point of exhaustion and the afternoon is slow falling. He must finish this opponent off before he passes out. Because at this rate the heat will get him before his opponent does.
The knife is held in his opponent's hand, sharp point ready to pierce Damian’s skin at any moment. They both throw themselves at each other, grunting and heaving as they once more engage the battle. Damian strikes fast and hard at the man's wrist, smirking with satisfaction as the knife is twisted away and dropped into Damian’s own waiting hand.( A move he'd perfected by the age of six and still uses frequently now.)
The successful attack earns Damian a startling kick to the chest, combat boot slamming into his body with the force of a train. He feels something crack but does not dare to stop his momentum.
He lets the breath leave his body and throws the knife with deadly accuracy watching happily as it sinks into the flesh of the man's chest. The man might have been able to fight had he not staggered backwards with the force of the blow, causing the knife to sink father into his skin and shift. Blood flows from the wound and in mere seconds-
The body falls to join the rest.
Dozens of men litter the sands of this desert. Damian has surrounded himself with the stench of death. Foul and toxic it enters his nostrils. He feels it slither down his throat, costly and unchangeable the effect of taking lives holds him paralyzed for a moment-
The blow to his chest makes it hard to breathe.
Damian secures his new knife into one of the many sheaths covering the outfit he is wearing. He pulls the white cotton fabric tighter to his face, attempting to soften the smell of corpses.
(He doesn't try to fool himself into thinking it works.)
He takes three steps towards his mother- the woman has stood in a small clearing a few feet away, covered -like Damian- in sheer fabric and draping polyester. The thick hair Damian knows well is wrapped tightly in a bun and covered in a shawl. She stares at Damian, calculating and stone-like. A wall of cold judgment.
He goes to greet her with victory on his tongue when he feels fingers wrap around his covered ankle, the sand by his feet hissing as it falls. Damian slices the hand before he can properly think, a small silver throwing dagger clenched in his palm within a heartbeat.
A horse scream pieces the air but the sound falls before it can travel. The Desert has no pity for a man taking his final breaths.
Damian sneers down at the body, green eyes like poison and hotter than a thousand desert suns.
Then the smell hits him. Worse than the decay and sweat running down Damian's back. Worse than even the sour fumes that come from the Pits of Madness.
Damian's knees quake, he feels his heart rate speed up- not in rage or adrenaline- but in fear. His eyes prick with an unfamiliar itch. His breath comes sharper despite the fact that it had been slowing down as he's finished his training.
The smell in the air is rich- Damian imagines that without the tartness of fear- death- help, it would be almost pleasant. A mix of pomegranate and chocolate floods the area. Strong and too potent to ignore.
Damian drops his weapon to the sand, kneeling down before the man. Suddenly he feels like throwing up, the fact that he caused this man's agony- why- ?
Why-
(he sees his Mother move quickly across the clearing.)
Why did Damian care?
The man has stopped screaming, the wounds that Damian had caused much earlier have caught up and the last of his ragged breathing takes away the smell. It dissipates like dew in the early morning and Damian’s stomach turns with the absences of it.
Talia places a hand to his shoulder. It's a rare show of comfort and one Damian does not take for granted- even though it will inevitably be followed by a hurt he cannot get out of. He knows that to show his weakness will only lead to pain. No matter how much soft support his mother gives him now, later it will disappear once more under the need to improve. To harden.
They are alone in this place, so Damian asks. “Why do I feel?”
(He does not understand the impact this question has on his Mother. Does not understand why it makes her mourn.)
Damian has not felt the blood on his hands in a long time. He is unsure as to why his brain has allowed such a thing now.
Talia squeezes his shoulder and then retreats. “He was an Omega, şabi.”
Damian recalls what his lessons on second genders have taught him. The league will take any loyalty, but to have been an Omega would have meant a great deal of will power or ,Damian supposes, this was all the man was needed for. Canon fodder for Damian to train with.
(His chest hurts.)
Though the league will take any soul, it is also necessary for your second gender to become near irrelevant. The league is not made up of many Omegas, Subs or Littles. They are considered soft, they are calm and nurturing. Many are simply too reliant on others. This is a world they would never survive in. They do not tend to be welcome.
It takes a great deal of suppressing to overcome basic instincts and even when those very few do- often they encounter someone on the battlefield that can command them anyway. They are culled, disposed of before they can bring shame to the League of Assassins.
His Mother is an Alpha- that he knows hard and well. She has no pack, no scent and no Omega, yet still, the woman Damian looks so much like has a strong command and aura. She has led with a clear show of her Classification, rising through ranks and proving her position has been earned many times over.
Ra’s is a Dom. He has a harsh command. The words that his grandfather speaks are final. He has the presence of a king, a throne of his own right. Immortal and unstoppable. Feared by all and defeated by none.
(Damian knows his Father is an Alpha.)
Damian stands when his body starts to come back to him. His Mother still pierces him with her gaze, there is something hidden in the depths of her Lazerois colored eyes that has him pausing.
They stand face to face- sand blowing in the sharp wind, the soft brushing of their fabrics coasting on the air and whipping around their bodies. The sun glaring in the sky like a sweltering witness. Bodies around them size to make noise. Damian freezes under his Mothers obvious tension.
“Do you remember what I told you? Do you recall what you must do in order to know your Father?” She asks hushed, the wind almost taking her words before they can reach Damian's ears.
Her voice holds threats if his answer were to be no.
“Yes,” Damian straightens his shoulders. “I must defeat you in combat, Mother.”
She nods, mirroring eyes that never leave Damian’s. “See to it that you do so sooner, my son, then later.”
Damian pushes away his confusion, he has been working tirelessly to defeat his Mother and earn his rightful place at his unknown Fathers side. His life has led up to becoming the perfect soldier to unleash onto the world. He will do so.
Damian lets his gaze wander to the men lying about on the desert ocean. Over two dozen at least. Daman eyes the blood that seeps into the earth and crumples the sand together, the red shining under the sun.
“I understand, Mother. You will not be disappointed.”
He will not fail.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊
Talia watches her boy as they board the jet, all signs of emotion have been drawn from his face. He is like stone- nothing reveals what he might be thinking.
Talia stares as she follows him up the ramp.
And she knows.
She knows with a certainty that can only come from being his mother- even if that title is a poor description of their relationship- that her boy is going to Present.
For Damian should not have been able to smell the sickly fumes of the dying Omega. Not unless he had already presented- or would soon.
He must beat her- He must win at all costs . Damian needs to prove himself worthy and leave for Gotham.
(Ra’s must never find out her creation is going to Present so early. She must keep it hidden in the depths of her mind, that one day, her son will be Classified and- unless this is a sign of an Alpha class- it will not be one the league approves of. Damian will need to learn how to fight it- how to suppress any and all instincts his Classification encourages.
Else she will have not a say in his fate.)
For now- she will make sure he is more than ready for the waking nightmare that is Gotham city. No matter what his Class has to say in the matter.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊
When Damian wakes he finds it slow, like swimming in thick syrup. His body and mind are one in agreement, wanting to stay here and wishing he could just fall right back asleep. He's leaning on something warm, it's encompassing him with blissfulness. A shelter of comfort. He has no need to leave this spot.
Damian doesn't know what's happening- isn't really thinking at all- a bone-deep core part of him knows that it's good though. Right. The warmth engulfing him feels like protection from a raging strom, steady and unmovable when resolved. Roots dug into the earth with such surety that Damian can not help but feel secure.
He nuzzles into it. Breathes in the scent of this new safety, something spicy but cozy. Damian sighs shuffling forward and feeling the arms tighten around him-
A sharp breath and he's rolling backwards as hard as he can, as fast as his body is capable of when it feels as though he's been drowned in molasses. A heavy thunk rings through the room as Damian falls to the floor. Looking up, he watches in slow motion as Grayson starts to stir awake on the couch.
Damian reaches under the couch- hand fumbling for the knife sheathed under it in a pocket only Damian knows about. One of many hidden weapons throughout the house.
Before Grayson can wake fully Damian is on top of the man and holding the blade to his throat.
Almost instantly Grayson is snapped awake. The man's eyes show nothing of the foggy film that suggests sleep still has its hold on him. Damian doesn't have the time or will to acknowledge the show of experience though.
Damians hands are not shaking but they might as well be with how unsure he holds the knife to this man's throat.
Memories come rushing back and Damian drowns in them.
“Darling, oh you must feel so yucky…”
He cannot possibly be a little. He would sooner run a knife across his throat.
“Darling, you're safe now. I’m right here kiddo, just hang tight for me.”
The core feeling he gets in Richard's arms is a feeling he'd only read in books.
Damian screams.
“I’m right here baby, I'm not going anywhere. Just take your time and breathe sweetheart.”
A whimper falls through his mouth along with the remaining hiccups that plague him. An unfortunate symptom after crying, he has learnt.
“Blow Dami.” Damian does as told, blowing into the tissue, slipping into that peaceful headspace easier than the first time.
“R’chard.” Damian mumbles.
“I swear, I won’t leave. I'll be right here ok? I’ll stand next to you, little one. I know you feel small huh?”
“Come on little darling, bath time now…”
Damian wants his blanket.
“Sorry baby but you're the one who puts me in my caregiver headspace in the first place.”
“Your ok bug, you can let go…”
Richard singing.
Falling asleep in Grayson's arms. Completely unconscious and unaware of the world around him. Whining and crying about nothing at all. Lifting his arms up to be held like he had done it his whole life when in reality, that was the first time. Screaming at the top of his lungs when he wasn't being held. Spitting out medicine because he didn't like the taste. Being changed several times. Grayson patting Damian’s back after drinking milk. Being bathed. Damian played with the bubbles! Refusing to use the restroom without Grayson there-
No! No-
Damian is two seconds away from a panic attack. Damian cannot breathe. The walls of the manor suffocate him, boxed in like a wild beast. The knife in his hand is unsteady and when he feels a palm cup the hilt he doesn't even fight it. He stares down at Grayson but sees nothing. Nothing but his own childishness on display for a man he doesn't know. A pretend Batman who only took him in because of his late Father.
Any work Damian has put in, all the times he's proved himself capable. Proved himself to be superior, has been washed down the drain. He was no better than an infant. A pathetic child sniveling for attention. He was needy and snotty. Sick and weak. Damian had never been that kind of child. The moment he presented was the moment his life was forfeit. He is a stain on his lineage.
Somehow with not one but two Alpha parents- biology has still determined him to be inferior. He has managed to defy expectations so completely that it clashes with his idea of reality.
He is destined to die at the Leguas hands. Damian is not worthy of being the heir.
He is a blot on their blood line-
“You're ok Damian. It's ok. I know this sucks but you can crawl into bed soon and we…dont have to talk about it after, ok? I promise I'm just helping this one time.”
Would Grayson keep that promise?
If so- Damian might still have a chance. If Grayson never brought it up again, Damian could continue on with his life without acknowledging it. No one would need to know he's Presented. Mother and Grandfather would be in the dark and Damian could stay in Gotham to become Robin just as he was supposed to. It wouldn't matter who Batman was- just that Damian got the right to fight in Gotham. He would be fulfilling his duty- gaining the materialistic items his Father left behind and eventually- the Batman mantle himself. He still has a chance to not fail.
If Grayson kept his mouth-
Pennyworth.
So two witnesses.
(….Damian could plunge this knife-
Something in his gut shrinks at the idea.)
No one would believe a servant anyway. Damian could always kill him if it came down to it. He will have to keep a very close eye on the comings and goings of the butler.
Grayson though…he promised.
Grayson hasn't ever broken a promise he's given to Damian before. If…if Damian has to kill him, he will.
But for now….
“Will you keep your promise?” Damian hisses out like a mangled cat. Hold on the knife tighter now that he is looking into the blue of Grayson's eyes and seeing the man.
Unfortunately that means he sees his eyes- remembers the way Grayson had seen Damian. Damian doesn't think he will ever be able to look Grayson in the eyes again after this. Not with the way the man looks at him- with such tenderness it makes Damian want to plunge the knife into his own throat instead.
He shoves the memories away to be either terminated or examined at a later date. He will not dwell on them when he has to be in the present to decide what his fate may be.
(will Grayson send him to the league now that he knows Damian is entirely useless?)
The look in Grayson's eyes is unclear. A floodgate of emotions that Damian can not begin to interpret. He can tell one thing though, they are much softer then they should be whilst being held at knife point. Damian has been bathed in blood his whole life- he will not let the turning in his chest prevent him from adding another. If Grayson is underestimating Damian- then the man is in for a brutal surprise.
But Grayson doesn't answer with anything Damian truly expected.
“I will Damian.” Grayson’s mouth opens and closes once. The half form words dying on his tongue like he isn't sure what to say to Damian. The hesitation is odd.
Grayson looks at Damian before moving his hand upward, the knife is slowly moved away from the man's throat- Damian lets it happen.
Grayson’s eyes never leave his own. Damian can feel the star down to his soul.
“You're safe.” Grayson whispers. Swears.
Damian is up and off Grayson in a flash. He's halfway up the stairs before the man can even sit up.
Damian heaves for breath that- once more- has nothing to do with the rushed pace he set going up to his room. (freshly cleaned it seems.)
The door shutters as he slams it closed and slides the deadbolt in place. He leans against the old wood for support. Eyes squeezed shut as if to stave off all the new memories he's created in the last week.
It doesn't work.
Damian feels his nose run and cringes at the sensation. (and the soft voice that echoes like a rumor in his ears.) It is obvious that, though his fever is gone, his body still battles the germs it was infected with.
Damian doesn't know what to do.
He feels like he's been run over by a train. His mind and body are foreign to him for the first time in his eleven years.
Damian has been in perfect control of himself for as long as he can remember. The blades he was given were an extension of his body. The kill count that ticked up with steady numbers was simply part of his life- one he'd quickly grown numb to. Lessons and missions and lives judged with nothing but cool metal and a flowing river of red deep in his consciousness. These were the things Damian was most familiar with.
Not the aching care Grayson had shown him. Not the whispered words that made Damian feel warm and certainly not the skin contact that seemed to burn him from the inside out while simultaneously leaving him to crave the sensation of gentle hands with a fervent need.
His hair being swept away from his face. Brushed with fingers while Damian had let his mind float like the bubbles he'd been surrounded by.
Underneath all the mortification- all the anger and broken pride- was something far scarier. New.
(being loved.)
Damian didn’t know how to feel.
He was never meant to. He was not built for it. Damian was many things, a killer. An heir. A detective and a skilled fighter.
What he was not- was a child.
(though maybe here, now, that would change.)
Except Damian had never felt before and now that he was- he didn't know how to handle it. He didn’t know what love meant, or what it felt like to be cared for, or even what it meant to be safe.
He recalls feeling those things this last week but he doesn’t actually have anything to compare those sensations to. He has no idea what those things really are.
They were simply out of reach concepts, things he had only ever read about in books or seen in fleeting moments, moments that consisted of his mothers hand on his shoulder or her voice, filled with something raw and real, when she had given lessons on their culture and the history that came with it. Those moments that whispered like a rumor caught on the breeze. Achingly brief and with eyes on them the whole while.
So no. Damian didn't know what love was or what it would be like to let go of the reality of the world just to tuck under someone's wing and pretend to be ignorant of the darkness. He wasn't sure if the sensation was in the warmth of a hug or the scolding of a parent. The idea was so out of this world that Damian almost scoffed at the mere thought of it.
He'd seen the kids at school the way they interacted with their families, with an ease Damian would never know. They didn't have to pretend they didn't know what the world was like.
If Damian ever did ‘let go’. He would still be aware. Damian had grown up coated in that darkness. Knew nothing but it. He adapted- and adapted well. He feels no guilt for the lives he's taken. No trepidation in claiming he has murdered in cold blood. He was a soldier and soldiers took their orders and completed them with perfection. He was a weapon to be built up and harnessed and polished.
(...but he did forget- for a week he was free from the burden of blood and legacies. There was no pretending about it, just blissful peace.)
Damian was not made for soft things, not even when he wanted to lean into the memory of Richard's hand in his hair. He repelled it. It didn't matter if he wanted to beg for it back, because ultimately he would ruin it. He would spill more blood, tear that softness into unrecognizable pieces till Damian could do nothing but bury it six feet under. Along with everything else he's ever touched. A graveyard of Damian's own making. Tombs blank with lack of guilt.
No- Damian Wayne wasn't made for something so innocent as childhood.
It was a moot point- whether Damian wanted it or not. Whether Richard was willing to give it to him. After all, how could a weapon (steel made of sorrow and dripping blood down the hilt so it would pool into its welders hands) learn to love, to trust? To give into that safety when everything he had ever been taught told him that showing those feelings (maybe even just thinking about them) would eventually be his undoing?
Damian finds himself curled in bed- breath coming in pants like he'd run a race. His hands clenched into his pillow like it was a grappling hook and he was seventy feet off the ground.
(he winces with wounds he didn't know excited when he wishes for a star blanket.)
Damian did not let himself sob or whine or sniffle. Could not afford it. Would not give into that kind of thinking ever again.
(He does let the tears flow, silent in their grief. For he'd finally experienced something that was a fleeting dream. Something he would never dare hope for again.)
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊
Damian refuses to speak.
Five days since Damian woke up fully eleven and Dick has yet to be in the same room as the kid- who always manages to sneak away before Dick can even see him. It's eerie. Like seeing a shadow in your vision profile all the time but when you turn to catch it, it's mysteriously gone from view.
The only reason Dick hasn't gone full freakout is because Alfred has been keeping him updated. Damian eats three meals a day and works out, sparring with dummies and does more than a few dangerous stunts in the cave.
Dick wouldn't know any of this without Alfred though- it's like he lives with a ghost.
With the exception of feeling like a bomb's about to go off at least.
The tension in the house has risen to a suffocating degree. A vacuum of silence, descended only to make Dick overwhelmed by the thoughts in his head.
He'd ruined everything, all the progress he'd made with Damian over the last few months of him living in the manor, and even more so the last few weeks he's been under Dick’s care- but what else was there to do? It would have taken the depths of hell to drag him away from the sick baby he'd taken care of, he wasn't going to leave Damian to fend for himself with a high fever and new headspace to contend with.
Damian had just presented- as a Little no less. Not only was it in Dick’s nature to take care of the kid- Dick wasn’t going to sit by and fucking watch as Damian got sick and fell into headspace. It must've been scary for him! Besides Dick had already promised himself- he would do things different from Bruce. Sure, Dick has softer memories when he was a kid with Bruce but by the time he got into his teen years it was muddy, their relationship strained. He wouldn't do that to Damian. He wouldn't cast him off as some sort of problem. (so, maybe Dick still had some unresolved problems with Burce. Whatever. It's not like anything can be done about it now.)
He had been making the first steps to showing Damian that.
All of it went down the drain though didn't it?
After he'd woken with Damian’s rage pointed at his throat it had taken a life threatening thirty seconds to talk Damian down from his bloodlust. Damian had seemed so out of it. Not Little- or nearing his headspace, just plan old dissociation. Lost in thought maybe. It's clear that Damian remembered at least some of his time in headspace, because he'd ask Dick to keep his mouth sealed.
Damian never wanted to talk about what happened.
The promise Dick made has not left his mind. It haunts him even in his dreams- green eyes that hold a depth that no kid should but hold a strength that Dick can't help feel proud of. They stare into his own, into his soul and demand a promise that seems so… fragile.
Like a life line. A way to keep going, a lie to tell yourself so you keep moving forward.
It's odd. These days classification is so normalized. Dick could take a (stupid.) stroll around Gotham and spot at least one Little. Not to mention all the other classes.
It's just a part of life- everyone gets classified.
It's obvious with all the panic that Damian had tried so hard to hide, that he did know about classifications. That he likely knew he was a Little. Unfortunately that means the League of Assassins taught him. Which in turn means they likely groomed Damian into thinking that some of those classes were weak. Which- untrue.
Sure, there are cons to all the classes and some take getting used to, but one fact remains that makes all the difference.
Scientifically proven- it states that whatever you classify as, it will benefit you.
It's an undeniable fact.
Whatever your headspace is; Dom or Omega, Sub or Caregiver, Alpha or Little, it is a guarantee to help your life in some capacity. Most times that means your mental health but it's not uncommon to see people finding community after presenting or even having physical changes that are healthy. There are jobs catered towards specific classes but it's never a demand either, they are always people first and classified gender second.
Seems though that the League put other lessons into Damian's head. Poisoning the boy's view of the world before he came close to experiencing any of it for himself. Setting rules before Damian could understand basic math. Beating all those things into his head under the name of training.
Damian is strong headed, stubborn and overall insanely talented in the art of killing. Dick would have expected a sort of fundamental fight on presenting as a Little. It can't be easy. Dick imagines Damian grew up with red on his hands and no love in sight.
(Dick briefly mourns for the child Damian could have been.)
(what he doesn't know is this is already one step in the direction of resolve.)
Dick understands that everything that Damian has lived through till now has primed him to reject his classification. It wouldn't have been in Dick’s court either. It was going to be on Bruce's shoulders. This traumatized child. Now though- whether he likes it or not- it's Dick’s job to help Damian. To work through that trauma as best they can. To help him.
Dick thought that it needed to start with Robin- and maybe it will in some capacity.
Damian needs to have a connection here, needs to feel it in his pride. To stick around Damian needs a mission. Dick understands that, for now he will have to play into that mindset. The hope though, that swirls around in his chest, lets him believe he can change this mind set. Little by little if he must. Softly peeling away walls and showing Damian that this place (that Dick-) is different from the cult he grew up in.
Even if progress is slow.
So maybe he had ruined everything- maybe Damian isn't talking to him right now but Dick wont give up so easily- especially not when Damian presenting could pave the path Dick needed to take. If Dick plays this right….
Yes it starts with Robin- but also- It starts with talking.
Dick wants to at least meet Damian half way. That may be all he can do.
Dick understands, at the very least, that presenting can feel forceful. Like you don't have control. When, for kids that grow up like Damian has, (like all the Little Robins have.) need to feel in control.
Still, you lose a certain control over your life no matter what you present as.
Alphas and Omegas will always try to form a pack- whether that be with others of the same gender or not. They will feel the need to protect and lead their people. They can't just turn those instincts off. And when an Alpha or Omega is in a romantic relationship- their bodies will start to develop symptoms that will eventually lead to ruts and heats. Not to mention the sense of smell those two genders gain. Everyone who's Presented can smell an Omega or Alpha- but the effects are minimized significantly compared to being one.
Doms and Subs will fall into very vulnerable headspaces- the two genders often suffer from the worst Drops. Because their highs are so high- that means their lows are terrifying. Doms and Alphas also tend to get on each other's nerves. Enough instinct overlaps to cause problems if people aren't careful. They also have the hardest time fighting their instincts- their headspaces are the most insistent of all the genders.
Caregivers and Littles a certain reliant relationship. Littles have a more anxious attachment in headspace, and even sometimes out of it. There's also a lot of adjusting when it comes to these two headspaces. When a Caregiver has a Little to call their own- it really is taking on the responsibility of taking in a child. They become a parent- even if it's only part time. Littles in turn give up a lot- letting their Caregivers do the decision making for the most part, the younger aged Little you are the more this becomes true.
It's not easy to come to terms with all of that, no matter how many pamphlets you read or what online classes you take, getting used to a new lifestyle is always hard. Even if there are things to help the process.
(...Dick should probably visit a Little Center sooner rather than later…)
Damian is facing all this on top of his assassin grooming. That can't be good for your mental health.
Dick doesn't know how to help though. He wants to- he will. But if he rushes in like a wrecking ball demolishing a building he's not going to be able to rebuild. Damian needs structure right now. A way to adjust without having to face his Classification yet.
Dick just has to figure out the first step to going about that.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊
When Alfred said that the Little supplies he'd ordered had arrived- Dick wasn't sure what he'd been expecting.
A box or two of emergency supplies maybe?
Basic things at least. Baby shampoo and body wash. A pacifier. Some Little clothes.
Not…not this.
Dick reaches the front door and stands in front of six decently sized cardboard boxes. Most of which have a fun print on them, trains and cars, stars and spaceships. Two of them have the same print of a cartoon character Dick isn't familiar with.
He really should have known it would be more than two boxes of boring supplies. To be fair though, it hadn't really been on Dick’s mind at all.
Damian had still been absent (though looking at the six boxes worth of Little things he can't help but be grateful for it this time. Who knows what Damian would do if he saw all this- if he realized it was all for him.) and Dick has had to do a bit of make-up in the Batman side of his life. So sleep has been shot down the drain. Not to mention he'd had to call Damian's school and tell them he came down sick and would need time off.
Now the school is breathing down Dick’s neck because it's been almost two weeks and Damian hasn't even turned in any of the homework they've kindly sent over so that the kid wouldn't fall behind.
If this keeps up he's going to have to call the school and admit Damian presented- which he would give anyway, but it would have been a million times better to have Damian on the same page. Now he can't even find the kid.
(though…to be fair Dick has seen him a few times. Once in the library that Jason used to haunt as Robin. Dick had almost confronted the kid then and there but- god. If Damian needed space, if he needed time, then Dick would give it. It had happened a few more times after that, but Dick always either left or just…sat a way away. Watching over Damian for a few minutes- convincing himself that the kid was better from his cold. That he was ok.)
It's almost disappointing, looking at the boxes. He knew Damian wouldn't just accept the fact that he was a child, not with the way he was raised. But Dick had hoped for a chance. If he could just show Damian how healing and wonderful being small could be- then maybe Damian wouldn't be so against it. Maybe he could even find safety in his headspace.
Though, that might be coming from a more selfish place then Dick would like to admit.
He had felt really clear headed when he had woken up- that day Damian had held a knife to his throat.
He'd been better as Batman too, sharper. And he'd somehow found the balls to contact Tim. Just a check in- he didn't ask for what Tim was doing or a location, just if he was doing ok and that he was invited to the manor if he ever needed a place to crash.
There has been no response back but Dick hasn't let himself worry too much. Tim was beyond pissed when he left, ignoring Dick is the least he could be doing.
Dick sighs as he bends down onto the floor, dragging over the first box- the one with trains and cars printed on the cardboard in bright colors of blue and red.
He pries the flaps open, the tape breaking with a loud pop.
The sight that greets him threatens to send him into his headspace.
It's interesting- Littles can feel the beginnings of their headspaces coming on with things like soft toys or rainy puddles, cute blankets or children's cartoons. People don't always acknowledge the fact that inherent ‘Little things’ can push caregivers into headspace too.
Bottles to feed a kiddo or a stuffie that the caregiver just knows their little will love- it's different, sure, but very similar. Because a Caregiver is seeing things that remind them of their kiddo!
Now, Dick has never had that true experience. Sometimes he'd feel the itch of his headspace when he saw Little stores or Caregiver programs online, but the toy aisle never stirred his headspace.
(…before.
Because this is his life now. )
So when his first thought, upon seeing a pacifier in primary colors of blue, red and yellow, is ‘Damian would look adorable.’ He knows that somehow, his headspace (and maybe something else too) has already determined that he wants Damian as his Little.
It's not a huge revelation. Not when he'd already gone through this train of thought and realized he wants Damian as his own kid. Not when he already knew he didn't really see him as a younger brother.
Still, it's one thing to admit that in his head- where he could tuck it away so that no one (especially Damain) could ever know it exists. It's a whole other thing to be half-way into his Caregiver headspace just from seeing things Damian might like in Little space.
(it's a bit scary even, because he's never had anything like this happen before. Never had to face his headspace so dead on. Never had to find a balance with it before.)
Dick might have miscalculated here a bit. He needs to go through these boxes. Damian can ignore the fact that he's Little (for now at least.) but that means it's up to Dick to have anything the kid might need if he slips again unexpectedly. Dick just didn't realize he'd have to face his own headspace when unboxing.
Nothing he can do about it though.
He trugs on- there are several more pacifiers in this box, along with a toy car in a hot red color and two star-themed teethers. There's a soft book that crinkles on some pages, ocean themed, with imagos of cartoon sea creatures. Each page tells of a simple ocean fact.
That's just the start really. (Alfred is nothing if not on top of things.)
The next box he opens is full of hygiene products. There's baby oil, powder and lotion. A bottle of shampoo that has a cartoon character on the front- along with a matching conditioner - and smells, apparently, like oat. Further in this box Dick pulls out a spray bottle that says leave-in detangler on the label, it matches with the shampoo and conditioner set. Next comes a body wash, Dick takes a moment to read the label- it's for sensitive skin and can be used on faces. It also says it can create a bubble bath.
Toothpaste follows after that- strawberry flavored with Wonder Woman on the bottle. (Dick wonders if she is getting paid for products like this-) mouthwash with an oddly shaped bottle, instead of Wonder Woman on it, Flash is running with a huge smirk that has an obnoxious glint.
The last thing in this box is a small toothbrush- a simple green color with soft white bristles and a suction cup on the end so it can stick up on the sink counter.
Dick moves onto the next box- this one is filled with odd items, things like kids nutritional powder to put in drinks. Vaseline. A pastel pack of wash clothes, softer than anything Dick could find last week. Two regular towels in a pastel blue color to go with it. There's a plastic ring with fake keys, all different colors and textures. There's also a double pack of bibs. One a waterproof gray one the other a fabric with a star pattern in red and white.
Dick continues like that-opening up more boxes and seeing all that Alfred has ordered for Damian. It's an assortment of all sorts of Little stuff. Alfred obviously put care into what he chose, making sure to pick things Damian might need no matter how old he ended up being. There were older toys and baby supplies, Dick had even opened a three pack of thermometers, all with a little cartoon animal on the top. He opens more stuff- more packs of binkies and several kid targeted food supplements. vitamins for Little’s too.
There are a lot of superhero and vigilante themed items. Including several bat-themed supplies. Which almost has Dick tearing up. Grief stuck in his throat with nowhere to go till he came home in dawn's earliest light and finally laid down to sleep. Then maybe, it would hit him.
The last box he opens, the one with spaceships all over, is full of clothes. Little clothes. (his headspace jumps up and down like a happy dog seeing the Nightwing-themed pajama footie that sits on top of the pile.) some are meant for a younger headspace- with snap buttons and covered hands. Others fall into an older category (though, not by much.) with long sleeve shirts and pants cuffed at the ankle. There are even a few sets that Damian could wear comfortably when eleven. Two piece pjs, baggy with simple patterns. Sea creatures on some, a cartoon character (Dick is gonna have to up his kids-show game if he wants a chance at recognizing some of this stuff.) on another. A dark green and gray set with dinos all over.
Under all the pajamas sit a few pairs of play clothes. A set of fleece joggers that, once more, Damian could probably wear at age eleven, with their simple blue color. A classic pair of light denim overalls, which Dick finds adorable. Several classic t-shirts, in primary colors. And a pair of dark jeans.
Over all- it's a lot. Overwhelming. Dick feels a mix of shattered and hyper. He wants to show Damian this stuff- stuff that would feed into that smaller headspace. Stuff that would hopefully be exciting! Dick wants to get Damian a snack, use some of that nutritional powder and grab the bat-themed sippy cup and let Damian feel safe and taken care of.
He knows that can’t- won’t- happen though.
Because it's not about what Dick wants. It never will be. Dick wants Damian to feel secure enough to slip into Little space, but that's not what Damian wants. Damian wants things to be ignored. He wants to be Robin. He wants to fight and be angry.
That's ok. Dick understands. He knows what it's like, that feeling of burning. When everything inside has festered, and eventually that fire that has been eating you alive…it explodes… and you need to burn everything else around you to feel even a fraction of relief.
That is what Damian wants right now- and Dick knows that it very well might be a need. Little space can help Damian but the kiddo won’t slip on purpose. So until he feels like he can- Dick will do his best to direct that fire, Damian will learn how to control it. How to feel it in a healthy way.
(though hopefully, Dick will get to see Little Dami sooner rather than later.)
Dick looks around at the boxes again feeling a little lost. A little sad even. He knows he will do his best with Damian but it doesn't take away the strong urge to bundle Damian up in a soft blanket, give him a paci and make him take a nap.
Pesky Caregiver instincts.
Dick isn't sure what he's supposed to really do with all this in the meantime. Damian would burn it all first chance he got, no doubt leaving the remains in dust, so leaving it somewhere the kid might stumble on it is probably a bad idea.
So- his own room then it seems.
Dick lets his shoulders drop a little. He picks up two boxes and starts making the trek upstairs to his room. He’ll tuck them all into the closet.
(though- he plans on washing a few of the items first for the likely chance of an emergency. A sippy cup, paci and a pair of pajamas at least.)
Dick hums under his breath as he brings all the boxes up to his room, going up and down the stars. When he opens the closet doors to stack all the boxes on the floor, he spots something out of the corner of his eye.
Soft gray in color with bright red and yellow around its neck.
Dick stared at the object before reaching up and gently taking it in his hands, slowly rubbing his thumb on one black eye.
…So much for not flying into his headspace.
Dick, with more care than he would admit to, settles the childhood stuffie on top of the stacked boxes in his closet.
Maybe next time Damian slips, (if he does…) Dick can offer him Zitka.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊
Damian breathes in and out in meditation. His legs crossed with precision. Hands folded with years of practice under his belt.
The memories he's been dealing with for the last week have faded into the very depths of his mind, he refuses to dwell on his inadequacy. He'd made mistakes.
Which won’t be tolerated- by the league, by Batman nor by Damian himself.
He still doesn't understand. How had he fallen so far into that space? He'd been under the league's command- his mothers command- his entire life and yet still when he had needed to apply the skills he had witnessed and learned there, Damian choked. He'd known that one day he would present. And though being an Alpha had been nearly guaranteed -and look at how that turned out- Damian knew he would still have to master the art of suppression. No ruts. No scent. No bending at an Omagas pheromones.
Like his mother, Damian had been destined to rule from the very top. He would have, one day, been as untouchable as Ra’s.
Of course, if anyone finds out what he is now, Damian will never see the light of day again.
Damian feels an itch under his skin. The need to fight coursing through his veins. He needs to prove himself the superior choice for Robin. He needs to secure his position else he will have to face off against Drake once more. While Damian has no doubt he can defeat the mediocre fool, Grayson had made it overly clear killing Drake wouldn't give Damian Robin.
The hierarchy here is frankly stupid. Damian must adjust though- if he is to climb the ranks and clutch his birthright as he promised Mother he would.
With that thought, Damian springs up and marches out of his room. He needs to blow off steam. Meditation worked once in a while but more often than not a sparring match is all he really needs.
The batcave Damian has come to learn always has some sort of mood to it.
Sometimes it reeks of grief. The kind that makes Grayson linger through the hallways. Eyes like that of a ghost. Hollow and unable to be touched. (or maybe that's just Damian's fear.)
When Damian had first arrived at the manor the cave had been ripe with challenge. Electricity in the air as he and his father argued. Spiking and zapping around Damian when he and Grayson fought.
Somedays it felt like fresh, cool, water after a hot day. Not relaxing or good. But a reward that, even if pitiful, was a relief to have.
Today it felt like that.
Damian set up a punching bag. The heavy weight under his knuckles is more than familiar. Lessons in several voices overlapped each other and rang through his head. He let muscle memory take over. Let the harsh sentences guide him like he had the threat of a lashing next to him. He felt the pounding rhythm he set up but it was far away.
Damian retreated into his thoughts.
Punch. Again. Another. Swing.
He didn't let memories flow or think about how weak he was. He didn't let the hanging knife of whether or not Grayson was through with Damian fall. He blocked out noise that felt like static, loud and unnecessary. Hard to think around. Instead he just let himself feel every punch. The tightness of the leather under his fists, the way it gives slightly. The swaying of the bag when he hit hard enough. The light fainting he did was more routine than brushing his teeth.
He works up a sweat but doesn’t really register it beyond the faint regret of having to shower later.
Punch. Bend. Hit. Punch.
(For some reason his skin has been red and irritated and it’s starting to concern Damian. He must be allergic to something in a product he’s using.)
Punch. Once more. Repeat. Duck.
He didn't notice the second pair of eyes, or the near silent sound of the bat-computer beeping awake.
Punch. Weave. Punch. Punch.
He threw himself into the exercise. He punched and punched and then kicked. Twisting his torso and swinging his leg backward. Another thud rings out and Damian stays just like that. Sweat beading down his face, rolling into the corner of his eye and causing mild irritation to flood his body. One leg poised up and at an angle, the bag swinging back and forth on its chain. Chest rising and falling in rapid breathes even as he started to regulate his breathing into a more acceptable pattern.
A deep breath and he is lowering his leg to the floor and straightening out, Damian is planning on going again for round two when he finally hears the clicking of a computer. The computer.
He glances around the punching bag and sees how the whole cave is lit up in blue.
“Tt,” Damian scoffs. He hadn't realized how late in the day it was. If Grayson had decided to finally clock in and put the mask on.
He should have, at the very least, heard the man come in. Letting off steam would do him no good if he let his guard down so thoroughly that he tensed right back up.
How unprofessional.
He walks forward. Grayson will not cause Damian to cower. He is a hardened, seasoned warrior. A week of failure does not change that. It simply put a kink into his armor and now Damian needs to buff it out.
He supposes that it starts with walking past the man.
It's not that Damian has been avoiding Grayson. No, that would suggest that Damian can't face the man- which in turn would make him weak. What Damian had been doing was in a lovely gray area. He had been developing a routine. You see, Damian knew the moment he had awakened the morning after his dreadful illness had gone, that he had been idle for far too long.
Sure he had been doing morning exercises and working out so that he did not lose his sharp edges but Damian hadn't given his brain any sort of stimulation. School had done nothing for him and in his new found freedom (no. he had not waited for hours after he'd woken to see if Grayson would knock on his door and say he needed to attend his doom. He'd needed the time for self reflection, was all.) Damian had found he needed to go back to his roots. He had no tutors here but he could very well educate himself. Father had several libraries full of interesting studies.
Damian, for two days, had made it his mission to start learning on a proper level.
He hadn't realized that, in doing so, his hours would differ from Grayson's own.
He ate at different times then the other and chose study spots that called to him in their peace, on day three he'd worked in exercise routines and an extra snack during the day. Which by day four had been simply waiting for him in the kitchen.
(Just because Pennyworth hadn't earned any of Damian's respect didn't mean the man wasn't a decent butler at least.)
Eventually Damian realized that Richa- Grayson hadn't been in his line of sight for almost a week.
(...it didn't bother him. It didn't.)
Really, it was all a coincidence. Not talking to the man, or seeing him. Now though, if Damian ran- fled away in the shadows, it would seem as though he was a child.
Which he somehow could afford less than ever. He didn't know that was even possible.
His stride is steady and his shoulders stay back. When he reaches the side of the bat-computer, his pace shatters. Where he was expecting to see a fully suited up Bat, he instead is met with a black tank top and gray joggers.
Just Grayson.
Damian stares.
(he had never seen Father in the cave without being in full gear.)
A few seconds pass and Grayson looks up from where his eyes had been tracking across screens and locks onto Damian.
Which is the moment Damian realizes he's been watching the man for far longer than necessary.
(a memory of watching a child tug their mothers fitted suit enters Damian's brain without his consent. The child was barely past the woman's knee and very obviously had gone into work with the women. Whining to get her attention and staring up at her with wide eyes till he'd been picked up and placed on her hip.
Did he look similar to that child now?)
“Damian…” Grayson says with all the gentleness of one trying to steady a spooked animal.
Damian bristles but doesn't leave. Again- Damian is trying to prove a point here.
(it's not that he misses Grayson. Or that his voice promises a safety net. Nope.)
Grayson studies him and Damian wants to claw the man's eyes out with his finger nails.
Dick watches the way Damian has stiffened. He wants to comfort the kid but right now it's not just eggshells he's walking on- it's a damn minefield. Every other step could be the explosion that demolishes everything.
This is the first time he's talking to Damian in a little over a week. He needs to do this right.
“We should…talk about Robin.” he finally settles on saying. Once more watching with a careful eye on how Damian has reacted. It's getting…easier- almost to read the kid. He's known Damian for a few months now- first under the influence of Bruce, then when Damian got more involved with things like school and his announcement to Gotham as Bruce's son. Dick had to admit he had spent a decent amount of time with the kid. Picking him up from school, joining Batman on patrol and keeping a silent eye on Damian when he snuck out after them. Little things that eventually added up. Enough that Dick had been the only one who was willing to take the kid in. The only one who fucking stayed in the end.
If someone had told Dick that he would eventually get a good read on this kid he would have laughed in their face. Damian looked like he'd been carved from stone most days. Reading anything on the kid had seemed completely out of reach.
That has changed though. When it started Dick wasn't positive but Dick could see the tensing shoulders. He could see the twitch in his brows- like they wanted to scrunch together but Damian was refraining from the action.
He could tell underneath the agitation something sore like a bruise lingered. Like Damian didn't want to leave but felt like he had to.
Like he'd be forced to.
Dick wondered if he could get all this because of all the time he'd spent just…watching the kid. Being there in the silence this mansion brought down with all the weight of gravity, In all those quiet moments he had found Damian and had simply stayed- even if it was just to make sure the kid was ok.
Dick got up, slowly with caution, and motioned Damian a little closer. Together they walked over to a lone bench by the sparring mats.
Dick sat down first and when it seemed like Damian would just stand five feet away glaring at him he patted the empty space next to him. An open invitation, not a demand.
Damian crossed his arms but did sit on the very edge of the bench. Granted, his knees were bent and his body was ready to bolt if need be- but Dick didn't take it as offense. This was an ominous conversation. One Dick had sprang on Damian. But Dick knew that sometimes you just have to jump. Damian would see that Dick could catch him on the other side, the kid just had to give Dick the chance.
“First thing I wanna say-” Dick starts off. “I still want you to be Robin.”
Damian’s breath hitches the slightest bit but Dick doesn't point it out. He lets the words sink in and starts again, this time with Damian's full attention. Looking at one another now.
“I think you'll be an amazing Robin. That hasn't changed, I don't think it ever will.”
It's nothing but the truth. Dick does think Damian will be a good Robin. Even if part of that reason is because it makes sure Damian stays.
It doesn't matter that Damian’s a Little. It doesn't make the kid any less valuable, or strong or even independent. It just means that- when Damian needs to relax, when the world is too heavy, Dick (at least he hopes Damian would let him-) steps in and makes sure Damian is taken care of.
Damian opens his mouth and flicks his eyes once to the other side of the cave before meeting Dick’s with something a little more vulnerable in them.
Dick can see the unspoken question- ‘even now? Even with this class?’
It's covered as fast as it came but Dick feels the hope expand in his chest.
“You…do not wish me to go back?” is all Damian says before his jaw clenches tight.
Dick goes a little wide eyed. Had he given off the impression he wanted Damian kicked out? What the hell? Dick’s not surprised that the kid might think he can't be Robin- what with the clear ‘being Little is bad’ mentality Damian’s got going on. Still though, kicked out?
(way do give Dick flash backs-)
“No- No Damian, I want you-...” Dick pauses and considers his answer more carefully. “I-...”
Had he…really asked what Damian wanted? Has anyone ever?
“Do…do you want that, bud?” Dick asked.
Damian's brow finally furred in that way Dick knew it wanted to. Had seen coming.
“You don’t- what-” Damian stopped talking as his body showed more signs of agitation. Interrupting his stuttering with a frustrated huff.
Dick stepped in before he could get worked up. The last thing he wanted was for Damian to leave now. Not when he's finally talking to the kid after a week of silence!
“I just mean that- I want to know what you want. I don’t think I've done a good job asking that yet.” Dick explained.
Damian seemed more confused though. It hurt something deep inside Dick but he ignored it for now. Damian needed his attention and just like when the kid was sick Dick was not going to ignore that for anything.
“It's ok too, if you're not sure.” Dick stretches out his legs in front of him, slowly and making sure not to spook Damian with the move. “I would like you to stay. I would like it if you held the Robin name now. I'm ok though, if you want something else.”
Dick is hoping that he's not making a huge mistake. He's betting on something dangerous here.
He's putting all his money on the possibility Damian wants to stay here instead of going back to the cult that groomed him. Back to his mother. Away from the place Bruce died. (away from Dick.)
Damian studies him for a long minute. Fingers twitching in suppressed anxiety.
“I want to be Robin.” He finally says. Eyes filled with determination. Fierce and more than a little deadly.
It's everything Dick needs to hear.
Dick lets out a relieved breath. “Then we start tomorrow, Robin.”
*ੈ✩‧₊˚🍼🧸ྀི☾⋆⁺₊