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Damian Wayne despises school.
It does not matter that he attends the most prestigious private school in the city: Gotham Academy. He loathes it from the moment that Alfred Pennyworth drops him off in the morning until the butler returns to collect him after school.
The singular reason that Damian hasn’t instigated an event that will result in his expulsion is pride. Father graduated from Gotham Academy. Dick Grayson, his eldest brother, also graduated from Gotham Academy. Jason Todd surely would have if he hadn’t been murdered by the Joker. Tim Drake, like the pathetic failure he is, quit.
Damian refuses to be like Drake.
He will succeed in Gotham Academy and graduate with highest honors, regardless of how much he would prefer to throw Molotov cocktails at the building until it went up in flames.
“Tt.”
Damian is not an imbecile. In point of fact, he is superior in all matters. This, of course, includes his intellect. So it is particularly infuriating that he is being punished for his intelligence. Damian could achieve near perfect scores and advance to a higher grade if his father would allow it.
Father refuses.
He claims that Damian requires interaction with “children his own age.”
Damian is not the least bit interested in interacting with the rabble masses. Especially when they behave in such peculiar and uncouth ways.
“Look, it’s the Tin Man,” an older boy mutters under his breath as Damian walks past in the hallway.
Damian grits his teeth together and straightens his shoulders that miniscule bit more, even though his current posture would satisfy Grandfather. He forces down the urge to spin and roundhouse kick the plebeian and his posse when they start laughing.
He is well aware of the fact that he is not allowed to fight in school. Not only is it against the charter he signed upon entering the Academy as a student, but it could potentially reveal his identity as Robin.
“Not that these halfwits could make such a vital mental connection,” Damian grumbles.
“Tin Man Wayne,” a girl with fair hair and an excessive amount of freckles whispers to the brunette beside her. “Fitting, isn’t it?”
They giggle together.
Damian is cognizant of the matter at hand. He might not have performed all the necessary research to understand the latest epithet his accursed schoolmates have unwillingly bestowed upon him, but he doesn’t fail to grasp the tone of their voices.
Whatever ‘Tin Man’ means to these petty simpletons, it is intended in a derogatory manner.
Enmity roils in his gut.
He has done nothing to be spoken of in such a way. Not once has Damian told these children that they are pathetic, sheltered simpletons who won’t survive a day in the real world. He has neither attacked them verbally nor physically.
Damian does his utmost to not interact with them at all.
Though none of the cretins dared to speak a word on the topic — for it is something that results in immediate expulsion upon the first incident — Damian did not miss how they stared at his skin and foreign features the first day he was enrolled. Few still stare at him in such a way, but it is a stunning and small-minded prejudice to come across.
He had never been subjected to it before enrollment in Gotham Academy.
“Wayne really is the Tin Man, isn’t he?” an upperclassman in a letter jacket says to the group of athletes surrounding him. “Nothing at all like Tim.”
“Tt.”
The constant comparisons to Drake — who is not his older brother — are incensing. Especially since so many of these Gothamite teenagers hold them up side-by-side and find Damian wanting, instead of Drake.
Do not start a fight, Damian reminds himself.
He cannot help but wonder if Grayson was subjected to the same sideways glances when Father first sent him to Gotham Academy. Grayson and he aren’t like these children with their lily-white skin, who somehow believe that makes them superior.
It is only the assurance that these words, this epithet of “Tin Man,” aren’t a slur against his heritage that keeps him from punching the next boy who dares to utter them.
The principal expelled a star player on the basketball team last month for derogatory and racist language. Not even these mindless fools can forget such an object lesson so promptly.
He has no need for the textbooks in his arms. Damian completed the assigned classwork and homework during the lectures throughout the day. Yet, he finds himself avoiding his assigned locker when he almost reaches it, only to hear a girl with brown eyes whisper to her two companions, “Here comes the Tin Man. Careful! He might steal yours.”
Damian is flabbergasted.
How could that girl, whom he has never spoken with in his entire existence, think that she possesses something he would be inclined to steal?
Damian is the true, blood son of Bruce Wayne. He is the Demon Head’s heir.
His trust fund is so substantial that to compare bank accounts with his fellow schoolmates would be to place a cubic zirconia next to the Hope Diamond.
Not only does Damian have no need to steal like some petty criminal, but it’s beyond insulting to imply that his family does not possess the wealth necessary to provide whatever he needs or desires.
“Tt.”
Apparently, it is time to discuss this “Tin Man” epithet with someone who possesses knowledge on the topic, so that Damian will be adequately informed on the matter. He cannot defend himself without knowledge. And here in Gotham, unlike in Nanda Parbat, he is allowed to be uninformed and seek enlightenment to fill in the gaps in his knowledge.
Father and Grayson never punish him for being unaware of any aspect of American culture, social or otherwise.
Despite how much Damian studies, how many films Grayson forcibly subjects him to, how many outings he is taken on, the gap of things he doesn’t know never seems to close. If anything, it widens. As hard as he tries, Damian knows that he misses things. That nuances and subtleties of conversation slip past him.
It is … fatiguing.
It makes him feel inferior.
There is nothing inferior about him.
The cell phone in his pocket vibrates against his leg. Damian retrieves it and unlocks the device to see he has received the customary text message from Pennyworth.
Pennyworth (3:14 p.m.): I have arrived to bring you home. I am out front whenever you are ready, Master Damian.
It’s the same exact words Pennyworth texted him yesterday. And the day before that. And the preceding day as well. Damian appreciates the consistency of it. Father acquired an efficient manservant in Pennyworth. His diligence to his tasks is a credit to the Wayne name.
Yet, even that familiar consistency, which usually soothes his irritated mood following school hours, does not work this time.
Though it’s not logical, it seems as if every person he passes on his way out of the school mutters the words “Tin Man” upon seeing him. Which often results in the surrounding students snickering or giggling.
Few refrain from participating in this childish endeavor.
It’s almost a relief — though he has no reason to feel relieved, for such moronic behavior does not affect him in the slightest; he’s above responding to such a pathetic attempt to rile his emotions — when he slides into the backseat of the Mercedes-Benz.
Pennyworth, punctual as ever, glances over his right shoulder and smiles at Damian.
Damian does not relax at the expression of geniality. Of course Pennyworth treats Damian well; Father pays him a substantial wage to tend to the family. It’s not as if Pennyworth actually cares for Damian as an individual separate from the Wayne fortune. Yet, that’s no reason to behave in an ill-mannered fashion.
Grayson and Grandfather would greatly disapprove of mistreating a loyal employee.
“Did you have a nice day at school, Master Damian?” Pennyworth asks, just as he always does.
“It was adequate,” Damian replies, finishing his half of the ritual.
Pennyworth nods once, like usual, and then turns around and chauffeurs Damian home in silence.
Damian sets his school books on the seat beside him, so they will be there when Pennyworth drives him to school tomorrow morning, and then turns his attention to his cell phone. Tuning out the sound of honking horns and the yelling of people selling wares on street corners, Damian opens the text conversation he has with Grayson.
It is, by far, the longest conversation thread on Damian’s phone.
Grayson insists on messaging Damian day and night. He tells anecdotes about his day, asks invasive questions, and continually calls Damian his “brother” and asserts that he “loves” Damian, even though Damian has never returned the sentiment.
He did not blush with embarrassment the first time Grayson sent him the heart emoji. He did not save that message, or the first message where Grayson referred to Damian as his “baby brother.” And Damian certainly doesn’t read those particular texts every night before bed, or when he’s feeling especially isolated at school.
Not that he cares if the children want to isolate him. He’s above worrying about such things. Such a frivolous matter wouldn’t even register on his radar.
Grayson (2:47 a.m.): Have a good day at school, little brother! ❤
Damian stares at the message and reads it multiple times, the uncomfortable tightness in his chest — which, oddly enough, began when the first person spoke the epithet at him — eases. Not because he cares about Grayson’s opinion. The tension fades due to the passive meditation Damian unconsciously performed by repeating the same action (it’s happenstance this action is reading a text message from Grayson) in a loop.
When the noises of the city finally begin to fade away, and green rolling hills appear through his window instead of concrete, steel, and glass, Damian detours from his usual afternoon routine by asking Pennyworth, “Is Grayson in the Manor?”
Pennyworth doesn’t look away from the road; wise of him, for to do so could jeopardize Damian’s safety. He does raise a fluffy white eyebrow, though, as he replies, “Master Dick woke shortly before I left to collect you, Master Damian. He did not share any plans with me stating he would be gone before our return. In fact, Master Dick expressed a desire to see you and informed me he would be making your after school repast.”
“Tt.”
Grayson’s skills in the kitchen are adequate. However, dinner will be served promptly in less than two hours. So his after school repast — or snack, as Grayson teases, as if Damian were a child — will not be impressive.
And no, Damian has yet to notice a difference in taste when food is supposedly “made with love.”
At least Grayson will provide food that suits Damian’s vegetarian diet. Since the moment Damian acquired Bat-Cow and announced he would be a vegetarian, Grayson has supported him in that, never once trying to change his mind. Grayson has even offered to share his reprehensible, overly sugary breakfast cereal.
Damian continues to decline whenever Grayson offers, regardless of what toy or action figure is supposedly hidden in the box. He absolutely did not purchase a hundred boxes of Nightwing N’s just to get the limited edition 3.75” Nightwing action figure with glow-in-the-dark escrima sticks. It’s certainly not hidden somewhere in his room that no one will ever find. And he has never slept with it in his grasp when Grayson is off in Blüdhaven for a ridiculous amount of time.
(Two days! Grayson was absent from the Manor for forty-nine hours and sixteen minutes without contacting Damian to inform him of his well-being. It was not frightening. It was completely irresponsible! What if Grayson had been injured?)
The stupid smile that consumed Grayson’s face as Damian berated him for his lack of contact was annoying, not endearing. No matter what Grayson said, Damian hadn’t missed him or worried about him.
Damian locks his phone and slides it into his pocket as Pennyworth drives the Mercedes-Benz into the garage and parks it next to the Maserati.
“Shall I get the door, Master Damian?” Pennyworth inquires, as usual.
Except for a few times, when, by necessity, Damian’s hands were full, he has always refused. As per normal, he says, “That’s not necessary, Pennyworth.”
And then their ritual completes as Pennyworth nods at him in the rearview mirror and says, “Very good, sir.”
Damian enters the Manor and feels … well, it would displease his grandfather, but Damian feels safe. He recalls the lessons Grandfather and his other tutors forced into him via various methods. One such lesson states that no place is ever truly safe. In spite of that, Damian feels safe.
It has everything to do with Father’s extensive security system, installed throughout the Manor and the grounds of the Wayne Estate, and nothing at all to do with the beaming smile on Dick Grayson’s face or Grayson’s presence.
“Little D! You’re home!”
Damian quickly shifts his feet so that they’re shoulder-width apart, better distributing his weight to maintain his balance, and braces himself for the coming attack against his person. Grayson jumps forward, grabs Damian in his arms, and embraces him tightly while babbling.
“I missed you so much! You were gone forever!”
“I was absent 8.34 hours, the same as every day.”
“But it felt like forever!” Grayson says, holding Damian even more tightly.
This phenomenon — Todd calls it an octopus-hug — is something Damian never experienced before coming to reside and train with Father. In his time in the Manor, Grayson has dispensed five-hundred-sixty-four such embraces on Damian’s person. Well, five-hundred-sixty-five now.
Grayson is the only person who has ever attacked him in this manner.
Damian once thought Father would, after Damian was exposed to Fear Toxin and walked off a two-story roof in the haze before anyone could stop him — which resulted in a broken arm, four fractured ribs, a broken ankle, and a concussion that led to people waking him in shifts — but Father apparently overcame the urge before following through on it.
He … doesn’t care. He would rather not suffer this indignity on two fronts.
Besides, as long as Grayson continues to embrace Damian in this manner more often than he does Drake, Damian has another piece of proof that he is superior to Drake.
Damian allows Grayson to hug him for exactly twenty seconds, the precise amount of time required — according to the medical article Grayson showed Damian to convince him to allow the hugging to continue. Damian remembers it word for word.
Hugging someone you love for 20 seconds a day is the key to alleviating stress and beating burnout. A lingering embrace releases the bonding hormone oxytocin, which can lower your blood pressure, slow your heart rate and improve your mood.
Since Grayson persists in his belief that Damian is his brother and repeatedly states that he loves Damian, it’s Damian’s duty to see to Grayson’s medical needs.
Their vigilante duties are, inevitably, stressful. Damian does not want Grayson to burn out or have heart issues later in life. Additionally, Grayson is much more pleasant to be around when he’s in a good mood. So, obviously, Damian allows the hug attacks to continue for Grayson’s physical and emotional benefit, since Father is particularly fond of his eldest son.
“That’s twenty, Grayson,” Damian states.
Grayson is easily distracted and will lose count and hold on longer. So it’s Damian’s job to keep track.
There’s a pout on Grayson’s face when he releases Damian. However, Damian is wise to his manipulations now; he will not fall for such trickery so effortlessly.
“I made you a snack!” Grayson says.
It never fails to stun Damian that Grayson’s smile reaches his eyes, as if Grayson’s soul is shining from the blue depths. How can Grayson possibly be that pleased to see Damian when Grandfather and Mother never were?
Grayson ruffles his hair, puts his hands on Damian’s shoulders, and then nudges him over to the large island in the kitchen. Two barstools are pulled away from the marble. Each seat has a small plate before it on the countertop.
Damian sinks down onto one stool as Dick pushes on his shoulders and blinks.
“You made an apple and carrots and peanut butter?” Damian inquires mockingly, not teasingly. “Tell me, Grayson, how exactly did you make an apple?”
Grayson grins widely, says, “Big brother magic!” and throws a baby carrot at Damian’s face.
Damian catches it with his teeth and crunches it.
The stunned look on Grayson’s face shifts into delight. Then, with a whine to his voice that is most unbecoming, he demands, “Throw one at me! I bet I can catch it.”
To be contrary, Damian throws the unsliced, organic Pink Lady apple.
To Grayson’s credit, he almost manages to catch it with his teeth, despite its size. But he ends up yelping as it hits him on the nose. Damian catches it as Grayson rubs his nose, playing up the injury. Damian won’t fall for it. He didn’t throw it that hard.
If he ever does injure Grayson, it will be on purpose.
“Little D! What was that for?”
Damian smirks. “Perhaps, in the future, you will learn to be more specific in your requests.”
Grayson feigns a pout, but it slides right off his lips and he bursts into gales of laughter. He’s so free with his enjoyment. He’s never worried about it being used against him. Damian’s not sure if that means Grayson is especially brave or particularly dense.
“Now,” Damian says, handing the apple in question to Grayson, “wash this for me. It’s your fault it’s dirty. And, as Todd would say, I have no idea where you’ve been.”
The noise that spills from Grayson’s throat is somewhere between a splutter, choking, and laughter that is so violent it leads to a stomachache.
“Dami!” he howls.
Damian’s smirk widens as he shoos Grayson away.
Grayson’s laughter, as he washes the apple like Damian requested, buoys Damian’s mood. Often, Gotham is a riptide of darkness. Some days, trying to tread water seems like a pointless endeavor — he will never fit in, will never understand, will never be a real member of the family, even though he’s the true, blood son — and then Grayson drags Damian back to the surface and somehow convinces him that he can taste more than saltwater.
This is how Damian knows down to his genetically-engineered DNA molecules that Grayson is a hero.
That Grayson … loves him.
Because, if he didn’t, wouldn’t he have tired of saving Damian by now and just let him drown, as Mother and Grandfather would have done?
“It looks like you’re thinking deep thoughts there, Dami,” Grayson says, smoothing at Damian’s furrowed brow with one hand as the other returns the apple to his plate.
Unwilling to explain the direction his thoughts have taken, Damian latches onto his earlier decision to acquire adequate information on the epithet that is now being applied to him by his schoolmates.
“I require an explanation on an epithet that I assume is from some type of media or social movement,” Damian states.
His heart malfunctions temporarily, which is unacceptable. He’s the height of genetic engineering; none of his organs should malfunction. Especially not for such a paltry reason as two words spoken by teenagers whose opinions hold no merit in relation to himself.
The grin on Grayson’s face becomes fervent. His voice practically sings, “Do you have a nickname at school, Little D? Is it heartthrob? We all get that—”
“No.”
It comes out short, clipped, colder than he has been with Grayson in months.
The smile vanishes from Grayson’s face as if it had never been there. His hands curl into fists on the countertop. His eyes turn a dark and stormy shade of blue. Every word of his question sounds like a threat as he asks, “What are they calling you, little brother?”
Damian’s mouth is dry as the desert as he whispers, “Tin Man.”
Grayson’s countenance wouldn’t be out of place on Nightwing if the Joker were laughingly announcing his intentions to murder all of Batman’s Robins in front of him.
When Grayson speaks, his voice is dry and factual, as if he’s giving a report. As if he’s defaulted to childhood training in order to control his emotions. It’s … unpleasant. It reminds Damian of his own training. It’s nothing he wishes to see or hear from Grayson, who never should have experienced such things while he was safe with Father.
Grayson states, “It’s from a popular book series. The most famous book was made into a film called The Wizard of Oz. It’s about a girl who is far away from home, who finds three friends on her journey to ask the Wizard to send her home. One of her friends is known as the Tin Man.”
Damian waits for several seconds, but Grayson doesn’t finish his report. “Tell me more of the Tin Man.”
“Damian, I don’t think—”
“Grayson. Tell me.”
How bad can it possibly be?
Grayson glances down at his fists on the island, before giving Damian his full attention. His voice is full of rage, now, as he explains, “The Tin Man’s defining characteristic is that he doesn’t have a heart.”
Damian’s brow furrows. That’s impossible. How could any creature be alive without a heart? It’s senseless.
“I don’t understand. My organs are all in their correct locations. Why would the halfwits say—”
Oh.
Oh.
Heartless.
“Heartless Wayne. Fitting, isn’t it?” Damian parrots.
“Dami, no!”
Why … why does it hurt? It shouldn’t hurt. Trifling insults should not have the power to wound him. He’s Batman’s blood son and the Demon Head’s heir. Words such as these should be negligible.
Yet—
“Wayne really is heartless, isn’t he?” Damian repeats, hands shaking as he fishes the words from his brain pan and finishes with, “Nothing at all like Tim.”
Grayson snatches Damian bodily off his seat and hugs him so tightly that it hurts.
“Don’t you listen to them, Little D. Don’t you dare! They don’t know the first thing about you. You are not heartless. You’re so far from heartless that there’s no comparison. You became a vegetarian for your pet cow! And don’t think I don’t know about the treats you carry in your belt to feed the strays on patrol.”
Damian's eyes burn, which is irritating. He doesn’t have the excuse of a toxin being thrown in his face this time to explain away the weakness. He has yet to commit the sin of crying since arriving in Gotham. He … he doesn’t know what the punishment for it will be.
Despite his best efforts, a few tears trickle out of his traitorous tear ducts.
“Nothing at all like Tim.”
Grayson pulls Damian away from him at that; Damian winces. Grayson will be able to see the tears now. It was foolish to think he would be able to hide them or the evidence they leave behind.
Dread fills him.
Is Grayson going to refuse to speak to him for a month, as Mother always did? Will he banish Damian from his sight for an unknown amount of time, as Grandfather did? Or … or will it be worse?
Would he … surely Grayson wouldn’t start calling him “Wayne” and retract all his nicknames and professions of brotherhood and love.
Surely not.
Right?
“You don’t have to be like Tim, Damian. Nobody wants you to be Tim.”
“Tt.”
Grayson shakes as he says, “Nobody who matters wants you to be Tim. Tim is Tim. That’s enough Tim. You’re Damian. That’s all I want you to be, okay? Be Damian, little brother. I love you exactly as you are.”
Damian scrunches his face up and squeezes his eyes shut. The facial contortions do nothing to slow the perfidious tears.
In spite of that, in spite of them, Grayson doesn’t berate him for his weakness. He doesn’t push Damian away or leave the kitchen in disgust. He doesn’t inform Damian that he is unwelcome until he manages to correct such shameful behavior.
Grayson does none of those things.
He sets Damian in his lap, hugs him more fiercely than ever before, and then, most mystifying of all, kisses Damian’s teary cheeks.
“You’re not heartless, baby brother,” Grayson says, voice low and soothing.
“How” — Damian’s hands tremble before settling on Grayson’s back, something he’s never done before, which results in Grayson making a sound of pained-delight as he somehow finds a way to hug Damian even more tightly — “how do you know?”
Grayson’s voice sounds suspiciously wet as he answers, which surprises Damian. It’s almost as if … but, no. Why would Grayson be crying?
“If you were heartless, Little D, I never would have let you wear my mother’s name for me,” Grayson whispers.
Damian jolts and lets loose a quiet, “Oh.”
A few minutes later, when the hug has far exceeded the twenty second threshold, Grayson finally releases Damian and sets him back on his seat.
“Eat your snack, Dami,” Grayson says, lightly stroking Damian’s hair out of his eyes. “Or you’ll be my littlest brother forever.”
It’s a truly pathetic attempt to tease him on Grayson’s part. However, Damian decides to humor him. He starts with the carrots.
He’s eaten two of them by the time he manages to say, “So, you’re stating that I’m exceptionally qualified to be Robin.”
Grayson’s smile is the softest Damian has ever seen it when Grayson says, “Exceptionally.”
Damian nods and turns away from Grayson to properly face his plate. An intense amount of courage has him reaching for the phone in his pocket. Grayson didn’t punish him for the sin of crying. He didn’t recant his statements of brotherhood and affection.
That … that means they’re real.
He has evidence that they’re fact, not fiction.
Still, Damian’s fingers shake as he sends the text.
Grayson’s phone vibrates against the counter. An amused little twist to his lips precedes the words, “What’s this, Litt—?”
The cell phone falls from Grayson’s hand to clatter on the marble counter and Grayson scoops Damian back into his lap and hugs him with enough strength to convince Damian he’s enhanced. Grayson shakes and sobs against Damian’s shoulder.
Damian slowly pets his hair, like Grayson does to him, and holds on.
He can barely read the text message he sent out of the corner of his eye before the screen goes black, the phone putting itself to sleep.
Baby Brother (4:23 p.m.): ❤ Akhi.