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Damian was not supposed to be curious about the pet project his mother had dragged into his grandfather’s compound weeks ago; but Damian doesn’t always listen well and he is naturally curious, so he silently creeps through the air ducts until he is spying on the broken boy in his mother’s chambers.
The first time Damian does it, nothing much happens. No one is in the room besides the boy and he sleeps quietly on a cot pushed in the corner; what part of his body that isn’t covered by a blanket is wrapped in gauze and bandages and when he shifts he moans and groans. Damian leaves within a few hours; if nothing will happen, Damian will not waste his time.
A few days later, after a particularly heated discussion between Mother and Grandfather, Damian spies again; this time, he catches his mother changing the stranger’s dressings. The burns and scars and visible broken bones aren’t a new sight for Damian; he sees them on others, and he’s seen these particular injuries on this boy many a time. He leaves shortly after his mother tucks the stranger in, with a hand to his hair and a whispered lullaby.
So the weeks pass, and Damian sees hardly any changes in the pet; his mother dotes on it in ways she’s never doted on him, and Damian wonders why. What does this unresponsive thing have that he doesn’t? Why is this creature special, but Damian is not? What use can Mother have of this battered boy, when Damian is right in front of her?
Damian’s first response is to do better in his lessons; he swings a katana against a dummy in practice with force he didn’t know he had. Every swipe he does is powered by training, muscle, and the power of Damian’s anger; he doesn’t see why his improvement shouldn’t draw his mother’s attention.
Instead, his teacher berates him for portraying a lack of emotional control and sentences him to an embarrassing punishment of sweeping the courtyards for the next two days; when his mother gives him a disappointed look over supper, Damian furrows his brows and vows to try harder. He trains mercilessly but with utter dedication to his lessons; his teachers take note of his growing talents, though they continue to comment on his supposed lack of emotional stability.
“Use that,” Mother says, and Grandfather frowns at his fattoush. “Your emotions can be a weapon too, if you wield it properly.”
Grandfather scoops some of his salad from his bowl and looks down his nose at Damian. “Or, learn to use others’ emotions as a weapon against them.”
Damian doesn’t say anything; he turns back towards his mother. She looks tired, though she holds conversation well and he’s yet to see her shirk her daily duties; she oversees the others at the compound, the other trainees, and checks Grandfather’s paperwork, as well as their overseas investments—and yet she still finds time to check on her little pet in between her workload. She bandages his wounds, she moves his limbs for him, she coaxes him to eat and drink, she converses with him on occasion. Low murmurs Damian cannot understand from his spot in the vent.
“How is the boy?” Grandfather asks; Damian glances from him to Mother.
Mother turns her attention indifferently to her own plate of food. “Better; his wounds continue to heal and he will soon be able to begin walking again.”
“I don’t understand why we’re wasting our time on him; Grandfather, is he a recruit that failed you? Should he not be punished or killed?”
Grandfather smiles smugly. “No, Damian; the boy is going to be our weapon.”
Damian raises a brow, and Talia clears her throat which draws his attention.
“He was your father’s ward.”
Damian frowns at his mother; he knows of his father, Bruce Wayne in Gotham City, the Dark Knight, the Batman in the sky. He hears many things from his mother; he’s a great man, he’s honorable, he’s kind, he’s determined… He’s heard other things too; he’s too stubborn, he’s blinded by guilt, he won’t understand what we’re trying to do, we have to convince him or destroy him, he will destroy you… “What happened to him?” Damian questions.
Talia sips some wine; “You remember me talking about the Joker?”
Damian doesn’t question further; he doesn’t respond. He ignores, he catalogues, he dissects; he remembers the broken bones, the cuts and bruises. He remembers the boy’s listlessness, his vacant but pained gaze. He knows of horrors; it’s not new. A teacher hit him once, and most of his combat teachers have left him bloodied and bruised.
But he could fight back; he had a kendo, and he knew how to use it. He wonders about this boy; could he fight back? Surely, if he was partner to Batman, then he would know how to defend himself.
That night, long after everyone has gone to bed, Damian slips through the vents to the boy’s room; the boy’s sleeping on his pallet, and Damian waits a half hour before he opens the grate and drops to the ground. He stays in a crouch there, head tipped to the side, watching the boy carefully; when he doesn’t wake, his breathing steadier than it’s been the previous times, Damian stands and shuffles closer.
“How did it happen?” he speaks quietly; the boy burrows further under the blanket, his brows dipping down. Damian leaves shortly afterwards.
His visits increase in the coming weeks; he watches Talia and a doctor help the boy to stand, he watches Talia rotate his arms, watches the doctor shine a penlight in his eyes, watches them try and assess his reaction time.
It’s poor, though there’s some traces of training there; Damian goes about his daily activities. He continues to learn languages and histories, he labels weapons and showcases ways to use them. He frowns at his instructors, and he doesn’t ask Talia about the boy; Grandfather stays silent too, though Damian can feel tension growing.
Grandfather frowns when Mother leaves the table early, to tend to her pet project; he turns to Damian at one point and says, “I’m growing impatient.”
Damian doesn’t know for what.
It’s been a good few months since the boy’s arrival when Damian is, oddly enough, rebelliously shirking his lessons. He’s done it before, but today he feels something special is about to happen. He dodges staff in the hallways, glares out at the bright sun, and when he turns the corner he freezes.
The boy is sitting there, alone, leaning against the wall with his knees pulled up to his chest; he still has bandages wrapped around his arms and his head, a cast upon his ankle. Damian steps forward with a frown,
“What are you doing out?” He glances about when the boy doesn’t say anything. “Are you not chaperoned?”
Of course, the boy says nothing; Damian knows he’s unresponsive. Damian kneels by him.
“We should get you back to Mother; she’s probably hysterical right now.” Damian takes the boy’s elbow and tugs. “Come.”
The boy stands unsteadily and Damian waits for him to gain his footing; he sways slightly, eyes glassy but alert as they rove around the walls. Damian tugs him.
“Come.”
They move slowly through the halls, and sometimes Damian has to pull him to make him move again; Damian doesn’t mind this. The boy is silent, not troublesome or judging, and for a moment Damian finds his shoulders relaxing. His muscles relax, and he doesn’t even worry about running into his instructors and being punished; he’s dealing with his mother’s project. No one can bother him without crossing her.
He crooks a finger at the boy. “Come on; Mother should be in here.”
It’s a room full of desks and equipment; they monitor the compound, monitor overseas communication, monitor many things. Damian pushes the door open and several pairs of eyes snap to him, his mother’s included.
She’s bent over a worker’s shoulder, tapping at a console frantically, and her relief is clearly visible when the boy appears behind Damian. “Jason,” she breathes and hurries forward. She runs her hands over him, ignoring how he shies away from her, and she gives Damian a pointed look. “What happened?”
“I found him sitting in a hallway in the northern chambers.”
“The northern chambers?” She nearly glares at…Jason. “He should have been in his room.”
That’s several chambers away from the northern chambers; “Surely he passed multiple staff members as he wandered.”
She straightens her shoulders and her face sifts into the passivity of control, though Damian can sense her anger. “Very logical, Damian.” She tips her head at him. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“You’re welcome, Mother.”
“Return to your classes.” She turns her attention to Jason, and Damian slips into the shadows.
That, in Damian’s mind, is the first meeting between him and Jason; he now has a name to put to the child, for that’s the simplest way to explain how Jason acts. The following weeks are uneventful; Jason is still confined to his room (however he escaped that first time is questionable) and Damian occasionally sneaks in when Jason is awake and pacing.
Damian drops in one day with a small bag in his hand; Jason blinks at him, seemingly knowing Damian isn’t a threat to him. Damian opens the bag and pulls out a pastry. “It’s a basbousa. Mother says you’ve been eating solid food for a while now; here.” Damian holds the pastry out for Jason, and the boy slowly moves his limbs to accept.
Damian nods and pulls his own treat out; he flops to the ground in a cross legged position and bites into the basbousa; the pair eat in silence, and Damian stays alert for the sound of footsteps or voices. He doesn’t want to be caught; his mother barely allows a set of guards near the room, let alone the trusted doctor who’s been slowly removing Jason’s bandages. Damian wipes his hands on his pants and stands; Jason is barely halfway through his.
“I have to go now; make sure to still eat something for supper. Mother will be upset and worried if you don’t.” Damian slips back out through the vents.
So their relationship develops; when Mother does begin to allow Jason out of his room, he’s allows shadowed by her a slew of guards. Damian learns their pattern; she doesn’t allow him very far or in many areas of the compound, so Damian knows where they’ll be when. He pops up, out of sight from the grownups, and waits for Jason to notice; Jason does. Jason, oddly enough, is alert when Damian is in the shadows; he watches Jason’s head look up from the spot he likes to stare at with a vacant gaze, watches his wide eyes roll across the room, watches his lips twitch when he spots Damian.
Jason doesn’t move, though he sways some where he stands, and Damian just watches him; eventually, Damian leaves when Mother moves her band further through the compound and Jason returns to blank boredom.
Damian wants to show him other places; he wants to show Jason the kitchen, and the hidden hallways that are hardly used anymore. He wants to show Jason the library, specifically the scrolls Damian likes, the books from foreign lands; he wants to show Jason the dining hall and the courtyard.
An option shows itself when the compound suffers a power outage during a dark and stormy day; he’s been tailing Mother’s group for a few hours now, watching Jason and his reactions. The boy sometimes yelps and cries out when thunder claps loudly, and he flinches every time lightning flashes brightly through the windows.
When the lights go out, Mother barks order and Damian makes his move; he slips between the adults as they move into position, and he slips his hand into Jason’s. He pulls the boy close, and waits for that one weak point in this safe position to be made; he knows this particular maneuver, and when Ashliee moves to the left and Hector moves forward, Damian tugs Jason and they move quickly through the open space.
He's not planning on taking Jason far; he just tugs him into a room a few hallways over and let’s Jason tiptoe about. Damian stays by the door, arms crossed and face pinched; whenever thunders sounds, Jason hurries back to Damian’s side. Damian watches him, quietly.
When the lights come back on, and he hears Mother calling for Jason, Damian only feels slightly guilty; Jason has settled himself at a chair by a table, fingers brushing against an open book on the desk. He looks…happy, content, and Damian can’t feel guilty for this. When Mother discovers them, he doesn’t react to her glare; he slips from the room and leaves Jason in Mother’s care.
The routine changes after that; Mother brings him to more areas, not anything restricted, and not to their training rooms, but Damian is happy to spot her leading Jason to the kitchen one day. She also begins trying to get him to talk, but Damian sees her frustrations grow daily until she eventually gives up.
However, Damian notices a change in Jason; his eyes track movements more, he turns at sounds, and occasionally Damian thinks he catches the teenager frowning at the foreign language around him. Damian steals him away every now and then, settling him in a window seat with a book or a sweet treat; he sometimes complains to the teenager of his duties.
“Sweeping! I was delegated to sweep the courtyard! All because I was ‘emotionally uncontrollable’.”
Jason doesn’t respond; not verbally. But Damian learns; the slightest twitch of his head is laughter, or possibly annoyance depending upon the context. Hunkering down, shoulders shrinking into himself and head bowed, is fear or surprise or uncertainty, and Damian learns that standing between him and whatever perceived threat is enough to calm him.
Damian also learns Jason…cannot read. It’s not that most writings in the library are in Arabic, or French, or Russian; there are English books too, but Jason only brushes his fingers across the pages lovingly. Damian sets time aside to read to him, when he realizes the conundrum of illiteracy; Jason loves books, and with Jason’s nonverbal guidance Damian finds ways to inflect his voice to entertain the teenager.
This awareness is not always of the good type; Damian hears Jason screaming, the only sound he makes beyond gentle whimpers and breathy whines, through the walls at night. Consciousness is there, then, it’s just a matter of drawing it out of him; without consciousness, Damian reasons, Jason would not dream of horrors so ghastly he screams himself hoarse.
“Not like that, معتوها, you’ll cut your hand off.” Damian holds out his hand expectantly. “Give me the shuriken; I’ll show you how. Again.”
The weapon is dropped in his palm, accompanied with a harsh glare—something Jason has been picking up from Damian—but Damian hefts the circle expertly before flinging it against the bamboo wall; it sticks firmly and the small child gives his companion an unimpressed look.
“Would you like to try again?”
Jason shrugs, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and stares blankly somewhere besides the lodged shuriken. Damian sighs; it’s normal for the older boy to space out, so Damian merrily retrieves the shuriken and returns to his companion’s side. He’s been doing better as of late, with more body language and actual responses to inquiries, but he is still mostly listless.
“Come, mind wanderer; surely by now my teachers have sent people to look for me and they’ll probably arrive shortly.”
The small boy heads for the doorway and Jason follows shortly after; Damian peeks into the hallway and once he’s assured the coast is clear he ushers them from the room and down the hall. They duck into another training room a few hallways down and Jason runs his scarred fingers over the hilts of the swords lining the wall. Damian lets him be, instead focusing his attention to his set of shuriken.
So they stay for an hour before hopping to the library before Damian’s tutors could catch them; Jason likes the library, and Damian figures he can read up on some of the scrolls he didn’t get to read in classes. Jason wanders from his side the moment the doors shut behind them, turning to the left and running a hand over the spines there; in a way, the library is split right down the middle. To the left is the modern section, holding fiction all the way to religious writing; to the right are the older writings, on crinkly scrolls and old parchment. The right is where Damian normally is sent to read from, while Jason is drawn to the left; on days where Damian can choose, he’s drawn to the left with Jason.
And so they spend their time; Jason stays in the fiction part of the modern section, whereas Damian reads up in on modern philosophy. It takes another hour and forty-five minutes for Damian’s teachers to find them; they had nearly exhausted their hiding places, and Damian prefers to keep the library for last after all, so they had waited.
The doors bang open, followed by rising voices calling for him; the little lost heir.
“Damian! Young Damian, are you in here?”
With a longsuffering sigh, Damian sets his book back in place and makes his way forward to the doors.
“It’s the mistress’s pet.”
“What’s it doing here? Quick, return it.”
The sound of a scuffle is followed by shrieking; Jason shrieking. Damian would recognize that sound, it was ingrained in his mind from watching the boy writhe with nightmares. He breaks into a run and rounds the bookshelves to find a pair of his grandfather’s staff trying to wrestle Jason away from the books and out of the room.
“Release him! Release him immediately, that is an order!” Damian snarls; the men jump to obey, and Jason’s screaming tapers off into whimpers. He stumbles, colliding with the younger boy, shaking from head to toe. “How dare you lay a hand upon Mother’s pet! She will hear of this and when she does she will be livid.”
The largest man, the one Damian learns physical combat from, the one who had had Jason in a headlock and whose arms were scratched because of it, makes a frustrated sound. “We are not the ones who removed him from his caretakers, are we?”
But Damian meets him head on, even with the trembling body of a fifteen year old trying to knock him off his feet. His glare is cold and disarming. “But you are the ones who harmed him, perhaps beyond repair; whatever will Mother do?”
Jason lets out a cry; Damian isn’t sure what he wanted, but he does what he can which consisted of patting awkwardly at his arms and shoving him away. Jason doesn’t seem to mind however and only stands listlessly, all sense of clarity that might have been there from their small romp of freedom had vanished to a glossy gaze that even saw through the walls of the place. Damian refuses to heave a sigh and instead pinches his face into a scowl, directed at the staff.
“Where is my mother?”
The staff motion out into the corridor. “She is with your grandfather in his office.”
Damian nods and reaches out for Jason; he takes hold of the hem of Jason’s shirt and tugs him forward. “Come; let’s go talk to Mother.”
The trek is slow going, Jason dragging his feet as they go, and Damian glares at anyone in their way; they come upon Grandfather’s office to raised voices. Damian catches a few words, but doesn’t pay much attention to them; Mother always argues with Grandfather about using the Pit.
Damian settles a hand on the door knob. “Come, Jason,” Damian waves a hand at his friend. “They are not yelling at you.”
Jason doesn’t move, backing up a step, and Damian rolls his eyes; he follows Jason’s footsteps and grabs his hand, tugging Jason.
“I promise no one will hurt you; come.”
He eventually slides forward and Damian opens the door loudly.
“Mother! Teacher Horrice harmed Jason.”
Grandfather glares at them, though Damian ignores his moods, and Talia steps forward with a ferocious but resigned look in her eyes; she draws Jason to her in a rare hug and Damian averts his gaze. Embraces are rare from her; that she readily hugs Jason makes Damian… Angry, unsettled… Jealous.
Grandfather shoos Damian away, but Damian doesn’t obey; he turns to his mother.
“Teacher Horrice harmed Jason.”
Mother seems unconcerned; she pulls away from Jason. “I’ll be going on a business trip with your grandfather for the next few days; I trust you to continue your studies and not cause issues.”
Damian nods. “Very well, Mother.”
Supper that night is a tense affair; Mother hardly eats anything and, only when she’s been in their presence for a reasonable time, she leaves as soon as possible. Grandfather hardly speaks, and Damian eats quietly; they’ve obviously had a disagreement. That they’re going on this business trip together leads Damian to believe that’s what this is about. He shakes his head and stands, bowing respectfully to Grandfather. “I am finished, Grandfather, and wish to retire early.”
The elderly man flicks his wrist, dismissively, and Damian slips from the room with ease. There are no screams that night from Jason’s room, a slight reprieve that Damian is happy about; he has learned to work on low sleep, but Jason’s exhaustion had been growing over the past weeks and he deserved a good rest.
The following morning, both Grandfather and Mother are long gone before breakfast; Damian had heard the helicopter leave earlier, bound for another compound no doubt, and Damian eats alone. He flags down a staff member shortly after eating.
“Has Mother outlined a schedule for the boy?”
The man blinks at Damian. “The boy was taken with them.”
Damian isn’t sure how to react, so he waves the man away and makes his way to Jason’s designated room; he slides the door open and peeks inside. The pallet is folded out of the way, odd for Jason, and the drawers and closet are empty; Damian whirls around and marches away.
He has an inkling of what’s happening, but he denies it; Mother wouldn’t let Grandfather do that; his days are boring now, and he is constantly on edge and angry. His punishments grow, and the amount of destroyed training rooms accumulate until he is reigned into book study
He doesn’t see either one for another several months, and when they do return Jason is not with them. He greets them with a blank gaze, though his mouth is pinched, his nose is fighting to wrinkle in distaste, and his brows are nearly furrowed.
“Mother,” he bows, though not as lowly as he had before, a marked display of his displeasure. “Grandfather.”
Mother seems to understand; she doesn’t reach for him, though most returns are accompanied by a gentle pat on the head, and she nods when he meets her gaze. Jason is never mentioned again, and months later when Mother ushers him onto a plane bound for Gotham he gives her a stiff goodbye.
Gotham is dirty and heavy, but he is prepared; he meets his father, he is given the Robin mantle, and he finds a place in a family. It’s not quick, rather spread out over lengthy months, so much so that by the time he runs into Red Hood he hasn’t seen Jason for years, and hasn’t thought of him for nearly as long.
(Jason is not mentioned in the Wayne household, remembered only by a suit collecting dust in the corner and a tombstone in the graveyard. Damian had stumbled upon it one day out exploring the acres, and he had sat by the stone for what seemed like hours; he hadn’t known Jason had died. In shock, he’d gone searching for something—flowers or some such other ceremony people partook in to say goodbye—and he’d settled a bundle of dandelions next to the name.)
It’s during a fight in the warehouse district, somewhere by the docks, facing off against a section of Black Mask’s men, when the bomb goes off; Red Hood had been skirting around the Bats, with a gun in his hand and quips flying from behind his mask. When the bomb goes off, Nightwing yells and Red Robin tries to make his way towards where Red Hood had last been seen while Batman calls for a status report.
Damian hears it then; it startles him into pausing, tripping, hesitating. It’s a scream, a shriek of fear and terror, and Damian pivots. It echoes off the walls, something so achingly familiar, and Damian is running with a snarl on his lips; his bo staff takes down several enemies as he moves, vicious and angry, and when he reaches the crates Hood has hunkered down behind he’s prepared.
At least, he thinks he’s prepared.
Damian can only stare at the boy—no, the man—before him; the helmet is long since abandoned, shattered in the fight, and the domino mask does nothing to hide his identity.
The man looks up quickly, aiming his gun shakily at Damian. “You want to know what happened to me?” the man snarls, sweat dripping from his bangs and down his face.
Damian doesn’t say anything; he keeps his face professionally blank, not even a furrow of his brows, because he wants to cry; the man’s face contorts into a feral grin as he tries to shrink away.
“I died.”
Damian lowers his bo staff, slides out of his battle stance; he keeps his arms tucked close to his body, hunches his shoulders, and continues to stare at this man. This man that used to be a body in a bedroom, a boy among fading scrolls, a child listless at Damian’s side; this man that used to be Damian’s only companion, nonjudgmental, there and then not. This man that Damian remembers taking his hand, remembers leading him through empty halls, remember coaxing him to eat and to sit, remembers reading old books and mocking lessons.
“Jason,” he says, and the man’s face shutters closed from its crazed pain; for a moment, Damian glimpses that blank vastness that he once wore so well. The blank sadness, the all encompassing fear and pain and tears; further below is such a terrifying craziness Damian can’t breathe. “Jason,” he says again.
He wants to tell him he knows; he wants Jason to know that Damian knows. That Damian saw his pain and injuries, saw his scars—every one of them. Damian wants Jason to know they were friends; Damian wants Jason to know Damian knows him.
Jason’s arm gives out, flopping uselessly at his side, and he looks over Damian’s shoulder; Damian heard it too, heard Tim’s quiet footsteps hurrying closer. Damian watches Jason’s hunched form and tries to make sense of it all.
No, he is not a man; for certainly he’s still every bit the lost boy Damian once knew.
Damian straightens his shoulders; he did more than just know Jason. He protected him; damn Ra’s and Talia, damn Drake and Grayson…damn Father. He made a promise once, years ago, to someone who meant the world to him. “I’m Robin.” I’m your friend. “Will you let me help you?”
Damian remembers Jason’s eyes, wide and awestruck and curious; he remembers Jason’s silence that filled their days, conversations that he could glean from every twitch and glance; he remembers Jason sleeping, he remembers Jason dreaming, he remembers Jason smiling. He remembers Jason.
Jason doesn’t remember him at all.