Chapter Text
Wayne Manor was bipolar in simplest terms. Most often, the walls were barriers to the hustle of the outside world, the smallest of sounds echoing through the empty halls. Other days -these being more rare than the silence, but becoming increasingly more frequent- the sound of laughter flowed like music out of the windows. The sound of family, if one could muster the bravery it would take to go so far as to admit it.
Damian though, found himself not caring much for either. The silence was stifling, suffocating even. He would sit, earbuds poised and iPod flashing at him, mind blank, not knowing what song to play or what else to do with himself. It was unproductive and Damian hated being unproductive. That said, he wasn’t such a fan of socialization either. That seemed to always work the same way for him. First, his chest would ache, heart thudding so rapidly it was almost painful as he was forced to mingle amongst too many ingrates. Then, once he realized people didn’t seem to want to bother with him and that it didn’t really matter how he behaved, he quietly left. His heart aching in a different way as he made his hasty retreat.
The sheets crinkled under his skin as Damian rolled over in his overly large, much too soft bed. There were too many pillows, too much cushion underneath him, and the bed was not in the center of the room. The entirety of its existence screamed idiocy, the design was set for failure, something Damian used to believe himself incapable of. Now, he scoffed at the naivety of that. How had he gone so long convincing himself he was without flaws? Hadn’t mother’s ways been enough evidence to prove otherwise? And, if all of his mother’s obvious hints hadn't been sufficient enough to confirm his unimportance, Father had practically said as such earlier in the evening.
Damian was rather well aware that he was hard to love. He wasn’t made to be loved, he had been created with the intent to be used . He had been constructed piece by piece, designed to fulfill missions, to serve a purpose and, because of this, he always did his best when tasked. It was what he was taught, what had kept him alive in the League. He had no reason to believe things would be any different with his father. That these rules and regulations would ever change.
But he had been proven wrong. He had been so wrong, everything was different with Father.
He rolled over in bed again. Something wasn’t right. He should have been able to fall into a light sleep easily, and be shaken out of it even easier. But he couldn’t seem to turn off his brain, it was a repeat of the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that....
Damian had been having trouble sleeping lately and the darkening circles beneath his eyes had been making his struggles increasingly obvious. When he wasn’t plagued by too-realistic nightmares, he was lying twisted in his sheets, staring at the ceiling with not a fleck of drowsiness in his eyes. Still, despite all of this, he was hardly tired. Infact, recently, he seemed to have more energy than he had harnessed in a while, perhaps his entire life. In contrast, however, he was also the most exhausted he had ever been- he was exhausted someplace deep beneath his skin.
Father’s harshness earlier had worsened that exhaustion.
They had been fighting multiple bank robbers earlier in the night -a rather pathetic waste of time in Damian’s opinion- and one of the criminals had decided to get cocky. Such behavior irritated Damian when it came from Todd but the same lip coming from a lowlife made him furious. Damian finally understood the phrase he had heard Grayson say on more than one occasion: ‘Old habits die hard’ as, unfortunately, it was habitual for Damian to lose control when properly enraged.
In all reality, he hadn’t meant to hurt the man as badly as he had, but the women who had been tasked with the unfortunate job of closing the bank that night had looked so pitiful tied up behind the teller’s stand and he just-
That wasn’t important, Father didn’t care about what Damian had been thinking when he had injured the crook- just that he had done so as badly as he had.
Father only cared that he had an excuse to bench Robin.
Though he loathed to admit it, Damian missed Mother, he missed being treated like he was valuable. He was to be the new Demon Head, he was to succeed Grandfather. And though the Father’s overall intentions were admitably profusely moral compared to those of his Mother and Grandfather, Father had no purpose for him. Damian had been dumped on the man, he was nothing but an obstacle in the Wayne home. He knew that. The stinging trapped behind his eyes knew that. Just like they knew mother wasn’t coming back for him, that she didn’t want to come back for him.
There must be something wrong with him.
His eyes stung harder than they had before and he clenched them tightly to dam the flow. Emotions equal weakness , that’s what he was taught. They get in the way, drag you down, they will kill you if given even the slimmest of chances. Fear leads to failure. Happiness is a lie . He remembered all of this, did his best to avoid hormonal thoughts as he had been taught to do and yet, he felt as if he were breaking- though he would never admit to such.
He never meant to cause trouble, never meant to stress father, never meant to cause a war between the members of the family he’s seemingly destroying. The family he never has been nor never will be a part of. He shouldn’t have risen his hopes. He shouldn’t have been so naive. Father must never know of his momentary weakness.
Nevertheless, he didn’t have very many options, sleepless nights and tucked away blades would only get one so far. Maybe, just maybe, it would be far enough. He will be good. He will serve his purpose, as he was taught to do, hardwired to do. That’s what he was made for. If he cannot even do what he was made for then there is no-
“Dami?”
Damian stiffened but did not turn towards the figure in the doorway. He could tell simply by the tone of voice that it was Grayson.
“Dames? You disappeared on us.” Dick said, a suppressed layer of hurt coating his voice. Damian huffed. The ‘us’ his eldest brother was referring to included the rest of his so agreeable flock of brothers and Brown, all of which he would rather avoid. All of whom would rather avoid him. Perhaps they hadn’t outrightly said so with words but they had sent plenty of clues with their eyes. Damian could tell when he was unwanted, that when he was with them he was being constantly monitored like some wild beast. Like a monster.
“Everyones going out to dinner,” Dick tried again. “Or, well, mostly everyone. Bruce claims he has work to do and Bat-Burger isn’t really Alfred’s thing.” He chuckles at the end of his little rant but the laugh is dry and more than slightly forced. His usual genuine smile wavered in Damian’s presence. “You wanna come?”
Continuing to stare at the ceiling, Damian weighed his options. Grayson sounded so desperate it was pathetic- a bit sad as well. It makes him almost want to tag along, simply to satisfy the oldest Wayne child- who insisted on attempting to ‘fix’ everything. It was disappointing (but not at all surprising) that Father was not going. Richard should consider himself lucky that Damian’s perseverance seemed stronger that day.
“I suppose.” He muttered.
Grayson beamed in satisfaction, glad that his plan had worked. He didn’t excuse himself either, much to Damian’s chagrin, just waited for the younger boy to collect the things he needed. Damian sighed and stood, trying his best to compose himself under his older brother’s watchful stare. Chest twisted in that odd, indescribable way that was quickly becoming familiar, Damian grabbed his spring coat from the closet and his phone. His shoes were rightly stowed in the entry hall downstairs.
He stiffened as he left the room and Dick placed one of his large hands on Damian’s shoulder, muscles tensing even further as they made their way down the grand staircase. He could hear everyone now; Todd and Brown were bickering about one thing or another and Drake was failing miserably at hiding his snickering. It was idiotic, how easily they all opened up to one another. How they trusted each other without any qualms. Damian almost had to smother a scoff at their naivety. But they would learn soon enough, he knew, just as he had.
As he had expected, the conversation was put to an abrupt end as soon as his presence in the room was noticed. Damian wished that he had been listening more carefully, so that he could be sure they hadn’t been discussing him, that Drake hadn’t been laughing at him. Even so, the expression on the teen’s face clearly stated that he was disappointed Damian was participating in their little outing. Damian looked down, the tight feeling in his chest doubled and though Dick’s guiding hand didn’t leave Damian’s shoulder until they were headed to the car, Damian felt disappointed at his presence as well.
He guessed that was when it all started.
-
The spontaneous midnight outing was about as eventful as Damian had been expecting. The employees, who had long since gotten over the Wayne’s dining in their facility, served them all their usuals and left them to eat. His siblings were the imbeciles they always lived up to be, shoving each other around and eating far more food than their bodies could possibly require. Voices so aggravatingly loud that Damian had a headache at the end of the meal. He himself didn’t eat much, poking around at his fries with little interest.
He couldn’t stop thinking about his spat with Father.
It wasn’t the first disagreement that the two had shares and it surely wouldn’t be the last, but there was something about this one that sat heavily on Damian’s shoulders. Perhaps it was because he had thought he had been doing the right thing and yet. Couldn’t have been more wrong. Or maybe it was the way Father had stared down at him, a deep hatred in his eyes. Disappointment. Regret .
“You okay, brat?” Todd asked, taking a short moment to peer at Damian through his white bangs. His eyes flicked to the boys untouched food before flying quickly over to Grayson. He was practically begging the oldest to take over, to fix the situation Jason wouldn’t risk touching with a ten foot pole.
Of course Grayson, being the overeager Fix-it-Felix that he was, jumped to action.
“You feeling bad, kiddo? Getting sick?” He asked, reaching out to lay the back of his hand on the boy’s tanned forehead. “Hm, you are a little warm,” he concluded, though Damian suspected it was the angry heat climbing to his cheeks and not fever.
“Why don’t you guys head back,” Tim said. Damian winced, the older boy had sounded too eager.
Grayson frowned at the recommendation and Damian’s chest flooded with guilt. He was doing it again, screwing things up, pulling Dick away from something he had undoubtedly been looking forward to. Damian couldn’t find it in himself to deny Drake’s offer either. He didn’t believe he was getting sick, but his head was pounding and his chest was aching from sitting quietly while the others conversed, laughing and smiling.
Hearing no contradiction from his baby brother, Grayson reluctantly nodded and, after confirming that he would either send Alfred for them later or return to the establishment himself, ushered the youngest Wayne from the booth.
Damian shuffled to the car, heart painfully tight as he led Grayson from the group. As he forced his oh so selfless, older brother to do the one thing he would no doubtebly least like to do.
“I can call Pennyworth to come retrieve me,” he suggested, “So that you may stay.” His voice was so hushed it was nearly a whisper. He was surprised that Dick had heard it at all.
“No, no, it’s okay. I don’t want to make him come all the way out here,” Dick replied, unlocking his car and climbing in behind the wheel. Damian followed silently, an echo of ‘ I don’t want to make him’ ringing in his ears.
Grayson must have read too much into Damian’s silence as he quickly followed up with: “Shi-shoot that came out wrong. Sorry Dami, I’m happy to bring you. It’s not your fault that you don’t feel good, bud.”
But the apology was an afterthought, a quick fix to a hurtful truth, and it felt too empty for Damian to really accept. Especially when Grayson was trying so hard to sooth any of Damian’s worries when the boy was not even ill, not really. He didn’t have a fever or stomach ache or whatever else it was that Grayson might have been assuming. Just a migraine, a small headache really- if he distracted himself. It was nothing worth returning home for, yet there he was, ruining Dick’s evening anyway.
He deserved the guilt trip.
He was glad too, when Grayson didn’t press the matter or attempt to make small talk- probably thinking that Damian was feeling too poorly to do so. It was the quiet drive home and the quick goodbye that made Damian thankful for small mercies, even if Dick had turned back to the city to spend the rest of his last night in Gotham with his other siblings after showing only the smallest hesitation to stay home with his youngest brother. Even if the hastiness that the young man did it all with hurt the eleven year old more than the Heretic’s sword to his heart.
Still, he attempted to calm his mind and let himself into the quiet manor, neither Pennyworth nor Father visible from the path he took to get from the entry hall to his bedroom. It was good too, since it was already becoming unbearably difficult to keep his defensive barriers in place. He wasn’t sure that he could take the look on Father’s face, not then. He wasn’t even sure if he would be able to look in the mirror.
It was all so typical though, so expected. He knew that as long as he was himself no one could love him. No one would truly want to be around him.
He closed the door to his bedroom and started a shower in the ensuite, hoping to wash away whatever disease was tainting his heavy heart.
Father didn’t need him. There was no other explanation for why the man so bluntly dismissed Damian tonight. Father didn’t want him. He had said as much when he had told Damian that he was unfit to be Robin, when he told Damian he was ‘too busy’ to listen to his son’s ‘complaining’ . Damian hadn’t wanted to complain, he had only been looking for a chance to explain himself, for an opportunity to talk, but Father would never know that. Father didn’t want to know, so it made no difference.
Grayson didn’t want him, either. He had left Damian, fled back to Bludhaven as soon as he was given the chance. Damian had been burdening him, making Dick take on the unwanted responsibility of a problematic child. Even after the move, during Grayson’s far too infrequent visits to the manor, he rarely put aside time for Damian.
Mother definitely didn’t want him. She hadn’t even tried to spare the boy’s feelings when she told him he was no longer accepted in the al Ghul household. When she disowned him. That of course had implied that she had owned him before, like some defected object she had grown too tired of to want to keep.
Damian sighed, letting the water of the shower wash over him, trying once again to scrub away the sins of his past. He let his head knock harshly against the tiled wall, he was a disgrace to every family name he had tried to bear, he didn’t deserve to be spared any of the pain that the small collision had brought.
He often thought about running away, taking to the hills or the harsh climates of the Himalayas once more. But he knew all he would do is disrupt the beauty of the nature that was already there and make his Father and Grayson feel guilty for misplacing a poor, helpless child .
He fought the urge to sigh again as he shut off the tap. He didn’t want to get out of the shower and catch a glance of himself in the mirror. Damian was ugly, hideous, he truly believed that. There was no reason not to, his shoulders bore a mind that offered only disappointment. His tanned skin was littered with scars that his civilian clothing barely hid. More than once he had been questioned by concerned parents or teachers for the large white gash that cut through his brow and ran past his eye. Those who were more tight lipped said that he looked like his father, others used racial slurs. Todd kept an inventory of nicknames that insult his lack of height, a byproduct of the grueling training he had endured with the League. Drake attempted to avoid him at all costs, always quick to call him a demon during the rare times they come face to face. Damian didn’t think Tim could be more correct.
Damian had accepted his fate, though he didn’t want to live such a lonely future, even if he had come to terms with it. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t eaten more than a couple bites in days, why he couldn’t sleep and did not care to drink enough water to stop the never ending headaches. Contemplating his previous death and thinking about his upcoming one. What led to him asking himself if that would be taking the easy way out? Wondering if it would make him a coward.
Did…. did that even matter to him anymore?
Keeping a knife hidden on his person was no longer at the forefront of Damian’s mind. He knew that he could never let his guard down, that is how one gets themselves killed. It had been drilled into his brain, that if he was to stay alive that he must always be prepared. Still, he had stopped prioritizing this. It was not because he now felt safe, it was because he no longer cared.
He wondered when that happened, but doesn’t bother to question it as he resigns himself to another long and sleepless night.
-
“Wow short-stack, you look more zombie than Timmy over there,” Todd joked, gesturing with the remaining half of his bagel. Tim scowled behind his monstrous mug of coffee while Damian blinked. Surely he did not look that terrible. He hadn’t thought he looked any worse than the day before.
Father glanced up from his newspaper so quickly that Damian wasn’t sure whether or not he imagined it.
“I thought I sent you to bed early last night?” He huffed, refolding the parchment to study a different section. Damian would never understand why the man prefered the physical copy to an online version.
“We went for dinner,” Damian carefully responded. His father had surely known that. Nothing usually got by the man, especially when the event hadn’t meant to have been secretive.
“You went?” Father asked with the accusing raise of an eyebrow. Damian spluttered under the scrutinizing stare, unsure of how to defend himself.
“‘Course he did,” Todd rescued. Damian looked up, surprised at the sudden change in character. “It was ‘Wing’s last night.”
Father narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to decide whether or not he should be cross with Damian.
“You shouldn’t have gone,” Bruce said instead. Damian bit down a scoff- it had been obvious that he shouldn’t have gone the minute he agreed to accompany them. It seemed, also, that everyone else in his family agreed with that fact.
The boy swallowed his reply and squared his shoulders, nodding shortly in silent -easy- agreement. Father hadn’t even been bothered to look at the boy when speaking to him and therefore had not seen this. The man grunted, then lifted his head and looked at Damian with that same accusatory eyebrow.
“Yes, Father,” Damian choked.
“Go and get your uniform on, it’s nearly time for Alfred to bring you to school.”
Damian nodded again, slightly confused at his father’s irritable mood. The man was not usually patient with Damian, but he had seemed far more gruff than he typically acted in the morning. Perhaps it was something that Damian had done? Or something that he had said? Or maybe… maybe he actually hadn’t been meant to attend dinner the previous night, no matter how brief his participation had been.
If Todd had not seen a need to mention Damian’s appearance, then Father would have never found out. It wasn’t as if last night’s escapade had affected the boy’s sleep in the slightest, anyhow. He had still been tucked into bed far earlier than normal, and had lay awake much later. Though, he knew he could not voice that thought, not ever . He would have to let them think that was the reason he resembled the undead.
Damian had learned far too early on that good things did not stem from bad truths. Complaining got one nothing but punishment and so, he learned to keep his mouth shut. He learned to leave the kitchen and go to his room silently, head bowed and the need to inform Father that he hadn’t yet received breakfast, dying quickly on his tongue.
-
School was a drab thing, but it often provided Damian an excuse to reminisce about the times when Grayson had been his guardian, and he had been allowed to be taught by Pennyworth, in the comforts of the penthouse. (He still didn’t quite understand why Father had been so adamant about discontinuing that method, Pennyworth was far more educated than any of the lousy professors at Gotham Academy.) The students were as boring as the classes, so simple minded and judgmental.
The building itself was rather acceptable, old stone flooring in the hallways, grand arches as doorways and rich, oak detailing along the walls. There were a handful of ancient marble statues scattered around the grounds that Damian was itching to sketch, if only he had the time. The library, though, was the most prestigious of the school.
Every wall and shelf was packed tightly with old classics, covers worn from use but relatively preserved from tender care. There were large, plush reading chairs littered throughout the space, and long, wooden tables set up for doing schoolwork. In the hectic-ness of the academy, it was a quiet refuge. Damian fled there everyday, at least once but usually more. He always spent his lunch period there, often skipping his midday meal because food was not allowed inside the library’s walls. Still, that was of no meaning compared to the alternative: sitting in the dining hall or courtyard with his schoolmates- being forced to sit under their stares. He had enough of that in the classroom, he did not need anymore.
The librarian was kind enough to him as well, giving him a pleased smile anytime he asked her about a new book or had the care to discuss a classic. Damian supposed that she did not have many others to talk to either, just the same as he.
He was working his way through George Orwell, an author that his school did not deem required until the tenth grade. Damian was only in sixth, but that was merely for appearances. His Father had very rudely denied Damian’s request to skip a grade -or few- and so the boy had taken it upon himself to tackle the supposedly ‘advanced’ material alone.
The librarian, Ms. Everest (oh, how regal a name that was), had quickly gotten over her shock at the short, rather young boy requesting such a complex read. Damian had immediately taken to her. She was of average height, and thus a good bit taller than the boy himself, with brown hair and soft, chocolaty eyes. She couldn’t be older than mid-thirties and her gentleness reminded Damian of how Grayson had once been with him, which was perhaps the reason he had opened up to her so quickly.
Nearly every time he saw her he found himself eager to ask why she had wanted to become a school librarian of all the possible things, but considered that inquiry to be too personal. She smiled at him though, a genuine smile -not like the menacing ones criminals flashed at him nightly-, and he usually found his lips twitching in return.
She did the same that morning, as he pushed open the heavy library doors, grinning at him happily. This time however, Damian didn’t find himself returning the pleasantry. In fact, he was fighting a frown. How was it that she could always be so cheery? Surely it was something that she was taking with her coffee in the morning. It simply was not possibly for someone to always appear that pleased, at least not while Damian was in the room.
“Good morning, Damian,” she called after him. She assumed the boy was just going to rest his book bag on his usual chair before returning to the service desk to speak with her, as that was what he usually did. Instead, Damian walked directly past the end seat he usually occupied, continued until he cleared the long table, and ducked behind one of the tall shelves of books. He would have entirely disappeared from her view if it hadn’t been for the tiny red Converse that stuck out from beyond the bookcase.
She stood and made her way over to the boy, slightly concerned that the child may have fainted- or worse. As she reached him she saw that Damian appeared well enough, even if his uncharacteristic demeanor was a bit odd. He was leaning against the shelf, one leg drawn to his chest, his head resting on his knee. With the opposite hand, he appeared to be sketching a rather morbid image on a small paper pad.
“Are you alright?” She asked, peering down at him with concerned eyes. Though impressive, the art the boy was creating was quite… depressing.
The boy didn’t lift his head, just made a growl like sound within his throat and continued with his drawing.
“I wasn’t aware that you liked to draw,” Ms. Everest tried again. “You’re very talented.” Damian’s pencil hesitated against the paper in a short pause before he got over himself.
“It is not something that I like to waste my time with,” he admitted, curling slightly further into himself.
“Why not? I think that it's important to have ways to express yourself,” she countered, even if it was in such a gruesome manner.
“Art is not a useful skill,” Damian said, almost as if he was quoting someone. She picked up on it almost immediately.
“Who told you that?”
The boy stilled, shoulders stiffening as if he only just realized what he had said. It was too late to take it back.
“My mother,” he whispered.
Ms. Everest nodded knowingly. The Wayne’s were a family she thought was a bit too publicized. All of Gotham knew the basics of each boy's backstory, including some of Damian’s. She knew that the boy had been sent to live with his father after his mother had been deemed unfit. It was a shame really, for such a captivating child to have such horrid memories. Perhaps that was what the boy was drawing, a memory from his time with his mother.
“Well, I think that's an opinion of your mother’s,” she commented, sitting down next to the boy. She hated talking down to children. “What about you, what is your opinion of art?”
“That it calms me,” he said, finally peering up at her.
“Then it’s as useful as it needs to be,” she smiled in understanding, she felt the same way about literature. She looked again at his work, now half finished and recognizable. “Is that a dead bird?” She asked.
Damian was silent at first, hesitant to answer. Then he nodded, ducking his head once more.
-
Alfred’s car was absent from the lot. It was unusual, since the man was always so prompt when gathering his youngest charge from school. He was well aware how much the boy despised the place and was always kind enough to limit the time he spent there by perfecting drop off and pick up.
But Pennyworth was ten minutes late, and Damian was growing worried.
He tried to remember if the older man had mentioned anything about a possible delay that afternoon. Perhaps there was an appointment or some other commitment that had escaped his mind. Though ten minutes later, and still no sign of that familiar, black car, and Damian couldn’t recall anything. In fact, he was fairly positive that he and Pennyworth hadn’t shared a single word in the car that morning.
He waited on the curb, slightly chilled from the crisp spring air. Damian was sure he would have been notified if Pennyworth was late or if he needed to find another way home. He checked his phone once more and found no messages and no responses to the many voicemails he had only just left on Pennyworth’s cell. He had tried the manor too, and still, no one had picked up.
He could almost imagine various members of his family listening to the shrill ring of the landline, checking the caller ID and choosing to ignore it. Perhaps they meant to leave Damian at the school. Maybe it was a test, to see how long it took the boy to get himself home.
Nearly an hour after the final bell, he was just about to start the long walk that he was surely meant to make when a sleek, red lamborghini pulled up inches from his toes. Damian startled slightly, and squinted through the open window at the driver.
“Get in brat, I don’t have all day,” Tim said.
Damian faltered in confusion for a moment before he complied and climbed into the pleasantly warm car. The seat warmers must have been on.
“Where is Pennyworth?” He asked once he had buckled himself in and placed his bag by his feet.
“He’s on that trip with Bruce, remember?” Tim glanced at Damian with an odd expression. “The one he had to take to Germany to meet with that production manager? For the new motherboard prototype?”
Damian blinked, eyes wide.
“Did you seriously forget?” Tim asked.
“He- Father never told me.”
Damian saw a curtain of disbelief flash across his older brother's face before the younger boy turned his head to look out the window.
“Well, uh, I have to get back to W.E. for a meeting but I’ll drop you off at the manor first,” Tim informed him, albeit a little awkwardly. “Bruce asked me to stay with you this week, drive you to school and all that.”
“I don’t need supervision,” Damian spat. Did Father really consider him that incompetent? That he wasn’t even capable of looking after himself?
“Don’t bother me and I won’t hover over you,” Tim said. “Trust me, I’m not too thrilled about the arrangement myself.”
And, well, that was that wasn’t it?
-
Ms. Everest was not at school. Or work, Damian supposed. Still, he could not recall a day that year that she had been absent. She seemed so indestructible, fragile, yet sturdy in a way that almost reminded Damian of his mother.
The previous week without Father and Pennyworth was proving to be just about as lonely as Damian had been anticipating. Since Father had returned from his… escapade in the time stream and Grayson had so quickly reinstated his rightful position in Bludhaven, Pennyworth had proved to be the only human presence that Damian could regularly count on. Of course there were always his pets, a privilege that Damian was ever grateful for, but basking in their company would never be quite the same as speaking to another person- a category he found himself lacking in.
Pennyworth, however, was always willing to speak with or listen to Damian. Whether it was a feeling of obligation, because the man was technically earning a salary from Father -even if the entirety of the household held deeper feelings- or it was because the man was actually interested in hearing what the boy had to say, Damian wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If he could live the ability to convince himself that it was the latter, then he would prefer to suffer in ignorance.
With Pennyworth gone, Damian was effectively down to one optional acquaintance, Ms. Everest.
Except she wasn’t there.
And, worse, such news meant that the library was closed.
Trudging through the carefully constructed hallways of Gotham Academy, Damian squared his shoulders and prepared himself for the unfortunate events that were sure to soon unfold.
He had first encountered Jimmy Ross in history, when he had the displeasure of transferring into the same class that miscreant was already enrolled in. It was better at least, that he was allowed in at least one course intended for a higher grade, as it would be less likely for him to fall asleep from boredom. After a couple weeks of classes, however, Damian was no longer so sure that the pros outweighed the cons.
Jimmy Ross was the epiphany of the classic school yard bully. He had his posey, a select few, larger built kids that were also in his grade and he prided himself on his ability to frighten the younger students into essentially “pissing their pants”. Damian, because bad luck always came in bundles, was a younger student.
In the beginning, Ross’ teasing remarks and jabs were hardly worthy for eye contact, let alone rebuttal. They were too cliché for Damian to appreciate, things that the older boy had probably stolen from films he had caught his siblings watching. He commented on Damian’s clothes -an awfully poor attempt considering the Academy required uniforms- then his backpack, simple and stark grey, before moving onto his hair, his shoes, his skin color. Racism, however, had always been a constant in Damian’s young life, and he hardly flinched at the derogatory terms the boy threw at him.
Then Jimmy moved onto his family. He and his followers said things about Richard and Drake most often, but occasionally they would pick on Jason, commenting on the false facts they had been told about his “death” and laughing at how sad it was that the Wayne family had felt the need to fake a child’s death to earn popularity. Damian had scoffed at that, for he knew the truth and had personally thought that Father handled the announcement of Todd’s reappearance rather well.
The boys had mustered slightly more nerve the day that they began to reflect upon his relationship with his mother. Of course, all of their remarks were things that he had heard previously, from multiple accounts. ‘ She left you.’ ‘She beat you.’ ‘You deserved it.’ ‘You made her do it.’ ‘No surprise, look at you.’ Even more so, they were all things that Damian knew. All things that he agreed with.
It didn’t sting until they dug into Damian’s mentality. Until they intercepted his thoughts and broke into his once, so well guarded mind. Until they took it upon themselves to vocalize his worries.
It started with a shove to the shoulder from behind, one that had Damian turning around from the momentum.
“Sup, Wayne?” Ross spat, spittle flying and lips quirking into a twisted grin. Damian suppressed a sigh, it was exhausting, dealing with these neanderthals every time that he was unable to take refuge in the library. Sometimes he felt like he was simply entertaining them, permitting the snobs to throw away his lunch, push and shove him down the hall, and call him names. He didn’t have the energy for such frivolous activities.
“Being obnoxious once again, Ross? Can you really not find a better use of your time?”
“Oh yeah, Wayne?” “I’ve heard the rumors about you, all the horrible things you've done. The inconveniences you’ve caused everyone. At least I’m a good person,” Ross spat.
“I’m a better person than you’ll ever be,” Damian lied through his teeth. They were Grayson’s words really, his lies. They hadn’t been truthful at the time and they were even further from it now. They had only been an inane attempt to pacify Damian like some child.
“My dad said that your mom just left you on Wayne’s doorstep, no one does that to a good person. As far as I’m concerned, you’re like a new toy, people lose interest quickly, and then they stop caring. At least I wasn’t a mistake.”
“It's pathetic, really,” Damian bit back. His chest felt tight at the older boys words but he steeled himself, refusing to show it. Put up the facade you were taught to wear. “You think so little of yourself that you resort to childish insults in order to obtain even the smallest shred of self worth.”
“I have no self worth?” Jimmy laughed, looking back at one of his friends with a crooked grin. He turned back to Damian, eyes narrowed. “You, ‘ worthless Wayne’ , have the balls to say that I have no self worth?”
“You have done nothing to deserve what has been given to you therefore, worthless .”
“Oh yeah?” Jimmy Ross was fuming, fists clenched and poised to fight, face red with boiling rage. He seemed unhinged. “ You're the reason your mom dropped you. It took ten years for her to figure out that as long as you're around, she wouldn’t ever be happy. It's only a matter of time before your dad sees it too. So really, Wayne, I would say it's you who doesn't deserve anything, but it seems to me like you have nothing left to lose.”
Damian froze for a moment, shocked and unsure how to respond, after all, truth always hurts more than lies. His heart twisted, his whole body was tense. He felt the pressing need to run, or fight, or both. He knew, however, that Father would be furious if Damian was to start a brawl, and that was the last thing that the boy needed.
“And really, starting a crowd by throwing a tantrum ?” Jimmy asked, hands in the air and gesturing to the nosy onlookers that had indeed surrounded them. “Go ahead and jump off a building if you really want attention. It’s not like you’d be hurting anyone but yourself.”
And Damian didn’t have a response to that. He didn’t have it in him to deny the blatant fact.