Chapter Text
The manor was alive that night
Damian could hear them before he ever reached the door: laughter spilling through the halls, chairs scraping against the floor, Alfred’s calm baritone mixing with the chaos. Voices layered one on top of another, animated and warm in a way he never quite managed to summon.
He paused at the corner, listening. Dick’s laugh was the loudest, that unmistakable brightness that filled a room like sunlight. Jason’s voice followed, gruff but relaxed, an edge softened by good food and good company. Tim was speaking quickly, rattling off something clever that drew another ripple of laughter from Stephanie. Even Cassandra, normally so quiet, let slip a small chuckle that made the others pause just to hear it again.
It was everything Damian thought a family should sound like.
And it was everything that seemed to happen without him.
He stood there longer than he should have, body tense with the push and pull of wanting to be noticed but dreading the moment they realized he had been standing outside all along. If he entered now, what would it matter? A glance, a perfunctory greeting. A chair offered at the edge of the table. The conversation would continue as though he weren’t there, the easy rhythm unbroken, because he was never part of it to begin with.
He pressed his palm against the wall, nails digging into the old wood. The voices on the other side rose in volume again—Jason mocking Dick, Tim groaning, Stephanie wheezing with laughter.
It was unbearable.
Without a word, Damian turned and walked the other way.
The training room welcomed him with silence.
No voices here. No warmth. Just the sterile smell of steel and sweat, the faint hum of the overhead light, and the sharp thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.
He reached for his sword. The handle was familiar, worn into his palm from countless hours of practice. He began to move.
Strike. Block. Step. Turn. Again. Again. Faster.
His body was flawless—years of the League had seen to that—but his mind wavered, flickering like a candle in a draft. Each strike was too sharp, each step too loud. He wasn’t training. He was lashing out, as though the air itself mocked him.
The sword slipped, clattering against the floor. Damian froze. His breath came harsh, uneven, too loud in the empty space. He stared at his reflection in the steel, warped and small.
Pathetic. Truly pathetic.
The word hissed at him, venomous. His lips curled, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Because the truth of it pressed down heavier than any blade.
They would never admit it aloud, but he knew. He knew. He was not like them. He was blood, yes, but blood meant little in this family. They loved each other despite the absence of it. They loved in ways he didn’t understand—gentle, forgiving, easy. They looked at him, and he saw it in their eyes: the hesitation, the wariness, the acknowledgment of all the ways he didn’t fit.
The unwanted son. The shadow no one asked for.
His chest constricted. He forced himself to pick up the sword again, grip tight, knuckles white. He would train until the thought broke. He would train until his muscles screamed louder than his heart.
⸻
Hours passed unnoticed. The laughter in the manor faded into quiet footsteps, then into silence. Damian remained. He sat against the wall, knees drawn close, the sword resting at his side. His hands ached from gripping it too long, but he didn’t loosen his hold.
The door creaked.
“Little D?”
Dick’s voice was gentle, careful, as though speaking too loudly might spook him. Damian didn’t move.
“Knew I’d find you down here,” Dick continued. He stepped inside, his presence filling the room with an ease Damian envied. He lowered himself onto the floor beside him, stretching his long legs out. “You missed dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Sure,” Dick said softly. “That’s exactly what Alfred believed, too.” He chuckled under his breath, but it sounded forced. “We were telling stories upstairs. Jason got into one of his dramatic retellings, the car chase in Blüdhaven—the one where he somehow drove on the wrong side of the freeway. You would’ve liked it.”
Would’ve. Not did.
Damian’s gaze flickered to him, then away again. The hollow ache in his chest deepened.
“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“Hey,” Dick said carefully, leaning forward, “that’s not what I meant. I just—”
“You should go back,” Damian cut in, rising abruptly. “Before they realize you’re missing.”
Dick frowned. “Damian—”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
The words came sharper than he intended, his voice cracking at the edges. He straightened his shoulders, forcing his body into the perfect rigidity his mother had drilled into him. Weakness was death. Weakness was scorn. He would not let even Dick see it.
Dick sighed. He stood too, reaching out to ruffle Damian’s hair like he always did, like he thought it was comforting. “The door’s open, Damian. Whenever you want to come in.”
And then he left.
The silence that followed felt heavier than before.
⸻
Damian found himself at his window long after midnight, the city stretched beneath him like a restless beast. Gotham glittered faintly, its countless lights pulsing against the dark. Somewhere out there, criminals roamed. Somewhere out there, Robin had a purpose.
Here, in this house—he didn’t.
He rested his forehead against the cold glass. His breath fogged against it, fading just as quickly as it came.
He wondered, not for the first time, what would happen if he disappeared. If one day he simply packed his sword and left. Would they notice immediately? Would they notice at all?
Jason would make a joke. Tim would shrug. Dick would try to be optimistic. Father… Father might frown, might look for him. But eventually, even Bruce would move on. Someone else would wear the mask. Someone easier. Someone more like them.
The thought lodged in his throat, sharp and unyielding.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe tomorrow, he would bleed in Gotham’s alleys. Maybe tomorrow, Robin would matter—because Damian Wayne never would.
In the manor, he was a ghost.
And ghosts were meant to be unseen.