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Ra’s al Ghul had no obvious preference on the gender of his any of his descendants. What mattered was their drive, their ability to fight, stay focused and not be hinged on the feeble and fleeting emotions of human life.
Still, Damian always sensed the quiet disgust that befitted his grandfather when he looked his grandson up and down and saw a girl. Damian was supposed to be perfect, the closest thing to his father without being an exact clone.
He was supposed to be male.
So, Damian supposed, it was a good thing he turned out to be.
Besides his mother, grandfather and the few members of the League of Assassins that Damian had interacted with since birth, the only other person to know that he wasn’t correctly male was Pennyworth. Whom Damian had quietly threatened a violent death if he ever told any of them. The last thing he needed was his father to find out how wrong Damian was, how he couldn’t even surmise himself to the correct gender. Drake would be unbearable about it, no doubt.
For all that Damian was, he was not really the son of Batman, and there was no doubt in his mind that Drake would latch onto that little fact like a leech.
He grit his teeth and laced up his boots.
Fuck Drake.
Fuck chromosomes.
Fuck the stupid tampon shoved into himself.
“Is it always this invasive, Pennyworth?” he grumbled, snatching his cape from the butler’s hands.
Pennyworth raised an eye. “I would not know, Master Damian. But I would assume so.”
“Whatever,” he snapped, tugging it on. He draped his hood over his head and pushed up the window. “While I’m out, find out how to stop this infernal problem.”
“Will do,” Pennyworth drawled, clacking out of the room with sure and even footsteps.
Damian scowled and heaved himself out the window.
Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be on patrol.
Technically, he was still grounded for getting off mission weeks ago and trying to beat a random man to death for no obvious reasons.
Father had been furious, hadn’t bothered or cared to ask for an excuse. Not that it mattered. Damian’s reasons for slamming a baseball into the man’s face were personal. He wouldn’t have disclosed them even if Father had promised to disown Drake.
He stumbled across the roof of an apartment building and shifted into the darkness behind the wall of the door. Let himself wait, breathe.
The door swung open. He tensed.
“Hey.”
He relaxed. She was smiling at him, a sandwich in hand. She gestured with it.
He took it. “Hi.”
She sidled next to him. “Didn’t think you were going to come back.”
“I said I would.”
“So did my mother,” she said faintly, glancing out and around. “He’s doing well, by the way.”
Damian swallowed around a thick lodge of baloney. “Oh?”
“Mmm.” The girl sighed, brushed her hair back with a hand and squinted at him. “And he chose a name finally.” She bumped her hand against his. “Robin.”
Damian snorted and she grinned wildly. His mouth fell crooked, felt awkward on his skin, but good.
“Actually, it’s James,” she amended after a while. “Said it fit his face.”
Damian couldn’t tell if it did. At the time, his face had been so bloodied and broken, it was hard to make out what he looked like. But James was a good name. Strong. Virile. Independent. Almost as good as Damian. But not quite.
“And your father?”
She fisted her hands, glowering at the ground. “Trouble,” she bit out. “To all of us. But-” She scratched her nose. “-Gran’s strong. She won’t let him hurt us again.”
Damian nodded, chewing deliberately slow. “Good.”
She smiled at him again. She did that a lot. The night he’d met her. The night he’d busted into her locked up room and dragged her right over to the police. This time. It seemed fair she’d get to smile at the feeling of being saved.
He wasn’t quite sure he deserved it.
Her father should’ve died that night.
Or…
Damian scowled and shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. Stupid Father and his stupid no-killing rule. There had to be exceptions!
Like when a monster masquerading as a man tried to beat his son senseless simply because he wasn’t what he was. And when the same monster tried to beat his daughter the same way simply because she was in the way.
Monsters did not get to live.
But Father wouldn’t understand that.
Just like he wouldn’t understand Damian.
Damian pushed away from the wall. “Well, it’s good that you’re alright.”
“Will you come back?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Okay.” She said it easy like she knew his visit that night was just a solitary check-in, just a personal reminder to himself that she was safe and so was her brother. “Stay safe, Robin.”
He nodded. “Goodnight citizen.”
“My name is Katie,” she laughed.
“Whatever,” he said, bounding across the roof and flipping off the edge.
Her laughed followed him on a breeze, rolling like a song in his ears. He smirked, caught himself on the fire escape and dropped, grunting only slightly as he landed. Somewhere in the pit of… that area pain was starting to bubble. He scowled, listening quietly as the roof door slammed shut.
Then he bounded off to where monsters lived.
“What is your issue with this guy?” Drake shouted.
Damian punched him. Hard. Felt blood drip over his knuckles and went for his face again.
Father caught him. “Robin!”
In front of him, Grayson was wrestling Drake back. Drake who’d interrupted him, who’d seen him slip slient into building where that monster resided and followed him inside.
Drake, who made him stop.
Damian shouted, rammed his elbow hard into Father’s gut and lunged at Drake’s stupid, fucking face.
They don’t understand, he thought as rammed his face into Drake’s jaw. They didn’t understand how it felt to feel wrong and broken and stupid, like it was all your fault you weren’t born right. Weren’t made right. Something deep and fucked up inside.
I am defective, he thought and it’s that quiet thought that shattered him.
Grayson shoved him away into Father’s tight grip.
Damian reacted.
Teeth.
Arm.
Bite.
Blood.
Father dropped him.
He ran.
He locked himself inside of his room, showered and watched the blood drip down his thighs. He grimaced, let himself sulk for a moment then turned the water off and got dressed. When Father, Grayson and Drake slid on home, he made bland apologies, let Father reprimand him again, let Drake make a snide remark about sticking an ankle monitor on him, let Grayson sigh in disappointment when he threatened to break Drake’s ribs and let himself be ushered back to bed, Father locking the window shut.
He did what he supposed to. Stayed out of the way. Acted right.
Pretended he wasn’t defective.
Dear lord, how he had never noticed how fundamentally defective he was. It wasn’t that he was made wrong. He just was.
Broken.
He scowled.
No wonder Grandfather wanted to remake him.
He shed his shirt, sweaty and wet, flexed his back. The binder was tight, almost crushing him. He’d need a new one, bigger, soon.
He didn’t like the idea that he was getting bigger. And his stomach still cramped, pad shifting awkwardly under him as blood slicked out. Pennyworth had suggested that perhaps, while he wasn’t on patrol, Damian could wear pads instead of tampons, just to avoid the unnecessary feeling of invasion.
Either way, no matter what he wore, the pain was still crippling and Damian hated it.
Fight past the pain, he thought, throwing a series of punches at the dummy in front of him. Boys don’t feel pain.
Grandfather had said that, said it after Damian had swallowed his nerves and told them all point blank to start calling him Damian, start calling him son, start referring to him as the boy he was.
“Boys don’t feel pain, Damian,” he had snarled. “And neither do al Ghul’s.”
Damian had nodded rapidly, swallowed back his cries and blinked his tears away. He’d rolled to his feet, grabbing his staff and facing the trainer once more.
He was a boy. He was an al Ghul.
He would be fucking invincible.
Except now he was a Wayne.
The dummy’s face rocked back at him, smiling, jaw thick and heavy. Defined. Masculine. Damian clenched his own, wiping away speckles of sweat and spit. It was round, soft. Girly.
The dummy loomed forward, it’s dumb and blank eyes laughing at him. You’re a girl, they seemed to whisper. A pretty little girl.
Damian stiffened.
He wasn’t a girl.
He wasn’t a fucking girl.
“AGH,” he screamed, grabbing the head of the stupid dummy and dragging it into his knee, over and over again. The dummy pounded against his knee, firm and hand.
“Jesus,” Drake said behind him when he finally stopped. “What’d he do to you?”
Damian stiffened, going silent. Anger was still bubbling in his head like a thick haze and beneath that haze was a slow growing panic.
His shirt was scattered a few feet away. If he went to go get it, Drake would see the clearly defined breasts squashed beneath his wet and white binder. Damian rocked back on his heels and punched the dummy again, eyes focused forward but ears back. If Drake got too close, he’d know.
Thankfully, he didn’t go to him, turned around instead to root through his box of things, muttering something about upgrades and plates.
Damian tensed, kept his body pulled into himself and slowly meandered over to his shirt while Drake’s back was turned.
And then a fucking bullet pierced his lower stomach.
“Mother-” He doubled over, swearing heavily under his breath.
“Damian?”
No.
He tried to raise up, act like nothing was wrong but the pain slammed into him again the moment he moved the pressure off his stomach. He swore.
“I’m fine, Drake,” he spat, trying to shove the pain to the back of his head. It didn’t matter. Pain was nothing. He was fine. He was fine.
“Shit, you’re bleeding!”
Footsteps. He was coming over.
No.
Damian stumbled up and speed-walked as fast he possible could with his body actively destroying itself from the inside.
“Damian,” Drake snapped. His fingers grazed over Damian’s shoulder. “Wait, you’re bleeding- JUST STOP!”
“NO!” Damian swatted his hand away to no avail. Drake snatched him, swung him around. Damian snapped, swung at him. Missed. Felt himself be yanked. Forward.
Chest. Hand. Push. Still.
Drake was stilling holding him by the waist as it quickly dawned on him why Damian was probably in pain, why blood was staining his pants. Then his eyes snapped away from Damian’s chest, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.
In that moment, Damian was aware of one thing.
Drake knew.
He knew.
So Damian did the most logical thing he could of think.
He attacked.
Surged forward. Knocked his head against Drake’s jaw. Punched him. Breathed. Shifted forward. Swung his leg around. Ribs. Impact.
Drake shouted, went down.
Damian breathed, snatching up a batarang as he descended down on Drake like a hawk.
“DAMIAN!”
Father.
Drake swore, shoved Damian out of the way, shielding him. “Bruce,” he said, voice gargling around a mouthful of blood. He spat it out. Stained red against the floor. “It’s fine.”
“Tim-”
“We were sparring. It’s fine.” He reached behind himself, grabbed Damian’s arm. Kept Damian behind him as he slowly edged around Bruce towards the exit. On the way, he snatched up Damian’s fallen shirt. “Um, goodbye.”
He shoved Damian through the door and out of the Batcave.
Damian felt numb. Lost. Thrumming with adrenaline. Empty.
Like a void.
His heart pounded as Drake guided him along to the nearest restroom. Blood still dripped out of him mouth, wet. Slick. Red.
Damian grimaced as Drake spat it out into the sink again. “That’s disgusting.”
“Also your fault,” Drake snarked, shoving open the medicine cabinet. He pulled out a pack of Panadol. “Here. Steph uses these.”
Damian stared at the pack and then at Drake’s face. “I don’t need it.”
“Take it, Damian.”
“Fuck off,” he muttered, snatching his shirt from Drake’s hands and yanking it over his head. “I don’t need your help, Drake.”
“Sure,” Drake said, rifling through the sink cabinets. “How’s your back?”
“What?”
“Your back.” He pulled out a box, snapping it open. “It’s not healthy to wear a binder for too long. Causes back pain.” He pulled out a thick gray pad. Attached to the side was a long cord and a switch. He shoved it into Damian’s hands. “Heating pad should help with that and the cramps. Do you want ice cream?”
Damian stared at him.
What ungodly creature had taken over Drake’s mind?
“Let’s get some ice cream,” Drake said, tucking the box back under the sink and then marching out of the bathroom. Damian just stood there. Drake ducked his head back in. “Damian.”
“What are you doing?” Damian recoiled back. “Why are you trying to help me?”
Drake ignored him, disappearing. Against his better judgement, Damian tucked the Panadol into his pockets, gripping the heating pad and followed him to the kitchen. It was empty. Clean. Smelled deeply of fresh soap.
Damian wrinkled his nose and settled at the edge of the table, not quite sure if he should sit. Not quite sure of anything.
Drake was fiddling around with two bowls, dumping relatively unhealthy mountains of vanilla bean ice cream into each. He then sprayed a horrifying amount of whipped cream on both of them, dressing them with warm melted caramel and much too many sprinkles.
He pushed the green bowl towards Damian, hopping onto a chair and digging into his own.
After a few seconds, Damian sat across from him. “This is incredibly unhealthy.”
“Uh huh,” Drake said, fiddling with the TV remote. The bubbly theme song of some mildly interesting show about alien gemstones played overhead.
This whole display was nauseatingly domestic.
Damian’s toes curled.
Finally, he picked up a spoon and dug into the overly sweet and utterly unhealthy bowl of ice cream. He pretended like it wasn’t delicious and exactly what he’d been craving for the last five hours. He ate every last drop, licked the final slish of whipped cream from his spoon and let it clatter back into the bowl.
He watched Drake obnoxiously suck on his spoon, eyes too intently focused on the show to be really taking it in.
“Why are you doing this, Drake?”
Drake’s eyes snapped over to his face, trained. He dropped his spoon into his bowl, grabbed the edge of the table and pushed back, stretching his back. When he rocked back forward, the chair legs clattering against the floor, Damian sat up straighter, Drake inhaling deeply. His eyes slid back to the TV.
“Despite our differences, Damian, I do give a shit about you,” he said patiently. He glanced back at Damian. “We are still family.”
Damian swallowed around the growing lump in his throat.
Drake cleared his throat. “I’m not an exact expert on the human body so you should probably talk to people who know better but, um, stay hydrated. Ingest iron rich food. Get rest. Remember to change your-” He flushed, shaking his head and refusing to make eye contact. “-tampons so you don’t go into toxic shock. Um-”
“Please stop,” Damian said quickly.
“Right.”
Damian licked his lips and flicked his spoon handle. It spun around the bowl, settling right in front of him again. “I’m not-” He flicked the spoon hard, watched it spin around again. “I’m not a- not a-”
“I know,” Drake said easily. He smiled low and loose. “You’re my brother.”