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When I make my flight, I'm the devil
But when I stay the night, then we drink
And we stay up and fight 'bout the childhood lie
That we both had the courage to leave
willing and able by noah kahan
The costume doesn’t fit.
Damian Wayne al Ghul, Son of the Bat, Demon Prince, is Robin, the Boy Wonder, Batman’s partner. Or, he will be, once the costume fits. Damian hadn’t been sure what he wanted his suit to look like. The traffic light colors are tradition, but he figures he would feel too bright against Gotham’s shadows. Maybe after some time with the mantle, he’ll feel differently, less raw, less exposed. Eventually, he settles on a dark grey tunic with Robin red accents on the gloves, bracers, logo, and black hood. The pouches on the utility belt are yellow to match the underside of the cape, which is shorter, falling just above his ankles. A sheath for his dual katanas is built into the back of the tunic.
It’s different from Tim’s Robin suit, which leaned heavily on the red and yellow. It differs even further from Jason’s Robin suit, which was red and green with only splashes of yellow. It barely resembles Dick’s Robin suit and something about that simultaneously worries and calms Damian. The further he looks from the original, the less pressure there is, or at least, that’s what he’s been attempting to delude himself into thinking. The tunic style reminds him of his roots, of Talia teaching him to fight, of Jason’s back against his. The darker tone reminds him of where he’s comfortable, the shadows, somewhere between right and wrong. The yellow cape, a safe place for victims to hide, is recognizable even to non-Gothamites. Robin always has a yellow cape and it’s always warm, always protected. It looks exactly like Damian’s designs. But it doesn’t fit.
Alfred is an incredible tailor with years of experience in vigilante costumes and pre-teen perfectionism, so technically, the costume is suited for Damian’s exact measurements. He stands in his room in front of the mirror with a frown anyway.
It doesn’t feel right. He’s been nitpicking it for an hour now, trying to find the problem. Maybe it’s the sheath? Damian draws his katanas, watching carefully as the cape rolls back over his shoulders to ensure it doesn’t hinder his movement. The cape is newer to him, an unfamiliar variable, but he wouldn’t be Robin without it. His blades slice through the air unimpeded, the movements smooth and unobstructed. So not that then. He sheaths his swords, flexing his fingers. Perhaps it’s the gloves and bracers? Damian presses a button built into his glove, watching as the retractable blades on the bracers pop out, stiff and unrelenting. Originally, he had asked for them to be permanent, a nod to Batman, but he removed them with his first round of notes. They were nice for disarming an opponent, but not for his more fluid sword fighting style. The blades release with another press of the button and he sighs. Something still isn’t right.
There’s a knock on his bedroom door and for a moment, he freezes. Alfred has a strict no gear in the manor policy, enforced after a few nosy gala guests stumbled into one Dick Grayson’s room during a party and found a strangely realistic Robin costume on the ground. They played it off like Dick was a fan, that money really could buy everything, but since then, the manor became a cape free zone. Damian is blatantly ignoring that rule. Damian is no longer new at the manor, but he doesn’t make a habit of breaking Alfred’s rules. He knows he will not be hurt, that both Alfred and Bruce refuse to hit children, but the League was a bloodthirsty place and his teachers were strict enforcers.
“Damian? It’s Duke. Can I come in?”
Damian’s shoulders fall from where they had risen, stomach calming. Duke Thomas is a relatively new addition to the team, brought in just before Bruce was shot back in time. Jason found him helping a grassroots movement in the depths of Gotham, We Are Robin, and once witnessing his powers, brought him to the manor. Jason and Duke are closer than Damian is with the older boy, bonding over shared trauma from the Joker, who’s past attack put Duke’s parents in comas, leaving the boy orphaned and on the street. Damian can admit it to himself, now that the name is his, that he hadn’t reacted well when Duke was named Robin in Drake’s absence. He knows that the boy much prefers being Signal, that he hadn’t wanted the mantle in the first place, but still.
“Come in,” Damian allows, forcing himself to stop fidgeting and stand tall. Duke pushes the door open gently, poking his head in before walking in all the way. It’s an odd trait Damian’s noticed, one probably born from his time on the street. Canvas before going in. He’s dressed down, sweats and a tshirt, probably just coming off of patrol, and his eyes go wide as he registers what Damian is wearing.
“Damn kid,” he whistles, shutting the door behind him by leaning on it. Damian frowns, at the nickname and the treatment of his door, and Duke stands back up with a nod. “Is that the new suit?”
“Obviously,” Damian snarks, looking back into the mirror. It’s full length, leaned right against the door to his closet, all gilded edges and old glass. Damian feels out of place in it, the grittiness of his suit a stark contrast to the rest of the comforts of his bedroom. His combat boots sink into the plush patterned rugs. Extra blades sit on his emerald green bed sheets, ready to be sheathed within his new utility belt and other hidden holsters in his costume. Robin and Damian, weapon and human, death and life colliding already. If he wasn’t so used to the warring sides, he thinks it might make him nervous.
Duke moves to the bed, looking over the collection and then back at Damian. Damian’s neck prickles with the boy standing behind him, but he simply keeps an eye on him in the mirror, ignoring it. The people in this manor are not out to get him, even if he sometimes has to remind himself of that. Duke is two years his senior, taller than him by a few measly inches, but not stronger than him.
“You’re gonna hide all of these in there?” he questions, moving to touch one of the knives. Damian pins him with a glare in the mirror and he pulls his hand away, placing them behind his back easily. Damian respects the way Duke is never cowed, the way he simply rolls with Damian’s punches, disengages from his jabs. For all that he tries to bait the older boy, it almost never works. There are pranks and teasing and comments handed back, but he never yells or rages or gets physical. Their relationship is almost normal, as normal as part siblings, part coworkers can be.
“That’s the plan. Once it’s done, that is.”
Duke tilts his head, eyes appraising. “What do you mean, once it’s done? It looks pretty good to me.”
The sharp words are waiting on Damian’s tongue, a comment about shopping for suits not being the same thing as shopping for highlighters, not that the older boy would know the difference, but he bites them back. Duke was Robin. Duke still is a Robin, at least to Damian. The We Are Robin movement was stupid, foolish, and impulsive, but it was brave. Kids wanting to make a difference the same way Dick did. The same way Jason did. Even though they are without the gadgets, the armor, the safety net Batman provides, they go out everyday and try to help people. That doesn’t stop even with a new name and new powers.
“Something still isn’t right,” Damian mutters, but doesn’t elaborate further. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He can speak multiple languages fluently but he can’t describe the way his heart rate won’t settle while he’s wearing it, the way his palms haven’t stopped sweating since he donned the gloves.
Duke takes a step closer, positioning himself over Damian’s right shoulder. It makes Damian’s skin crawl, to have someone at his back, to have his neck exposed, but he fights it. Somedays, he wakes up and he feels so, so achingly close to ordinary. He’ll wake with the sunrise, complete his prayers, and go to school. He won’t flinch at every stranger that comes near him in the hallways or any missed answer in class. Other days, it’s a constant battle. He’ll wake in the night, aware of every noise and movement in the manor. He’ll dodge his father’s touch, snap at Drake’s teasing, itch to draw his knife and slink through the crowded cafeteria. Today has been a fighting day. He’s kept to his room since coming home from school in an attempt to contain it, to remind himself that there are no enemies here, that he is safe.
“It feels like it doesn’t fit,” Duke surmises. Damian doesn’t try to hide the shock that slips onto his face. Maybe he is being obvious about it. Duke has never been able to read him so well. “Don’t worry, no one else would know. It looks great, perfect even. It looks right. But, it feels like it doesn’t fit. It feels too small, or too tight, or not tight enough, right? It feels wrong.”
Damian nods. He hates admitting it. If it feels wrong, maybe he is not ready for the mantle. If it feels wrong and even Duke can tell, maybe this is a bad idea. Perhaps Drake was wrong about this. About him.
Duke gives him a sad sort of smile. “I think it feels like that to all of us. The boots are some big shoes to fill. It’s okay to be nervous.”
Damian clicks his tongue, frowning. “An unnecessary metaphor, really. But,” he hesitates. Duke nods encouragingly and Damian forges ahead. “What if they don’t fit?”
“What did Tim say?” When Damian doesn’t respond, Duke hums. “He hasn’t seen it yet, has he? Well, you should talk to him. The only one who can decide if you’re ready is you, Damian. But Tim wouldn’t have given it to you if he thought you’d fail. He gave it to you so you could fly.”
Duke moves back to the door, but Damian clears his unexpectedly aching throat, stopping him. “Thank you, Thomas. Your insight is appreciated.”
Duke smiles brightly at him, a small laugh escaping. “Watch it, or I’ll start to think you actually do care. Alfred wanted to let you know dinner is almost ready.”
Damian nods, not trusting his voice, and Duke slips out the same way he slipped in, slowly then all at once. He unsheathes his katanas once again, watching the way they glint in the setting sunlight. It’s such an odd image, a Robin with swords. They’re the most lethal weapon a Robin has carried so far. Damian drops them on the bed like they’ve burned him, swallowing down the bile in his throat.
“I do,” he whispers to the empty room. A promise. A reminder to himself. He has feelings. He is not a heartless monster. “I do care.”
Dick is the next one to see it, though he doesn’t mean for it to happen.
Father knows the suit is finished, Alfred having relayed the information immediately, but has yet to mention it to Damian. He thinks that maybe Father can tell he is unsure still, or maybe Father himself is unsure. Regardless, Damian is grateful for the extra time, instead choosing to train in it until he can forget Thomas’s words. The boots fit. He just needs to prove it.
“Woah, Dames! When were you gonna show me this little number?” Dick shouts, breaking Damian’s concentration. Damian shows what he considers an impressive amount of restraint, merely tossing a shuriken in Dick’s direction before continuing with the training exercise. There’s a startled yelp from Dick’s corner of the Batcave, which Damian ignores pointedly, slashing his katanas through two holographic enemies, running, leaping and flipping over the last one, stabbing it into a pile of pixels.
He stays in his crouch, shifting his weight, testing the feel. His gloves help him grip his sword hilts well. The cape moves even with his katana sheath. The boots support his ankles, though they’re heavier than he is used to, throwing off some of his more acrobatic moves. He can work on that. He can fix that.
His shuriken slices through the air and he catches it indifferently. Dick pouts as he walks closer, pointing to the nick on his ear. “What was this for? I was being nice.”
“A warning,” Damian says, allowing a slight smile. “Not to interrupt someone with multiple swords.”
Dick rolls his eyes, moving in to attempt to ruffle Damian’s hair. Damian sidesteps him, brandishing the shuriken again. His oldest brother is in civilian clothes, a faded Superman t-shirt with a leather jacket and jeans that have seen better days. There are bags under his eyes and a slight furrow between his brows, but other than that, he seems okay. Something in Damian relaxes slightly. Dick has been off-world for the past few days, working with the Justice League as some sort of negotiator for something. Damian doesn’t like it when his family decides to abscond to space, a place Damian might not be able to get to if they needed help.
“I didn’t know Robin uses swords now,” Dick remarks. The small warm thing in Damian’s chest shrivels again, growing cold at the original Robin’s statement. Tim’s the first Robin that really uses a designated weapon, and while deadly, his bo staff is not as visibly lethal. Damian should have chosen something else, something safer.
“I will not kill anyone,” Damian snaps, harsher than he means to. Dick’s small smile falls, eyes flickering over Damian, trying to read him, trying to understand him. Damian stands tall, jaw clenched shut tightly, chin up. If Dick does not trust him to understand when to use lethal force, it is his problem, not Damian’s, he tries to tell himself. He has done what he can to earn his older brother’s faith.
“I know, Dames. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Damian simply nods, hiding the relief that washes over him. He isn’t used to this aspect of family, the worrying so much about their faith in him. Yes, he had to fight and claw and kill for it in the League, from his Grandfather, from the court, but not from Talia. Not from Jason. It was a given that they would follow him. That they would trust him. He feels wrong footed sometimes with Dick and Drake and Father, constantly questioning himself, trying to see himself through their eyes. He isn’t sure he likes the person who looks back.
“I like the suit,” Dick restarts, shoving his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “It’s very you.”
What does that mean, Damian wonders. Is that okay? Can he make Robin his own, the way Drake did?And if what he is is too brutal, too aggressive, too different? Is who he is not enough? “I could say the same about your outfit, though the first statement would be incorrect.”
“Come on, who doesn’t like Superman?”
Damian raises a brow, hiding behind the banter and the sarcasm. This he is good at. This is a language he is fluent in. “Isn’t it embarrassing to grovel?”
“Grovel?” Dick gasps, affronted. “I am not groveling! You kids wouldn’t know style if it slapped you in the face!”
“I would prefer to be slapped then look at your outfit any longer,” Damian drawls, projecting boredom as much as he can. His heart is doing something funny, tripping and stumbling every time he catches Dick’s eyes lingering on the suit. He wants his brother to ignore it, to not look.
Damian watches as Dick opens his mouth to respond, takes a deep breath to keep ranting about style and Superman and youths, and then pauses. He looks at Damian, the humor fading from his stance, something serious taking place. “You’re trying to distract me.”
Damian says nothing. A flat out denial would be too obvious, further stalling too much of an agreement. He says nothing instead, waiting Dick out.
“I’m serious, Damian. I like the suit. I think you’ll make an amazing Robin,” Dick says, watching Damian carefully.
Damian registers the words. He takes a deep breath in, waiting for the knot in his chest to loosen, waiting for the relief that came from Thomas’s decree that he would do well with the mantle. It doesn’t come. Instead, Damian feels the pit in his stomach open wider.
“It is my birthright,” Damian parrots, because it’s probably what Dick expects him to say and he’s too busy attempting to parse out what went wrong here to continue their little game. He had felt better after Thomas told him how he felt about Robin, but worse after Dick’s assessment. Both had been kind. Both had faith in him. So why did the suit still feel wrong? Why did the boots still not fit?
Dick watches him carefully before sending him another small smile. Damian isn’t sure he’s convinced the eldest of anything, though he’s unsure of what Dick was looking for. Dick begins to head towards the elevator, ruffling his hair as he passes. Damian allows it, seeking comfort in the small touch. “I have to go debrief with Bruce. Don’t have too much fun down here.”
The elevator doors woosh shut behind him and Damian curls in on himself a tad. The cave is cold, the chill seeping in through his cape and tunic until he wants to shuck it all off and curl under his blanket, hidden from the world. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe he is not ready.
When he wakes up in the middle of the night with a chill tripping down his spine, he’s stumbling out of bed before he can really consider it. He knows what this feeling means. Something is wrong with Jason.
It’s second nature to race downstairs to the cave, to avoid the security system on the stairs and the doorway and the clock itself. Once he’s in the elevator, he hesitates. Normally, he would grab his League uniform and one of Drake’s bikes, so that if Father got an alert, it would simply seem like the older boy heading out. But, something doesn’t feel right about that costume anymore. It hasn’t in a long time.
Damian tries to not let himself overthink it. He grabs the new Robin uniform and goes to help his brother.
In the end, nothing is wrong. Damian lands on his older brother’s fire escape to find the brother in question sprawled on the couch. The only tell is that he doesn’t get up to let Damian in, instead knocking twice in the air, their signal to move forward. Damian pulls his lockpicks out of his utility belt and breaks in, sliding the window closed behind him.
“Akhi,” he greets, moving towards the couch. Jason lolls his head to the side on his pillow. There are deep bags under his eyes, which are swollen, and he’s buried under a blanket producing enough heat Damian can feel it from feet away. There’s a brace on the one exposed wrist Damian can see, rings secured at the base of each finger. “Why did you not call me if you were in this much pain?”
Jason manages to crook a smile, though it’s fleeting. Damian hates seeing his normally strong and unbreakable brother like this, beaten down, broken. “The suit looks good, 'amiri. Tayiri alsaghiri, huna liunqidh almawqifu.” (My little Robin, here to save the day.)
Damian can feel a blush spreading across his cheeks and he clears his throat, moving to cover Jason’s arm back up. There’s a cup of water sitting abandoned on the coffee table and Damian grabs it, helping Jason take a few sips. “Thank you, akhi.”
“How does it feel?”
Damian lets himself sit with the question, moving to the kitchen to refill the glass with fresh water. Once he took to the rooftops, leaving the bike behind to traverse the final few blocks overhead, he had forgotten about the new suit. The usual discomfort had faded to the background, unimportant to the rush of wind and the chill of the night air, the fear that his older brother needed help.
“Heavy,” Damian finally responds, maneuvering around Jason’s apartment easily. The lighting is dim, though he doesn’t need it to know where everything is. He places the new glass down and heads into Jason’s bedroom, finding the pain medicine in his nightstand and bringing the pack of candy next to it with him.
Jason doesn’t like to take pills on their own. Maybe it reminds him of Catherine, maybe it reminds him of some other trauma Damian isn’t privy to, or maybe he just doesn’t like taking medicine. Whatever the reason, he keeps a bag of sweets next to every bottle of medicine he owns. This time, it’s M&M’s, and Damian snags a few for himself after handing some over to his brother.
Jason nods knowingly, knocking the pills back with a disgusted face. “It always feels like that at the start.”
Damian doesn’t want to bother his brother. He’s in pain, bad enough that it triggered the bond between them, bad enough that the magic thought he was in trouble. But, this is the most that Jason has talked about Robin with Damian in a while. He’s so curious to know what it was like for the older boy. “When does it get lighter?”
A sad smile plays over Jason’s lips. “It doesn’t. It just gets easier to carry. You’ll do a good job. You’re a good kid. Just remember you don’t always have to lift it alone, okay Rob?”
Damian’s breath catches a little at the nickname. Such a small thing, but something he’s always wanted. Jason’s the main one to use it and usually it’s aimed at Tim, but still, it settles something in Damian to hear it. He is Robin now. And his older brother thinks he’ll be a good one. “Okay.”
Jason escapes the blanket again to grasp his wrist. His grip isn’t tight, simply warm and comforting. “Promise me. Being Robin doesn’t mean saving the world by yourself. Being Robin means saving who you can when you can. Even if some days the only one you can help is yourself.”
Damian feels tears in the back of his throat. It catches him off guard, the way Jason can read him down to his very soul, the knowing lilt to his voice. All of it, the anger at what he’s been through, the stress of fighting what he’s been taught, the pain of what he’s done, crashes over him. He slips his hand into Jason’s and holds on tight like he’s the only anchor near him. Jason doesn’t flinch, even though Damian has to be hurting him. “I swear it. I will be careful. I will be good.”
Jason taps out a rhythm on Damian’s knuckles. Morse Code, repetitive, steady. S-O-A-R. “You will be great. You’re more than your past. You’re more than what they taught you. Show them who you are, Damian.”
Faith. Magic. Hope. That’s what Jason’s Robin was made of. And now, Jason has all of that in Damian. Trust that he’ll do the right thing, faith that he’ll do his best. Hope that he’ll save people, that he’ll help who he can without killing himself or others in the process. Unabashed, undisguised faith. It’s a heady thing, Damian realizes, to receive a legacy with no caveats or exceptions. Robin is Damian’s now, whatever he wants to make of it. However he deigns to move forward.
“What if I don’t know who I am?” Damian asks, voice quiet.
Jason is on the cusp of sleep, his pain easing thanks to the meds and his little brother’s presence. The bond between them smooths out, the danger passing as the prince kneels beside his guard. “Nobody does, not really. Everyone reinvents themselves every day. Trust yourself, Rob. The rest of us already do.”
Damian spends the rest of the night by his brother’s side, painstakingly adjusting the blankets and ensuring his comfort. When the sun begins to rise, he slips back out the window, racing over the rooftops in his new suit. A young boy just beginning to wake up catches sight of him, stumbling to his window to jump up and down and wave. It almost takes him out at the knees, the joy on the child’s face, the trust in the action. Swords, yellow cape and all, the new Robin has finally been spotted. And Gotham has accepted him as one of her own.
There’s only one more person who needs to.
Damian isn’t supposed to be there.
It’s a school night and he was supposed to be asleep three hours ago. Instead, he’s slinking along a catwalk in an old warehouse by the harbor because Tim Drake and several other teenagers have been kidnapped.
Something had kept him awake, tossing and turning until he finally got up and went downstairs, donning his suit. The feeling of the pavement speeding under him as his bike ate up the distance between Bristol and Gotham, the exhilaration and freedom of being Robin. Maybe something had been trying to warn him. Maybe not. All he knows is that he got to the city just in time to see Tim being escorted out of Drake Industries via gunpoint and loaded into the back of a van.
His brother might be running an undercover operation. There might be a sting happening that Damian has been left out of. He isn’t sure. He can’t tell. What he does know is there are five civilians tied up next to Tim and Robin can’t stand for that. What he does know is the old Robin is down there possibly weaponless and the new one technically doesn’t exist yet because he hasn’t told his father, but he’s about to do this regardless.
Oh well. Being Robin was fun while it lasted.
There’s ten guards. They all have weapons, variations of different guns and knives and other blunt objects. There’s no calling card, no theme, no villain monologue happening. Damian watches Tim watch the guards pace and sit in silence and threateningly clean their guns.
He has a semblance of a plan. Ten guards isn’t really that many. Damian can dispatch at least half of them from his current position on the catwalk as long as he’s smart about his aim with his taser gun. He’s worried about the hostages, about the thugs deciding to not shoot at him and shoot at the sitting ducks instead. He should call Batman.
He doesn’t.
He pulls up his wrist computer and hacks into the power grid instead. When he’s located the warehouse on the grid and gotten control of the systems, he takes a deep breath. He primes the night vision setting on his domino lenses, pulls out his taser gun, and plunges the warehouse into darkness.
Three of the guards go down immediately, tasers buzzing in the side of their necks. Damian is vaulting off the catwalk a moment later, landing lightly in the middle of the warehouse to taze another two thugs. Once his taser gun is out, he pulls out two shurikens, burying them in the dominant hands of two other guards. Seven down, three to go.
The final few don’t stand a chance, Damian’s katanas making quick work of their weapons and his martial arts taking care of their ability to stand. He’s a little more brutal than he needs to be, but these fools did kidnap his brother, so who can blame him.
When the final one falls, Damian takes a moment, basking in the thrum of the fight. He can see the hostages, though they can’t see him in the dark, and he realizes in an instant that this is the last time he will be just Damian to the old Robin. Once he turns the lights back on, once they make eye contact, he will be Robin. To Gotham City. To Tim Drake. To himself. He considers running. He considers turning the lights back on and fleeing before Tim can see him, before he can realize what happened.
He doesn’t. He steels himself. He reminds himself that he is Damian Wayne al-Ghul, the Boy Wonder, the Son of the Bat. He is the heir to the League of Assassins and the partner to Batman, or at least he will be once Batman knows that Robin is ready. He restores the power.
The hostages flinch with the sudden brightness, and right, Damian will remember to warn them next time. Tim blinks past the onslaught, eyes instantly finding Damian, widening as they flick from his swords to his tunic to his cape. For a frightening moment, Damian doesn’t breathe. He watches for miniscule flashes of anger, for body language to betray Tim’s true thoughts.
A small smile starts to form on Tim’s face, something soft and warm, but before it can fully develop, it drops into dread. Tim’s gaze slips to something just behind Damian.
“ROBIN!”
Damian moves. Without thinking, without waiting, without hesitating, he sidesteps the stab coming for him and disarms the thug with a few quick jabs. The knife clatters to the ground, the guard following with a newly broken arm, and Damian stands panting in the middle of the warehouse. He’s careful about it now, watching each guard for a moment to ensure they’re truly down for the count.
Damian turns back towards the hostages, meeting six shocked expressions with what he hopes is a calm smile. He thinks it lands somewhere closer to manic, but hey, he just completed his first mission as Robin, sue him for being excited. “Apologies for that. Where were we?”
They get everyone untied, they call the police, and Damian leaves. He grapples up to the roof, then grapples a few blocks away, and begins to silently freak out on the ledge of an apartment building.
Damian is greeted by a whistle an hour later, a high to low pitch, one every Robin recognizes. He responds in kind immediately and is treated to the sight of Tim Drake in civilian clothing climbing up a fire escape, chest heaving.
“You fucker,” he starts, pointing an accusing finger at Damian. “You just made me climb twelve stories. I don’t have my grapple.”
Honestly, Damian hadn’t even considered that. He had been too busy riding the high of a first successful mission to pay attention to where he stopped in relation to Tim’s civilian persona. Tim doesn’t need to know that though. “Took you long enough, Drake.”
“Twelve stories!” Tim wheezes, hands on his knees.
Damian twirls one of his katanas with a smirk. “Maybe you need to exercise more.”
Damian’s expecting a death glare. Damian is expecting a punch, or maybe an argument, or maybe the silent treatment. He isn’t expecting Tim to hang his head, a low laugh starting up that turns into a full blown cackle that gives Joker a run for his money. Damian isn’t sure what the protocol is for the first mission debrief of a new person taking over your superhero identity. Frankly, he would’ve asked Jason, but he and Tim are the first ones to attempt a civil hand off, so he doesn’t feel like the older boy would know.
Tim laughs for a minute longer before taking pity on him and straightening up. He lost his suit jacket somewhere, now just in dress pants and a tousled button down with the sleeves rolled up to the forearm, and for a moment, Damian sees Robin leaning confidently against his bo staff. He blinks and it’s gone, Tim standing in his place, smiling bigger than he’s seen him in a while.
Retirement looks good on him. It's been a few months, Tim slowly but surely putting the suit on less and less until not at all. Tim’s skin has more color, his hair has more shine. His eyes are brighter and while he still looks tired, it has less of a manic tinge to it and more of a long day at the office vibe. He looks normal.
“You did great in there, Rob. Though I did notice a distinct lack of Batman,” Tim says, voice knowing.
Damian shrugs. “Maybe this Robin works alone.”
Tim shakes his head. “No Robin works alone. You know that,” he pauses, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck nervously. “Or at least, I hope you know that. I don’t really know how to do this.”
“I do know,” Damian hurries to interrupt. “I know that if I, well I know that you… I know,” he finishes, sending a hesitant smile to Tim.
Tim’s smile steadies, less nerves and more genuine excitement showing. His eyes are shiny in the moonlight and Damian realizes that he feels close to tears too. “How does it feel?”
Damian takes a moment to consider. He took a hit to the ribs that hurt even with the padding in his tunic. He’s pretty sure he left one of his shurikens in the warehouse. His brother was just kidnapped, which is worrying, but he stopped it, which is insane. The cape is settled around his shoulders, his boots secure around his ankles. It doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel tight.
Standing on the roof, mask on, grapple at the ready, it feels so incredibly right. The burn of his muscles, the ache of his bruises, the person he saved standing whole and okay across from him, all of it. This is what he is meant to do. This is how he’s meant to help.
“Heavy,” he declares, because it is. Tim could’ve been hurt tonight, either because of him or because of the guards. One of the civilians could’ve been hurt. Damian himself could’ve taken a worse hit. People’s lives are in his hands now. It feels different from when he was sent to end them. A different weight to carry. Tim had shouted for him, for him, and Damian had listened, had answered to the name without question. He hadn’t been Damian Wayne, Damian al-Ghul, Demon Prince or Son of the Bat. He had been Robin, without question.
“But good. It feels right.”
Tim looks proud. Damian remembers the first time he met Robin, how guarded the boy was, how uptight, how smug. He understands why Tim fought for Robin so viciously.
“If you need anything, kid, you know where to find me. I’ll always be willing to help. But I think you’ve got it from here,” Tim says, tears wetting his lashes. The Batsignal flares to life, gold and brilliant against the night sky. Tim looks at it, a little wistfully, a lot relieved, and then looks back at Damian. “Thanks for the save, Robin.”
Damian’s heart pounds in response as he primes his grapple. He reaches into one of his utility pouches, rubbing a thumb over the rounded edge before handing it over. Tim takes it, a question on his lips until a laugh bubbles out instead. A Robin Call, Tim’s old design with a little bit of Damian in it, one button for help, the other a grenade. Appropriately labeled, of course. “If you ever need me, if I’m able to, I’ll be there,” Damian grins. “But for now, duty calls.”
He runs, feet pounding over the roof, hitting the edge and leaping. He throws his arms out wide for a moment, feeling the rush of the air and the swoop of falling, before pointing his grapple gun and firing. Tim whoops and yells behind him. Damian is smiling so hard it feels like his cheeks are on fire, but he doesn’t care. He’s Robin. He’s magic.
Batman is perched near the Batsignal, talking with Commissioner Gordon. Damian lands lightly on the ledge and slots his grapple back on his belt, falling into place on his father’s right side.
Batman glances down, mouth ticking up ever so slightly. “Glad you could finally join us, Robin.”
The rock salt rasp sends chills down Damian’s spine and he straightens up, standing tall. “Apologies for the delay, a civilian needed assistance. Commissioner Gordon, what can we do?”
The commissioner looks down at Damian, eyes going wider as he takes in the darker suit, dual swords, and already bloodied gloves. Finally, he rolls his eyes skyward and mumbles under his breath. “I do not get paid enough for this.”