Chapter Text
Damian al Ghul knows who his father is.
He has been told tales of him. He knows how he has defeated countless league members, trained under a plethora of the most seasoned fighters, earned the respect of the Demon's Head despite his refusal to kill. Most importantly Ibn al Xu'ffasch knows what his namesake means. He is not stupid. He is to train under then best his father. Overtake him in every way, become the Bat and seize Gotham, and then, when he is finally suitable, he shall give his own body up to his grandfather, ceasing his own autonomy but living for centuries more.
It was what he had been bred to do, he only lived for the cause. It was to be his highest honour.
His father would be arriving soon. For now the harsh neon lights of Gotham bit into his eyes from where he overlooked the city, a sour contrast to the plain walls of Nanda Parbat. The city stretched out for miles, a constant buzzing filled with clashing architecture. Undecided between the ornate romanticism of a bygone age and cluttered staples of the modern era, skyscrapers stuck out amongst neo-gothic buildings and embellished towers. A thick smog of clouds blocked any attempt for stars to break through into sight, unaided by the light pollution pouring out from the streets below.
Most civilian populated missions conducted outside of Nanda Parbat took place in clay or sandstone towns, lit by the sun in the day or at night oil-lanterns and stars. Before this there had been no founded reasons to deploy him outwith Eastern countries. Even the largest places he'd been deployed were so unalike what the cities of the West seemed to be. He'd never realised how grateful he should be for this fact until now. Gotham was unseemly. He abhorred the idea that as long as he was to train under father he was to be deprived of the night sky.
The distant noise of a car horn brought him back to his senses. A question had been playing in his head since leaving Nanda Parbat. He knows who his father is but not what his father knows. His mother had said he'd no knowledge of Damians existence, this did not answer his question.
"Mother," His voice breaks what had been hours of silence between them. His resolution nearly cracks when Talia's eyes snap to his but this is his last chance to ask and he shall not be so weak as to waste it. "Is Father to know of Dah-"
The hit resonates above the noise of the city. His head snaps to the side, eyes forced to the cracked concrete below. He can feel the blood beading where her ring has carved into his cheek and it stings under her touch but the vitriolic Arabic that so sharply rolls off her tongue right after cuts so much deeper.
"You are an only child, Ibn al Xu'ffasch."
Her nails dig into his jaw, forcing his head up to meet her eyes from under his hood. "You have always been an only child. You'd do well to remember that."
A part of him resents her for calling him the sole heir. Splinters at the idea he was born alone. Another wonders if she is right. If he can even call himself a brother anymore when his is scattered, thousands of miles away, ashes in an unmarked grave.
". . . I understand, Mother."
Her eyes pierce into his until she relinquishes her hold on his jaw and turns to the skyline past the furthest edge of the building, waiting. A thin streak of red drips down Damian's left cheek but he does not move to wipe it off even when her gaze has left him.
A flutter of a cape announces itself on the edge of the building where Talia had knowingly been looking. A large figure emerges from the slim shadow cast by the neighbouring buildings and Damian rights his position to mirror his mother in front of the man, more rigid and tense than her loose stance. Even beneath the layers of armour and cape the man is well-built as Damian would expect, his presence overbearing.
"Talia." He speaks shortly and gruff in a low tone. Almost unnerving if not for the fact Damian was a trained assassin himself.
"Beloved." She responds entirely unfazed, her voice is nearing affection.
In return his father seems completely unswayed by her blatant endearment "What are you doing in Gotham?" His head briefly turns towards Damian, taking in the short, hooded figure, then returns to Talia. "And bringing the league with you."
Talia smiles "I've brought a gift. Ibn al Xu'ffasch, forward."
At his cue Damian steps forwards, hands reaching up to drop the hood from covering his face before he meets the whites of his fathers cowl, gaze hardened. Batman's jaw subtly tightens, the only give he seems to make. "What is the meaning of this?"
"There's no need to act so coy, beloved. I'm sure you understand from his name. Our son, Bruce."
Damian does not know what his father looks like underneath his mask. The Leagues books only depicted him drawn as such, it did not matter what he looked like outside of the cape when he only fought in it. He knew he himself shared his mother's dark complexion, narrow green eyes, sharp features. He did not know how much of himself his father saw in him, but he was undeniably Talias son at the very least. As Batman's whites bore into his face Damian takes his turn to speak, "Hello, father."
He knows his accent is thick, even in the two simple words he says. His language tutor had always hated it; Damian is sure he always hated it more himself. Despite being more than proficient- fluent- in the language amongst several others, he had never been able to shake the way he rolled his r's or pronounced p's as b's. He was unlike his mother in that way. English seemed to roll of her tongue like she had never spoken anything else.
Whatever the man is looking for he seems to find it. ". . .How old?"
"I'm sure you can guess, beloved. Or have we been apart too long? By any means, it does not matter. He is to train with you for the foreseeable future. He has completed his training under the League." If his father is surprised he does not show it. However, Damian knows his accomplishments are far beyond his age. He outranks all League members based on skill alone, with the exception of his mother and grandfather of course. She turns to Damian and places a hand on his head. "You will not disappoint me, Ibn al Xu'ffasch."
Just like that her touch is gone and so is she. Damian is left alone on a rooftop with a father he has never met and a city he does not know.
For all of his training Damian cannot gauge the feelings of the man before him through the suit he wears. His jaw seems tight, his hands clenches, whether in anger or some other convolution Damian does not know and he would be a coward to let that scare him (though it does).
The seconds seem to pass as his father eyes the ledge Talia had dropped off before turning to Damian himself. Damian cannot see how beneath the cowl his eyes roam over the blood on the younger's cheek.
"I'll have to make a call."
Damian busies himself with looking out of the Batmobile windows as the car rolls on, pretending to find interest in the view of the city although all he can see from his height disadvantage is the murky sky and glimpses of treetops as they grow closer to what must be Wayne manor. He can feel his father sending unsubtle glances his way in the passenger seat before starting a call with who Damian can only assume is a servant.
"Alfred, I need you to prepare an extra room tonight. We'll be having company."
"Another one, Master Bruce? Pardon my boldness but do I get to know anything about this esteemed guest?" A crisp, English voice sounds over the intercom in the centre of the dashboard.
"Mm," His father seems to almost grumble. "No more than I do. He's on the younger side. ETA five minutes, sorry for the late notice. We'll talk more soon, I can't be certain we're alone yet."
He's likely referring to the League, or his mother. Damian trusts that they are alone, she will be long gone by now. Still, he finds himself almost wishing to curl up into the seat. His father seems much more unprepared for him than he'd imagined and it seems the man is much less fond of her than the League had expressed. Damian is not eager to find out how far this dislike extends.
The servant, Alfred, lets out a resigned sigh. "As you wish, Master Bruce. I will be letting the others know."
Before Bruce can open his mouth to reply the line clicks off and he lets out a near-huff instead. The rest of the ride is quiet, only the sounds of the tires and steady hum of the screens fills the vehicle. Eventually the open sky turns to jagged stone from Damian's perspective as their destination nears before they come to a stop and the doors hiss open. He pushes himself over the threshold of the vehicle (the Batmobile is too unbecoming a title) to stand in a large cave.
It would be much more akin to the hallways of Nanda Parbat he is used to if not for the glowing screens and complex tech that seems to line every wall of the open space. Grandfather had always upheld traditional views regarding devotion to the cause. As such the League had never needed such extremities. Garbs were handwoven, swords forged by practiced crafters, distances were strictly covered by foot or steed when necessary. There was no need for superfluous modernities when the League could accomplish everything necessary without. Damian was certain that his mother, perhaps his grandfather too, must have some access to technology despite this. After-all, he had been genetically cultivated to ensure an optimised genetic code (and if one failed, there was a spare). Still, he and the majority of the League had never been privy to it so he assumed that he need not consider the matter of technology further than the bare minimum which he knew.
This all was to say, he knew very little of the matter, and was beginning to question the redundancy of modern advancements in the face of what seems to be his fathers abundance of the stuff. In spite of the natural ceilings of the cave, a plethora of equipment and machinery surrounded them. Even the floor seemed unnaturally slick and metallic. He had acknowledged the similar state of the vehicle earlier but not quite expected the degree to which Batman must operate by modern means. Means he was totally unfamiliar with himself. This may be hindering if he was to earn the respect of his father, but that was why he was here, to train.
During his musings Batman had come around to the car to Damian's side, pressing a large hand to Damian's small shoulder, intending to be comforting. Damian barely acquiesced to it. An older man greeted them, dressed primly in a well-tailored suit. He exuded an air of properness and held himself well for a servant. Damian assumed this to be the Alfred that his father had spoken to.
"Welcome back, Master Bruce. Not to permit an oversight but I did assume that Master Timothy may be the last of them? A bit of forewarning would go a long way."
"Alfred, meet Ibn al Xu'ffasch. According to Talia. . . we will require some testing."
At his words Alfred's eyes widened in defiance of his unflappable demeanour. Annoyingly, a silent conversation seemed to pass between the two men that Damian couldn't quite understand. "I see. Very well Sir, I shall see to the boy. In the meantime may I suggest that you take a moment to update your wards on the... circumstances? Master Dick was rather unsatisfied with the lack of details."
Bruce nearly deflated at the words. He could never be thankful enough for Alfred, especially now. The boy beneath his shoulder was tiny, perhaps younger than even Dick when he first came to the manor. Yet he held himself up like the trained fighter which Bruce had no doubt he was. The resurgence of League activity in Gotham had been unexpected, even less the appearance of what may be his son. Clearly Talia had planned the insurgence of activity to gain his attention on purpose. He wasn't sure what to say to Dick however, Much less Tim and- Jason. His relationship with the older two had only gotten off the rocks more recently, though things were looking up (dare he say, good) and they were much more willing to be in his presence he wasn't sure how to introduce another child so soon. Much less with how little he actually knew of the boy who'd only spoken two words since their meeting. He released his light hold on Damian's shoulder.
"Thank you, Alfred."
Alfred placed a guiding hand between Damian's shoulder blades and led him forward into the medical area as Bruce exited beyond sight. His voice had near imperceptibly become more gentle than his satirical tone with Bruce. "With me, young Master. We'll get you sorted out, and perhaps that cheek cleaned up whilst we're at it."
Damian took a seat on a low medical cot. He imagined DNA work was par for the course, he had not expected his father to be so trusting of Talia's word that he would not take precautions. It would frankly be stupid not to. He however had not expected his cut cheek nor the purpling bruise under it to bear any significance in the situation, it was far from urgent and the trail of blood had already dried on his face. "It is hardly a graze. The testing is more pertinent."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "In due time, I assure you. Relatively small it may be- I imagine it would quite uncomfortable left like that, and it's best to keep these things clean in spite of their size."
He soaked a cotton ball and began dabbing the younger boys face. Undisturbed by the stoic look Damian insisted on maintaining. A small plaster was placed over the cut which had reopened after the dry blood was removed and the man swiftly moved onto taking various DNA swabs. He speaks as he works; "I am familiar with the Leagues focus on titles, and although my understanding of the Arabic language may be minimal, I do hope you have a name less. . . impersonal, than your introduction."
Damian had many titles. It was understandable that this man would request them in order to address him properly. His father seemed to hold the man in high regard as he went unpunished for his earlier insubordinate speech so Damian was inclined to believe he was worthy of asking such a question. He could have been wrong in naming him a servant so quickly. "Ibn al Xu'ffasch is my primary name. Previously Damian al Ghul."
Damian al Ghul had been his original birth name. Until he had more recently earned his 'true' name, then it had been wholly relinquished by the League.
"I see." The edge of Alfred's lips twitched down ever so slightly at the mention of his renaming. "Very well then, Master Damian. The results shall only take a short while to come back, by then I am sure Master bruce will have returned."
Whilst it would be childish to admit, Damian was pleased to hear the name leave the mans mouth. He never had been all that fond of his new title (he loathed it viciously) and it had been grating to hear endlessly from the League who revered it as a sign of his prosperity. It had been months since he'd heard his original name much less dared to even think it. If Alfred, who must be fathers advisor, approved it then it was more likely Father would wish to call him the same.
Minutes later as the man finished clearing the area of supplies footsteps sound from their left and Bruce comes into view. He's not wearing the suit anymore, instead casual athletic wear composed of loose joggers and a slightly more form-fitting kevlar top. Even without the suit his build is large, pure muscle and height. His pale jaw is chiselled and the beginnings of smile marks crinkle the edges of his eyes and mouth. His eyes are blue, unlike Damian's. He still holds himself well, though Damian notes he seems almost disappointingly softened without the suit, less tense by any means.
"How did it go?" Alfred asks.
"Only marginally better than expected. Dick is planning to come up from Bludhaven, I barely managed to convince him to do it tomorrow instead. Tim will already be getting home at some point too. No reply from Jason, of course." The man rubs a hand through his hair, then blanches before he looks over at Damian. He smothers a smile at the Batman themed plaster on the boys cheek, they'd been a gag gift (from Dick of course). If Damian believed in the man supposed to be his father any less, he'd say he'd forgotten he was there. "It's good to see you're patched up."
Damian holds his tongue but levels a glare at the man. He is not so weak as to crumble under a mere scrape, one he had more than deserved in the first place. His father ought to understand that more than anyone.
"Unlike some when it comes to medical treatment, Master Damian was a wonderful patient. I suppose that is too much to ask for from his father too." Alfred said dryly. Over his shoulder Bruce peered at the '99.9% match' now displayed on the screen. Bruce had expected it, this was just confirmation. Everything lined up with what Talia had said, the timelines, his appearance. He also picked up on Alfred's choice of name with some relief. He had feared forcing a new name on the boy but Ibn al Xu'ffasch was no name for a child, it was a cruel label.
"Unless there's an overnight bag hidden in the Batmobile-" Alfred takes in Damians plain League garb, then the katana and wakizashi sheathed on his back. Damian stares back, unappreciative of the way they both seem to try and assess him every chance they get. "-which I somehow doubt, I shall pull out some of Dick's old clothes for the moment. I'm sure we have some in storage upstairs still."
"Thank you, Alfred." Bruce smiles wearily at him. It's nearing two in the morning now and the past hour has been more exhausting than the patrol before it.
"Not a problem, Master Bruce. I expect you can get the young man settled in yourself anyways. The next room in the family wing is prepared, of course."
When Alfred leaves Damian stands from the cot expectantly in front of his father.
"You can leave your swords down here in the weapons locker, we avoid taking weapons into the manor."
"No." Damian refutes. His swords stay together. With him, on him. He was not going to leave them where anyone could take them, they were far more important than any housing.
Bruce narrows his eyes and looked down at the boy whose defiance was clear on his face. Eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. As much as Bruce would prefer the weapons be left where they cannot be easily discovered or used, this was clearly not a fight he was going to win. He'd dealt with tearful children before (Dick, notably, having previously been the youngest in his care) and whilst he doubted a child raised in the League would be typical, he wasn't yet wanting to risk what that quite meant. "Tonight. That is it, tomorrow, they stay here. You don't need them upstairs."
That was a foolish rule, one Damian was certainly not going to be following when the time came. Even if the swords had not held. . . emotional significance, he should not allow himself to be caught unarmed at any point. He was more than capable of hand-to-hand combat but swords were a significant disarming tool against guns and the like. For example, guns could not be shot and knives could not be thrown when the hand was cut off. Father may be willing to sacrifice an ounce of extra protection in his own home but Damian would be ignorant to do the same. He cannot trust that Father, or his servants, won't wish to test him simply because he is upstairs. The League had taught him that lesson well.
"I understand, Father."
The manor Father leads him through is lavish in a way dissimilar to the league. The centre of the dark oak floors are plushly carpeted and tall, slim, arched windows line every wall looking down upon vast gardens or cityscapes depending on the side. The insides are gothically embellished with high archways between each hall and doorway. Warm light is cast upon golden ornaments by crystal chandeliers and standing lamps. It is expansive and every inch so tastefully decorated that even Damian's approval is more than met.
The large room he is shown to is much the same despite sparse personalisation and is nothing like his last place of sleep. At the centre a large canopy bed sits between two windows. On it a pile of folded clothes lay, likely set there by Alfred preemptively.
"I'll let you get settled in, we have a lot to discuss in the morning. Alfred will come by to retrieve you for breakfast, until then my room is two doors down if you need anything. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?." Bruce stands by the door, waiting for a reply or confirmation but Damian is silent, too focused on the room. "okay. . . goodnight, Damian."
The door shuts softly behind him and Bruce immediately runs a hand down his face in breathlessness. He didn't even know where to start tomorrow.
Damian edged towards the bed and ran a hand over the clothes, a moderately too-big, aged, navy button up and matching trousers with white piped detailing. He changed quickly, gently removing his swords and placing them on the bed whilst doing so. He'd been wearing the same League garb since leaving Nanda Parbat and it was refreshing to change. A door attached to the room led to an ensuite where he took the opportunity to freshen up, for the first time able to see the batman-themed plaster in the mirror. Bright yellow, dark blue and black all together, a small cartoony figure in the centre with two long ears spiking up. It was entirely uneccessary. Such a small wound had no need for medical attention, never mind a brightly-coloured dressing to highlight his weakness. He did not see what all the fuss was about. In their life of work Father and his, confidant, shall have seen far worse. Maybe it was a brand of shame?
He huffed but did not remove the plaster. He would indulge their eccentricities for now (he'd never had a dressing so bright it had not bled-through with red before), until he understood his father's rules. The bed was needlessly high-up when he climbed into it. His own katana he placed out of sight underneath the bed. His brothers wakizashi he kept sheathed and lay with under the covers.
The bed was too soft, the duvet too thick, he felt tiny in it all, arms wrapped tight around the scabbard. He didn't want to be here. In a city with too many lights and no stars, with a man he hardly knows, without his brother by his side. Water wells up in his eyes and he feels the hot liquid streak down from his eyes onto the too-soft pillow too. Sobs wrack his small body. He wonders if Dahir would like it here. He was always more fanciful than Damian had been. All Damian had ever been was guilty. He has no right to complain about not knowing his father or too many lights or that he cannot see the stars when his brother cannot see anything at all. Dahir will never see the stars. Dahir will never see the buzzing lights. Dahir will never meet their father. Mother has made it very clear that Dahir is not even to be mentioned here, or again at all.
Damian al Ghul is an only child and his heart burns,
but only because the scabbard is digging in.