Chapter Text
Damian had never wanted another chance at life.
It wasn’t that he wanted to die—of course he didn’t—but the fact of the matter was that, despite the fact that death never once seemed to stick when it came to the Bats, Damian had decided that resurrection wasn’t worth the cost. Father’s supposed death, Brown’s supposed death, Grayson’s supposed death—the disproval of each had served to simply fragment whatever bonds of “family” had supposedly existed before Damian’s arrival into something that Damian was loath to be a part of. And all of that wasn’t even mentioning Todd, who had died.
And besides, dying while serving as Robin was probably the most noble outcome Damian could hope for, at least until Damian inherits the mantle of Batman himself. Dying for a righteous cause and all of that.
Which, well.
He had. Died, that is. As Robin. On the battlefield. Something about sorcerers and doomsday magic and Damian hadn’t quite been listening except for where they’d—he and Batman, that was—been told that they had an advantage over the rest of the Justice League due to not having any sort of alien, meta or magical abilities that could be suppressed. Not that it was going to be easy, but it was going to be straightforward, at least—
But Damian had—had. There’d been magic, and then the building had been collapsing, and then there’d been darkness that had only emphasized the parts of Damian’s body that had been broken.
Damian genuinely doesn’t know whether one of the pieces of metal that had been driven through his chest had nicked his heart as he’d been struggling to breathe, or if he’d passed out from lack of oxygen due to choking on his own blood. Either way, there was too much damage and not enough time for any sort of hope of rescuing anything other than a corpse.
Damian had made peace with the idea of a violent, painful death years prior, so in those last few seconds before everything had gone dark, he’d mostly experienced regret. Regret that he wasn’t going to be able to finish his latest painting, regret that Pennyworth would have to look after his animals on his own, regret that Father would have to know the pain of burying another Robin.
Damian had neither expected nor wanted a second chance.
But then he’d woken up.
~
It has to be dimension travel.
Damian had considered time travel at first, but even in the form of a toddler not yet old enough to speak, it was more than easy enough to gather enough information to prove that this isn’t the dimension that he’s familiar with.
The most blatant evidence is that he—this world’s Damian, anyway, and Damian only let himself wonder briefly what had happened to the consciousness of the toddler whose body he now inhabits—was born over a decade and a half earlier in this dimension. That places Damian over a quarter of a century into the past, and it shows.
Drake would be horrified, Damian thinks at one point as he stares at the hulking box that is making a pathetic attempt at being a security device at the end of the hallway. The camera is almost as big as he is, and is recording to tape. And yet, despite its utter obviousness, half of the assassins who slip past forget to avoid it.
Mother laughs at whatever expression is on his face as he stares incredulously at yet another imbecile who completely fails to adhere to the camera’s plentiful blind spots, shifting him where she’s resting him against her hip. “Judging your subjects already, my little prince?” she teases gently in Arabic.
Damian is young enough that he shouldn’t be able to understand her, so he simply huffs and buries his face in her shoulder. Mother allows it, gentle fingers running through Damian’s hair and down the back of his neck, and Damian relaxes. He doesn’t remember being this young the first time around, but he knows that this affection—startlingly casual, for Mother—isn’t going to last long. He is not as far off from beginning his training as even Mother thinks he is.
Grandfather, despite his immortality, is not a patient man.
Mother hums and slips into the shadows, confident in her knowledge that Damian won’t betray their presence. Damian can’t speak as to how toddler-him had acted before he’d taken up residence in this dimension, but since his arrival and subsequent discovery of the fact that his muscles aren’t yet developed enough for him to speak clearly, Damian has held a vigil of silence.
Mother deposits him in his nursery, smiling when Damian accepts being set down without fuss. As far as Damian can tell, she seems truly grateful that Damian has become such a well-behaved child, not unnerved in the slightest by his silence or stillness or considering stares.
Damian’s caretaker—a slip of a woman who reminds him of Cain, in some ways, but is subservient to the point of earning Damian’s private derision—steps forward to speak to Mother in hushed tones. As always, Damian pretends to not understand their conversation, turning his attention to the developmental toys that are artfully scattered across the room. Each one is meant to develop some sort of skill—fine motor control, color perception, casualty comprehension—but Damian still hasn’t quite rid himself of the disbelief at having actual toys. As far as he remembers, daggers were his first playthings.
Mother and the caretaker finish their conversation about Damian’s diet, and the caretaker slips into the corner to stand vigil as Mother leaves. Damian ignores it all, carefully slotting oversized, blank puzzle pieces into place as he ponders.
Weeks have proven that while this world is different from his original one, it is not wholly unfamiliar. Damian is still the son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce Wayne, and is heir to the Demon’s Head and presumably heir to the Batman. Damian only has months before he starts his League training, which will likely prove to be effectively the same as the training that he was put through before.
But after that...
Damian breathes out slowly. It’s not even the after that’s truly his main concern, if he were to stop lying to himself. Whether or not he’ll end up being sent to Father to train is entirely out of his hands, at least at this point in time.
No, it’s the concept of his League training that terrifies him. It hadn’t been anything even close to resembling easy the first time—he remembers all too well the choking, paralyzing terror that accompanied each mistake, every failure, and Grandfather’s threats to dispose of him properly—but at that point he’d wanted it. He’d done everything he could to make Grandfather proud. He hadn’t known any better than to take satisfaction in his kills. He’d been proud of the blood he’d shed, of the lives that he’d taken.
League training may be valuable, as evidenced by Father’s own time spent with the League, but even Father hadn’t allowed himself to be trained into a killer.
Damian won’t have a choice. Not if he wants to survive.
Damian died as Robin. But unless Damian wants to die again, Robin is going to have to stay dead. At least for now.
Damian pretends that his hands aren’t shaking as he carefully starts stacking blocks, all too aware of his caretaker’s careful gaze. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t want this—lives taken by his hands, again.
But he also has never wanted to die.
By that logic, all he can do is survive. Keep his head down and do as he’s bid until he’s sent to Gotham. It’s not like he has the slightest chance in getting out any other way—even if he somehow managed to escape to Gotham, he’d just be dragged back eventually.
Damian swallows back bile and pretends that he’s not fighting back fear and nausea with the same movement.
He is Damian Wayne. He’ll survive this.
He has to.