Chapter Text
When it came to Damian Wayne, discipline alone was insufficient.
Alfred Pennyworth knew that. Him standing by the door of the principal’s office was merely an act of cultivated patience, waiting for the meeting to be over.
Another person who could not wait for the meeting to be over was Bruce Wayne. Alfred did not have to see Master Bruce’s expression to know that his patience as a parent was being tested and he had his lips pressed thin in a sign of exasperation. Bruce had tried to coax Damian for his side of the story about the brawl that had broken out during recess and instead, he had hit a major nerve. The defensive outburst had been immediate.
Hit his friends? They were NOT friends. Damian Wayne, proud son of the Bat, did not have friends. He didn’t need friends.
The look of quiet alarm on the principal’s face said it all.
A weeklong suspension with immediate effect.
Now it was a matter of simply going through the motions, apologizing on behalf of his son, signing acknowledgement forms, listening yet again to the principal’s lecture about friendship and self-reflection, before finally thanking the principal of Gotham’s finest high school for their time.
The car ride home was filled with disappointment radiating from both Waynes.
Alfred knew that something had to be done.
The next day, there was no idling allowed: no polishing of batarangs in the Cave, no sword training in the courtyard, and most definitely no stewing in hormonal sulkiness in his bedroom. Alfred brought the boy with him straight to the second branch of Dr Leslie’s Thompkins’ clinic, right in the underbelly of Gotham. Situated in a little corner of the Narrows, the clinic occupied part of the first floor of a small building. Damian scowled all the way. He vaguely recognised this part of Gotham from his patrols with Batman. The remnants of fallen grey snow from the night before could not hide the grime on the frozen, trash strewn streets nor dampen the shrill sound of sirens always in the background. In the bright light of winter, the streets looked worse. No gauze of shadows to cover the raw, wounded parts of the city.
The first surprise was learning that Dr Thompkins didn’t operate this clinic. Instead, a tall, bespectacled man in an oversized doctor’s coat greeted them at the door, brown eyes sweeping over him and Alfred.
“Mr Pennyworth.”
His breath came out in white wispy curls, like a dragon guarding its den.
“Good afternoon, Dr Hale.”
The younger man snorted lightly at the stubborn insistence of formalities with a roll of his eyes and ushered them in from the bitter cold. Alfred strode in, already knowing where to hang his coat and put his things down. Damian trailed behind, following suit.
The second surprise hit him the second he entered. Mingled with the expected smell of sharp antiseptic was a faint fragrance of florals and earthy herbs. The hanging shelves were crammed with jars of roots and dried florals, thin vials filled with unknown liquids and oils. It reminded Damian more of an apothecary than a rundown clinic. As he hung his coat up behind the reception counter, he gave the place a cursory glance. Just as small as the original clinic. The waiting room had a few plastic chairs that had clearly seen better days, the simple reception counter’s white laminate was peeling in the corners, and the door to the treatment room was a flimsy curtain that didn’t even reach the floor. The consultation room was the only room with a proper door but even then, it looked like it struggled to maintain its upright position. Still, despite the whole place giving the impression that it was contemplating committing hara-kiri and calling it a day, the clinic, Damian noted, was tidy and scrubbed clean.
In fact, the whole place was thriving.
Patients of all sorts kept coming and going, keeping the doctor and volunteers busy. Except for Damian. He had absolutely no intention of babysitting fools and invalids. Alfred’s idea of volunteer work. Apparently, the butler had been coming here every now and again for the past half year or so. Manpower was short. Even though Dr Thompkins supposedly owned the place, she was far too busy with the original clinic back at Crime Alley to do more than oversee from a distance. Damian suspected that the old lady doctor was more likely relieved that someone else was willing to step in.
This clinic was the domain of Dr Aris Hale.
Damian preferred standing by the reception like a perched hawk, arms crossed and scrutinizing Aris and his patients. But even the most stoic of predators could not resist getting sucked into the chaotic current of the bustling clinic.
A drunken man stumbled in through the front doors, blood running down half his face from a gash above his right brow. He collapsed, not only shivering from the cold but also groaning and flailing exaggeratedly in pain while spewing curses at everyone around.
While other volunteers and patients flinched or shrank away, the doctor didn’t even blink. “Hold him,” Aris ordered.
Before Alfred could protest, Damian stepped forward. His small frame didn’t deter him in the least. He forcefully pinned down the man’s arms to the floor, giving the doctor some space to examine the wound on the brow.
“Arm, above the elbow. Pin it,” Aris instructed without looking as he picked up a tray of equipment. There was no sense of urgency in the doctor’s movement, as if he trusted that Damian was more than capable of handling the drunk.
“Stop thrashing, you fool,” Damian said flatly.
The drunk scrunched up his face, lips wet and ready to spit straight at Damian in retaliation. For a tense moment, Alfred braced himself for an explosive aftermath.
In a flash, Aris reached down, hand clamping over his mouth and fingers digging into the fleshy cheeks as he jerked the man’s face towards him. “Try it,” he murmured, voice as cold as the frigid winter air outside. “And I’ll sew your mouth shut. Permanently.”
Cowed by a combination of steel in the doctor’s voice and Damian’s own brand of lethal glare, the man’s body tensed and stayed still. As if the threat never happened, Aris proceeded to clean and stitch up the gash. He didn’t even bother with anaesthetic. A very concerned Alfred could only watch as the corners of Damian’s mouth curled upwards ever so briefly. When Aris was done, he didn’t even comment on the light bruising on the man’s forearms.
“Finally, a competent aide.”
For the first time in a long while, Alfred saw a spark of something else other than anger in the young boy’s eyes.
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The second day at the clinic, Damian found himself standing awkwardly at the foot of a bed, hands curled into uncertain fists. His face was flushed with splotchy red patches of growing frustration.
Damian Wayne, the current Boy Wonder, could take down a whole group of trained killers with his bare hands.
But in the dingy clinic of The Narrows, he was undone by the stream of tears that streaked down a little girl’s flushed face. Her mother was equally helpless as well, trying to shush her to no avail.
“Stop crying already.”
Her wails grew by a hundred decibels.
Aris moved past Damian, the tails of his long coat barely brushing against the boy’s knees. Alfred noted how the doctor never pushed Damian aside or asked him to get out of the way. Instead, he silently sidestepped past the boy, careful not to bump into him as he squeezed into the narrow space between the cots. More importantly, Alfred thought, if the doctor had heard the harsh remark, he certainly didn’t rebuke the boy for it. Aris crouched low to meet the girl at her eye level and held up a sachet to the girl’s face. “Just breathe.” He spoke with such softness, it left Damian wondering if this was the same doctor from the day before. “Lavendar smells nice, doesn’t it?”
The girl hiccupped and sniffed before taking a steadier breath. Her sobs faded.
“That’s it.” Aris dabbed at the wet cheeks with one hand, the other hand gently inserting a digital thermometer into her ear while she was distracted. “You can keep the lavender. Would you like that?”
The young patient sniffled and nodded, tiny hands wrapping around the sachet like it was a precious treasure.
Alfred saw it. He saw the way Damain observed with the whole tender scene unfold with a tight jaw. He saw the scowl softening and his stiff posture relaxing by a fraction. Never once did Damian remove his gaze from the scene, as though the boy was filing away the information: the storm calmed not by command, not by force, but by a sachet of herbs and a steady voice.
The doctor wielded gentleness as deliberately as he threatened noisy drunks.
Not softness. Not weakness.
A different strategy.
A choice.
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Alfred had assumed the novelty would wear off after the first couple of days. To his surprise and faint dread, it did not. One visit became another. The whole week went by in a blur. Damian began to demand to know when the next visit will be. Alfred obliged, bringing him on some weekends. Occasional weekends grew into stolen afternoons after school. Even a couple of hours squeezed in before his nightly duties was enough to satisfy the boy.
Truthfully, Alfred was conflicted. He wanted to believe that the boy was starting to form some sense of empathy towards others, at the very least, for the patients at the clinic. But there were days when the doctor’s unconventional bedside manners and sharp tongue made him question his decision to bring the youngest Robin here. Especially when Damian joined in the intimidation. Adult patients often withered beneath Damian’s piercing stare, daunted by the authority in his tone. Damian being Damain, openly relished it. Every time Alfred braced himself for the doctor’s correction, Aris never did. He didn’t even comment. In fact, he would even request Damian to handle certain patients in the waiting room if they grew too restless, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
And strangely, it was. It was easy to fall into rhythm with the doctor. There was no sharp reprimand at the usage of harsh language, no patronizing ruffling of his hair like Dick, no cold dismissals like Tim, and no needling provocation for entertainment like Jason. Dr Aris Hale had simply accepted him with his soldier-like posture and authoritative tone, no questions asked. To be fair, it did stir suspicion in the Robin at the start because it didn’t seem like something anyone in their right mind would do. In fact, it seemed to be a habit of the doctor.
A bruised-up patient staggered into the clinic once, with one of the bruises resembling the shape of a batarang. Damian’s breath had hitched, and he struggled to contain his scowl. But the doctor? Treated it like it was insignificant. Just another scrape.
Damian, without realising it, was beginning to reciprocate the same sense of acceptance towards the doctor. Just like most patients did, even though many left the clinic with their pride wounded.
Gotham’s broken kept coming back. And so did Damian Wayne.
It was one of the slower afternoons that convinced Alfred that he had made the right choice.
A boy was wailing in the waiting room, gripping onto his sister for support. Alfred watched as Damian approached the pair and stiffly knelt before the child. “Stop crying.” The words were direct but the tone mimicked Aris’ calm cadence with kids and his voice held no anger. Damian pressed a clean cloth so lightly against the scraped knee and held it up for the boy and his sister to see. “Tch. Wasted tears. You’re fine, see? Not much blood at all.”
It was unpolished. But it was care.
There was another thing that truly cemented the sense of conviction in Alfred.
Aris would always end every tired shift with a fresh brew of tea. And Alfred was never one who would turn down a cup. Damian joined, albeit reluctantly in the beginning. Sometimes it was as simple as a sachet steeped in hot water. Those times, Damian’s judgement at the use of cheap, ready-to-use tea was written so plainly all over his face that Alfred had to hide his amusement behind his cup. Other times, when the mood struck, Aris would make homebrew teas that flooded the room with such a divine fragrance. It was like having tea in the gardens of heaven.
“You know,” Aris admitted quietly one day. “I only make this tea for friends.”
Beneath the soft, warm glow of the doctor’s room, Alfred caught the moment. Damian’s mouth twitched into the faintest of smiles.