Archive of Our Own

Damian tries to put on a strong front.

It doesn’t bother him. 

He needs to italicize each word in his mind. It. Doesn’t. Bother. Him. He’s not used to being ignored, he had plenty of attention in the League, but this wasn’t to be unexpected. He’d already stood in the spotlight long enough after having been revived from the dead, and this was just bound to happen. Retribution. 

Retribution for his past actions.

So, on this day that is supposed to mean something, Damian doesn’t take any offense. His father was busy, Dick had to take care of Bludhaven, Tim had no obligation to remember, Jason was a solitary individual, and the rest of his extended family had no reason to know that today was supposed to mark growth. 

His birthday comes and goes. Damian spends the night out patrolling Gotham. He helps an elderly woman get on the bus, listens to her story in the back seat, and escorts her home. He guards a single mother in the wrong part of town. He sits down with a homeless man for hours. The stranger bewilders when, with what little food he has, he offers Damian a piece of his sandwich.

Damian thinks as he sits side by side on a bench, looking up at foggy stars, that what does he have to complain about when he’s not as humble as the man next to him? He has a comb to run through his hair every morning, hot water, air conditioning, and a large room to return home to. The man at his side does not.

Missing a birthday, being alone, wasn’t a lot. It shouldn’t feel as bad as it did. Damian shouldn't feel hurt, not when so many people have worse problems, but that doesn’t stop his heart from aching. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Damian tells the unshaven man, digging in his belt for a business card with his father’s name on it, “I’m one year older. So what? I’m fine. Here. Take this. I know this man - he’s one of the good ones - and he’ll take care of you.”

The homeless man takes the card from Damian’s hands.

“I can’t read,” he says.

Damian would end up pointing out the numbers, something the man recognized, and told him to find the nearest payphone. He gave him enough change for a call, and then left with a farewell. 

But before he does go, the man tells him, “Don’t pity me. Okay? We all go through different pain. You should never compare. Mine is not superior to yours. I may not be in a great situation right now, but that doesn’t make yours invalid.”

Damian doesn’t know how to respond. Feeling exposed, feeling read, he swings away.

He hops on a motorbike home, sneaks back upstairs after taking off his costume in the cave, and then falls asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

Damian’s special day wasn’t all that special. He spent most of his time out in the city of Gotham, and the rest of the night dreaming of nothing. He doesn’t feel as pained when gets up the next day, and he feels majorly apathetic when he attends breakfast. His father doesn’t make any hint that something was missed. He sits with a newspaper, a rather old-fashioned media consumption outlet, and his eyes run over bold headlines that catch his interest. Damian stabs a fork in his pancakes, and when Damian pulls up his phone he doesn’t see any texts from any of his siblings. Friends. Acquaintances. Whatever. 

It doesn’t bother him.

His friends had no reason to know. He never told him his birthday date.

His acquaintances were less likely to know. Damian didn’t share that kind of information freely.

His siblings were busy. They had reason to forget.

Damian goes throughout the day like any other. He feels numb as he tends to his training, diet, schooling, and animals. This process repeats through the following days until the week is over. Monday marks the grand fundraiser Gotham Academy was throwing to raise money for their sport teams, and educational materials. It was mandatory that Damian attend to put up a good public image, and so he ends up properly dressed in the back of a car as they pull away from the manor. Bruce sits in the shotgun seat, next to Alfred, and they chat about trivial items that Damian doesn’t care to listen about. 

It doesn’t bother him.

His birthday is a memory. It’s a lesson to learn from. You shouldn’t have high expectations. You should find the positive in what you can instead of relying on others.

It’s a good lesson to learn, and sure he might have learned it in a weird way, but Damian’s not too disappointed anymore. His heart isn’t a heavy weight in his chest, and now he knows he doesn’t have to put too much merit in the memory of those around him. He doesn’t have to set himself up for future disappointment, and this little fact comforts him. It protects him from suffering, and Damian was willing to do whatever was possible to preserve his emotional health. 

“Damian,” Tim greets at the academy. Damian hadn’t even known he would be there, but Damian wasn’t surprised to see him. He watches as Bruce gives his sharply-dressed son a hug, whispering something in his ear (most likely bat business), before pulling away to pat his shoulder. 

They’re welcomed inside. Damian finds his vision bombarded with market booths, all stored with student-created objects, and live food vendors run by aspiring cooking majors. He watches two female students laugh over a pair of hotdogs, ridiculously topped with a pile of toppings, and he notices a group of friends messing with a chocolate fountain. 

He’s so taken in his surroundings that he does not notice the camera in the corner of his eye.

“Damian Wayne?”

Damian turns with his family discussing at his back. They pause briefly when Vicki Vale approaches Damian with a notepad. 

The camera is off. It’s on the man’s shoulder that accompanies the journalist, but he keeps it pointing downward to showcase their intent.

“Vale,” Damian greets. “I did not know you would be here.”

Vicki smiles. “This isn’t my usual thing, for sure, but I thought it’d be interesting to get your insight on something since you avoid social media.”

“And that would be-?” His father interjects protectively, moving to stand an inch in front of Damian. 

Tim hovers at his back. Guarded.

“It’s nothing bad, I assure you,” Vicki says as she gives Bruce a knowing glance, “I just wanted to know what Damian here did for his birthday.”

Damian stills. 

It was possibly the worst question she could possibly ask. 

“Birthday?” Bruce questions, brows pinched. 

“Yes? Last week, correct?” Vicki asks. 

Damian answers, before his family can, “Yes. That is correct.”

“Great. Glad to know I have the information right. So, about your birthday-?”

Damian clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Vale,” he drawls, “have you truly resorted to celebrity gossip?”

Vicki Vale rolls her eyes. “What works, works , right?”

“I hardly see the need to recount the details to you,” Damian says.

“So you didn’t do anything for your birthday?” She questions.

Damian raises a hand to his nose. He pinches his nose between his index finger and thumb.

“You twist my words,” he grumbles, “All I will tell you is that I had a long night-”

“Uh-huh,” Vicki hums, writing down on her notepad.

“I spent most of my time talking to some friends-”

Friends, he calls them, because he’s not sure what else to claim them to be when his words are being recorded. He didn’t want to compromise his identity.

“And I met some new ones.”

“Ah. So you had a private party?”

Damian, tired, says, “Something in that nature.”

“You didn’t go too crazy did you?”

Damian raises a brow. “I am twelve.”

Vicki shrugs. “You never know.”

“You can assume,” Damian scolds her, “Now, I'm tired of this drivel, and I’m going to do something worthwhile. I’m sure father would love to answer any questions you have about our life.”

Damian removes himself from his father’s side. He catches his eyes for only a second. Damian has a hard time keeping himself from wincing at his father’s hard look, something that hinted that a discussion was to be had later, but Damian temporarily ignores it in favor of getting away.

He doesn’t know where he runs off to. He can’t bear to stay with his family. He wanders aimlessly until he hears a hissing whisper.

“Damian!” 

He turns to see Maps dressed in a chef’s apron. She beckons him over with the wave of her hand, glancing over at her co-workers to make sure they weren’t going to bother her, and then she looks back at Damian with a big grin.

Damian thoughtlessly obeys her nonverbal command. He closes the distance between them, allows her to snag his wrist, and tug him behind her popcorn booth.

“I’m glad you came around. I was meaning to give you something,” Maps says, digging in her apron pocket. Damian watches her as she pulls out a simply woven bracelet, clearly handmade.

“Happy birthday, Damian, and I’m sorry I couldn’t get it to you sooner. I messed up so bad the couple of first times,” she laughs at her blunder, holding the bracelet out for Damian to take.

Damian, dazed, reaches out for it.

“Ah!” Maps snatches it away before he can take it. He looks up at her in confusion. “Hold your wrist out. It’ll be harder to put it on yourself with just one hand.”

Damian furrows his brows.

“You do know that I’m-”

“Yeah, you’re capable, whatever. Let me just do this for you, okay?”

She wraps the bracelet around his wrist, biting on the tip of her tongue in concentration as she does so. Damian watches her as she hooks the tiny metal clasp he’d seen at Hobby Lobby (don’t ask why he was there). 

“There,” she says, slapping his wrist playfully, “am I good or what?”

Damian stares at it. 

He stares at it for too long. Maps hesitates.

“Do you not like it?” She asks.

Damian recovers quickly. “No,” he rushes out, “no. It’s- It’s great. I- I’m fond of it. Thank you.”

Maps beams.

“Great,” she jokes, “I’m not sure what I’d do if you didn’t like it. I know it’s not as fancy as some of the things you have, but I was short on allowance because I was dumb and wanted to buy junk food. I didn’t remember it was your birthday until the day before and- well- the rest is history.”

Damian cups the bracelet, his wrist, in his other hand.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Damian mumbles, looking up into her eyes, “and your honesty.”

Maps smile. “It was nothing. I should’ve done better, to be frank, but there’s always next year, right?”

The corner of Damian’s lips twitch upward involuntarily.

“Right.”

When Damian sits back in the backseat with a silly balloon animal at his feet, he feels the tension in the car, and prepares himself mentally for the conversation that was to be had. 

He’s surprised when Tim opens the opposite passenger door. His brother slides in, closes the door behind him, and rubs at his eyes tiredly. 

“Damian,” he’s the first to say, “damn it. Why didn’t you say something?”

Damian is compelled to defend, “I’m uncertain as to what you mean.”

Tim pulls his hand away from his eyes. He looks  at Damian, and Damian’s League training is the only thing that keeps him from looking away.

“No, I’m pretty sure you know exactly what I mean,” Tim claims, “you turned twelve and nothing happened.”

“Plenty happened,” Damian says. “I don’t need a celebration to solidify the fact that I’m one year older.”

Bruce twists in the front seat. Alfred glances up in the mirror with a guilty, stricken, look.

“Son,” Bruce says, “that’s not the point. The point is that we missed an important event in your life because of our own severe negligence. It communicates a bad message.”

“I don’t understand,” Damian says.

Bruce turns back forward in his seat. He rests his head back on the head rest, squeezing his eyes shut in emotional pain.

“We forgot your birthday, Damian,” Tim says, voice tight, “and we probably made you feel like absolute crap. ”

“You have no obligation to celebrate my birthday,” Damian insists.

“I do,” Tim argues. “I’m your family. I know we might not have gotten along sometimes, but it’s my job as your older brother to make sure you at least get a card. Frick, Damian, I can’t believe you just let the day pass without telling anyone.”

“I saw no reason to,” Damian mumbles, glancing away for the first time. 

“You might not think it’s important,” Tim sighs, “but it is to me.”

“If this is about looking ridiculous in front of Vale-”

“I don’t care about Vicki Vale. I care about you, you little brat. Get your head on straight. This has nothing to do with public reputation. This has everything to do with reminding you that you are valued, cared for, and important.”

Damian opens his mouth. He closes it. He opens it again.

“You think I’m important?”

“I wouldn’t have put my life on the line in Apokalips if I thought otherwise,” Tim puts out dryly.

Damian cringes. “Point taken.”

Bruce leans forward. He rips his seat belt off of him. 

“Damian,” he commands, “get out of the car.”

Damian’s eyes shoot to look at him. 

“What?”

“Get out of the car,” he repeats firmly.

Damian shares a look with Tim who shrugs. Damian reluctantly does as told, climbing out of his seat, and pulling himself out of his door. He barely has any time before his father rounds the car to his side, and he’s devoid of all thought when his father crushes him to his larger body. 

His father slides into a crouch. Damian’s all out of air.

“I’m sorry, Damian,” he apologizes, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t matter. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Father,” Damian manages to bring out, remembering how to breathe, “you don’t need to-”

“I want to,” he interupts. “It’s my job to make sure you know I love you. I haven’t been doing that recently. Let me make it up to you.”

Damian’s chin is pressed atop his father’s shoulder. His father’s arms are strong barriers that keep him from moving away. 

Damian stumbles over his words, feeling red in the face, “While it is highly unnecessary, if you must insist, I do suppose it would not hurt.”

His father pulls back to look him in the eye. His emotions are written out on his face. Damian knows that his father might seem impassive to the casual observer, but Damian knows how to read his father’s blue eyes. There’s openness there, he’s speaking to Damian’s soul with hidden words, and Damian can hear every single one in a strange auditory hallucination. 

His father laughs bitterly. 

“I’m ashamed it took a journalist to make me realize my son just turned twelve. We’re going home, eating a big dinner, and then we’re going to figure out how we’re going to celebrate your birthday. Okay?”

Damian exhales. He looks into the windows of his father’s soul.

“Okay,” he says.

Bruce pulls his youngest son in back for a hug. Damian returns the gesture this time, feeling strangely whole, and not as apathetic as he had been feeling for a majority of the week.

He would learn, it seemed, that it was okay to feel hurt.