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Damian woke to the sensation of being carried. He instinctively stayed limp so his assailant would not be warned he was conscious—and then he caught the familiar scent of his father’s cologne.
Familiar was a strong word. He’d barely known the man before he’d been lost, presumed dead, and he still barely knew who Bruce Wayne truly was.
Still, he recognized the scent and knew it to be Father’s, though Damian didn’t know what that meant. Showing weakness was foolish, dangerous, but his father still hoped to train him as a proper Robin. Killing Damian or seriously maiming him would be counterproductive to that goal, but…there was still a world of pain that would teach Damian not to be so lax with his personal defense while also leaving him ready and able for patrol as Father saw fit.
Richard abhorred such practices, though, and he assured Damian that Father did too. Richard ought to know, having been molded to Father’s ideology since he was a boy. Of course, Father’s beliefs came with unfortunate rules—no killing being the worst—but Father also seemed to believe that Damian’s age precluded him from harsh punishment.
Father carried Damian in a leisurely pace, though Damian could not tell where in the manor they were and thus could not ascertain precisely what his father’s intentions were.
Perhaps Father was simply warning him. Damian had fallen asleep on the couch during the middle of a documentary on bee farming, and he would wake up on the floor the cave or some long-forgotten room in the corner of the manor to remind him of his place.
Perhaps Father did intend to punish him and would restrain him while he was seemingly unconscious. Damian would’ve submitted to most punishments for the foolish mistake; it irked him that Father might think he needed to take precautions to ensure that Damian wouldn’t flee like some child.
Or perhaps…
Such a slip had happened before, when Richard was his Batman. Damian had leapt awake when Richard touched him, but Richard—once he recovered from the surprise—had told Damian that he only intended to carry Damian to his bed to spend the rest of the night in better comfort.
Richard had told him that Father used to do that for him when Richard had been his age.
The incident hadn’t been repeated around Richard. Damian had thought it a baldfaced lie at first, then pointless sentimentality once he’d realized Richard truly had intended no more than to coddle him as though he were an infant.
Damian could feel the difference when Father started up the stairs…that would lead to the bedrooms, possibly. It could also be leading to other rooms, but Damian couldn’t think what room Father would bother to bring him to if not his bedroom.
Dread pooled in his belly, so sudden and heavy Damian was surprised Father didn’t notice the difference in weight. Perhaps Father would not violently punish him for such a slip, but Father already thought him a lesser Robin than Richard or Drake or even Todd. He didn’t need to say it aloud, Damian could tell by the praise he reserved for Damian’s supposed brothers. Now Damian was not only too violent and too aggressive, Father would think he was too foolish to keep abreast of his surroundings.
By counting Father’s steps from the top of the stairs and calculating the difference in pace length between himself and his father, Damian knew it was his own door that Father stopped in front of.
Damian forced himself to remain still but limp as Father stooped to open the doorknob. Did Father know he was awake? Would he disapprove more of Damian trying to trick him or for being incapable of doing so?
Damian hoped he wouldn’t find out; even if Father (probably) would not resort to (much) violence, there were other ways to punish him. Damian hated when Father yelled at him. He hated even more when Father disapproved in stony silence without even telling Damian how to fix his failures.
Damian didn’t shift when he was laid down on the duvet, but perhaps he should have. Did people normally shift when asleep? Damian hadn’t had the opportunity to watch many people sleep, so he wasn’t sure.
Father ran a hand softly over Damian’s hair, and Damian almost flinched. The vulnerability of it all—his position, his ruse, his uncertainty—galled him, but he maintained the charade of unconsciousness and reminded himself that Father disapproved of violence toward children. He needed to trust in that.
Trust had so rarely been expected of him in the League, and he didn’t like it. Even with his position, there were constant political machinations and attempts on his and his mother’s lives. Damian had nearly died more than once as a result of just one moment of weakness. Mother had told him never to trust anyone, even her.
Here, Richard had told Damian that trusting was the bravest thing one could do,
Father lifted Damian enough to pull the blankets out from under him to lay Damian on the sheet instead. The blankets were then pulled up to Damian’s chin, and Father again brushed his calloused fingers through Damian’s hair.
It felt strangely pleasant, but Damian was confused. Surely Father did not think Damian was still asleep with all that manhandling. Damian risked fluttering his eyes open as though he’d just come to consciousness.
His father was a dark silhouette looming over him. Damian reminded himself to be brave and didn’t cower away when Father leaned down towards him.
Damian could feel the soft smile in the curve of Father’s lips as he pressed a soft kiss onto Damian’s forehead.
Damian blinked in confusion and lay stunned. What had that been for? Mother’s affection was dolled out for successes, not for failures to maintain situational awareness.
“Goodnight Damian,” Father said, his voice deep and rumbling. “Sleep well.”
As Father slipped from the room, Damian wriggled a hand free from the blankets to touch his forehead where his father had kissed him. Father was so strange. Everything was strange here.
Damian lowered his hand and stared up at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in the darkness. Perhaps he would still be scolded later, but Father hadn’t seemed upset with him. He’d smiled and been perhaps more affectionate than he’d been since Damian had arrived.
Father was a hard man to please. Despite Damian’s initial assumption that he would be favored for being the only blood son, instead he was barely tolerated simply because Father could not cleanly wash his hands of Damian.
He remembered the soft, sad smile on Richard’s face when he’d told Damian how Father had carried him to bed when he was a child. At the time, they’d thought Father dead, and it had seemed Richard had treasured the memory of that small moment.
Damian understood why now.
He pulled the blankets up to his nose so no unseen observer would be able to see his smile. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he was getting soft…but maybe he was.