Chapter Text
The car ride from the airstrip is forty-three minutes. Damian counted.
He sits in the back of the town car. Black leather, tinted windows, the faint smell of expensive cologne that isn't his, and watches the city of Gotham through bulletproof glass. Bruce is in the passenger seat. The driver is someone named Alfred, who opened Damian's door at the airport with a small nod and hasn't spoken since.
Damian's duffel bag sits at his feet. Everything he owns fits inside it. Four changes of clothes. A knife he's not supposed to have but does. And the burner phone his mother gave him before she handed him over, which he's already dismantled and thrown in three separate trash cans between Nanda Parbat and here.
He doesn't look at Bruce.
Bruce has tried to start a conversation twice. Once about the weather, ‘it's colder here than you're used to, I imagine.’ and once about the manor, ‘it's big, but you'll get used to it.’ Damian responded with one worded answers and then silence, and Bruce stopped trying.
Good.
The manor appears at the end of a long, tree-lined driveway like something out of a gothic novel. It's massive. Damian has seen palaces, fortresses, compounds designed to intimidate, but this is different. This is wealth. Old money. The kind of place that doesn't need to prove anything because it's been here longer than anyone alive. The car stops.Alfred gets out first, and opens Damian's door. He doesn't move immediately. He's cataloging: three visible entrances from this angle, security cameras mounted under the eaves, motion sensors in the garden lights. The windows on the second floor are dark. He counts them. Twelve facing front.
"Damian," Bruce says quietly.
Damian gets out of the car.
The air smells like rain and wet leaves. It's late. Past midnight, and the only sound is the wind moving through the trees. It's quiet in a way that makes Damian's skin crawl. The League was never quiet. There was always something. Footsteps. Breathing. Or the distant clang of weapons in the training halls. And silence meant ambush.
He picks up his duffel bag before Alfred can offer to take it.
Bruce is standing by the front steps, hands in the pockets of his coat, watching Damian like he's trying to figure out what to say. He looks tired, almost. There are lines around his eyes that Damian didn't notice in the photos his mother showed him.
"Come on," Bruce says finally. "I'll show you inside."
The front door is heavy, solid wood, with iron fixtures that look about a hundred years old. It doesn't creak when Alfred pushes it open. The entrance hall is... big. Vaulted ceilings. A staircase that splits in two directions. Dark wood paneling. Paintings on the walls that probably cost more than some people make in a lifetime.
Damian stops just inside the doorway.
"Your room is upstairs," Bruce says. He's doing that thing where he's trying to sound casual and failing. "Second floor, east wing. I figured you'd want space for yourself. There's, uh— there's a bathroom attached. And if you need anything, my room's down the hall. Alfred's quarters are on the third floor, but he's... he's usually around."
Damian nods.
Doesn't say anything.
Bruce shifts his weight. "Are you hungry? Alfred can make something if—"
"I'm fine."
"Okay." Bruce exhales. "Okay. Well. Let me show you up."
They climb the stairs in silence. Damian keeps his hand on the strap of his duffel bag and his eyes on the layout. Hallways branch off in three directions from the landing. He counts doors. Windows. Tries to build a mental map, but there's too much. The place is a maze.
Bruce stops in front of a door near the end of the east hallway. "This one's yours."
He opens it.
The room is... big. Bigger than Damian expected. There's a bed. A real bed, not a cot on the floor, with dark blue sheets. A desk by the window, a bookshelf that's empty except for a few old hardcovers that look like they've been there forever, a dresser, and a closet. The bathroom door is half-open, and Damian can see white tile, a shower, and a sink.
It's too much.
"I know it's not much," Bruce says, which is such a ridiculous thing to say that Damian almost laughs. "But you can, uh, decorate it however you want. Or not. Whatever you're comfortable with."
Damian steps inside. Sets his duffel bag on the floor by the bed.
The window faces the back of the property. He can see the outline of the grounds, gardens, trees, and some kind of hedge maze in the distance. No lights except for the ones along the pathways.
He makes a note to check the perimeter tomorrow. See how far the property line extends. Identify exit routes.
"Damian."
He turns. Bruce is still standing in the doorway, and he looks like he wants to say something important but doesn't know how.
"I know this is... a lot," Bruce says slowly. "And I know you didn't exactly choose to be here. But I want you to know that you're safe. Okay? You're safe here."
Damian stares at him.
'Safe.'
The word sits in the air between them like something fragile. Damian doesn't know what to do with it.
"Okay," he says, because Bruce is clearly waiting for some kind of response.
Bruce nods. He looks like he wants to say more. His mouth opens, and closes, but then he just nods again. "Get some rest. We'll talk in the morning."
He pulls the door halfway closed as he leaves. Not all the way. Like he's giving Damian the option but also... what? Doesn't trust him to be alone? Thinks he'll run?
Damian waits until the footsteps fade down the hallway.
Then he moves.
He checks the bathroom first. Standard. Sink, toilet, and a shower with a glass door. There's a cabinet under the sink filled with cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper, but nothing truly useful. The mirror is large, framed in brushed nickel. He avoids looking at his own reflection.
Stepping back into the bedroom, he checks the closet. Empty except for wooden hangers. He opens the dresser drawers one by one. All empty.
The window doesn't open. He tries it twice. Locked, and there's no visible release mechanism. Security feature, probably. He makes another mental note.
The door has a lock on the inside. He tests it. It works.
He should feel better about that. He doesn't.
Damian sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress is soft. Too soft. He's used to sleeping on surfaces that don't give, that don't let you sink into comfort. This feels like it's trying to swallow him.
He doesn't unpack.
Instead, he pulls the knife from his duffel bag and slides it under the pillow. Then he takes off his shoes—
Boots. He internally corrected himself.
They're boots. Not shoes.
His boots were still caked with dust from the League's training grounds. Carefully unlacing the strings and lining them up next to the bed. Easy access should something go wrong. He forces himself to lie down on top of the covers, fully dressed, and stares at the ceiling.
The silence is so loud it's almost a physical presence.
He tries to sleep. But his brain won't stop moving. Every creak of the house settling makes his heart rate spike. He keeps expecting someone to open the door, expecting a test, a challenge, something. The League didn't let you rest without earning it. So why would this be any different.
At some point, he's not sure when he hears footsteps in the hallway. That pause outside his door. Damian's hand immediately goes for the knife under his pillow. He doesn't move otherwise.
Doesn't breathe.
The footsteps move on.
He exhales.
This is going to be impossible.
The next morning comes too bright. Damian wakes to sunlight streaming through the window. He didn't close the curtains, didn't even notice there were curtains until now. And for a few disorienting seconds, he doesn't know where he is.
Then he remembers.
Gotham. The manor. Bruce.
He sits up. His neck hurts from the way he slept, and his mouth tastes like something died in it. The room looks different in daylight. Less like a trap, more like... a room. Just a room.
Turning his head to see there's a clock on the nightstand. 9:47 AM.
He slept later than he has in years.
He gets up, uses the bathroom, splashes water on his face. He looks at himself in the mirror for the first time since arriving. He looks tired. Younger than he feels. Staring at every little detail reflected back to him. There's a bruise on his jaw from sparring three days ago with Grandfather which had started to fade into a greenish yellow.
He undresses himself before turning on the shower. Trying to catch a glimpse of the scars and bruises covering his body. The bruises going down the center of his back from when grandfather beat him with a cane. Those made it hurt to walk. The uniform scars that went from the crook of his left arm down to his wrist. The ones that trailed his upper left thigh, raised and bumpy. One for each mistake he made. For each time he disappointed grandfather. For each time he could've done better. He stared until his reflection blurred and the mirror was foggy to which he could no longer see clearly.
Turning away he stepped under the hot water of his shower. Rinsing the dirt off before scrubbing himself clean and rinsing again. Turning the water off and reaching for the white towel on the rack to dry himself. Damian carefully wrapped the towel around his waist pinning it so it wouldn't budge. Grabbing his tooth brush. 26 teeth, 182 seconds. 7 seconds for each individual tooth. Once he finished he dug into his duffel bag for a gray shirt, joggers, and black socks. He quickly changed into his clothes before leaving his room and heading down the stairs. The hallway is empty. Too quiet. He follows it back toward the main staircase, moving carefully, listening for voices or movement. Nothing. Downstairs, he hears something. Faint. Voices, maybe. He follows the sound through a series of hallways until he finds what must be the kitchen.
It's huge. Industrial-sized appliances. An island in the center with bar stools. Windows overlooking the back gardens. And Alfred, standing at the stove, doing something with eggs.
"Good morning, Master Damian," Alfred says without turning around.
Damian stops in the doorway. "How did you—"
"Old habits." Alfred glances over his shoulder. "I trust you slept well?"
"Fine."
"Excellent. Breakfast will be ready momentarily. Do you have any dietary restrictions I should be aware of?"
Damian blinks. "No."
"Very good. Please, sit."
It's not a request.
Damian sits at the island, perched on the edge of one of the bar stools. Watching as Alfred moves around the kitchen with the kind of efficiency that comes from decades of practice. He plates scrambled eggs, with cheese and toast, some kind of fruit, and sets it in front of Damian with a glass of orange juice.
"Master Bruce is in a meeting," Alfred says. "He asked me to inform you that he'll be available this afternoon, should you wish to speak with him."
Damian looks down at the plate. The eggs are still steaming. Still hot. Still safe.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
Alfred nods. "I'll leave you to it."
He doesn't leave, though.Not really. He stays in the kitchen, wiping down the counter, putting dishes away. Damian gets the sense that he's being watched. Not obviously. Not threateningly. Just... observed.
He eats because not eating would draw more attention. The food is good. Better than good. However he doesn't let himself think about the last time he had a meal that wasn't designed for function over taste. When he's finished, Alfred takes the plate without comment.
"The manor can be disorienting at first," Alfred says. "If you'd like, I can provide you with a brief tour."
"I'm fine."
"Of course. However, should you find yourself lost, the library is on the first floor, west wing. The gymnasium is in the basement, accessible through the door beneath the main staircase. And the office is adjacent to the kitchen, should you require anything."
Damian nods.
Alfred's expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens. Just slightly. "You're welcome here, Master Damian. I hope you'll come to see that in time."
He leaves before Damian can figure out how to respond.
Damian sits alone in the kitchen for a long time after that, staring at the empty placemat which his plate had been on a few moments prior, trying to figure out what the hell he's supposed to do now.
He spent the rest of the day exploring. Not obviously. He doesn't want anyone to think he's casing the place, even though that's exactly what he's doing. Moving through the manor like he's just wandering, but he's cataloging everything. Exits. Windows. Blind spots. The security system is more sophisticated than he expected — cameras, motion sensors, and reinforced locks. Damian turned the corner making his way down the hall to find the library. He walked for a few minutes before coming across two large brown double doors and pushing them open. The library was massive. Two stories, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a rolling ladder. Damian stood in the doorway and felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. He's never seen this many books in one place outside of the League's archives.
He doesn't go inside.
The gymnasium which Alfred mentioned is in the basement. Damian finds it late in the afternoon. It's not just a gym, it's a full training facility. Mats, weights, a sparring ring, equipment. Some he recognizes and some he doesn't. Then he noticed it. The large weapons rack on the far wall, locked behind a glass case. He stands in the middle of the room and feels the first thing close to familiarity since he arrived.
"Thought I might find you here."
Damian turns hard on his heel.
Bruce is standing in the doorway, still in a suit, tie loosened. He looks like he's been working. He looks……tired.
"Sorry," Bruce says, holding up a hand. "Didn't mean to startle you."
Damian's heart was pounding however he was forcing himself to breathe normally. "You didn't."
Bruce steps into the room. "Alfred said you've been exploring."
"Is that a problem?"
"No. No, it's—it's good. I want you to feel comfortable here." Bruce looks around the gym. "I wasn't sure if you'd want access to this. I know the League's training was... intense. I didn't want to assume."
Damian doesn't say anything.
"But if you want to use it, you can," Bruce continues. "Anytime. I can show you how the equipment works, or—"
"I know how it works."
"Right. Of course." Bruce rubs the back of his neck. "Listen, I, uh... I know this is awkward. I'm not really good at this. The whole... Dad thing. But I'm trying. And I know you didn't ask to be here, but you are, and I just want you to know that I'm not going anywhere. Okay?"
Damian looks at him. For the first time he really looks at him.
Bruce looks uncomfortable. Uncertain. It's disorienting.
"Okay," Damian says.
Bruce nods. "Okay. Good. That's... good." He hesitates. "Do you want to, I don't know, talk? Or I could leave you alone. Whatever you need."
"I'm fine."
"Right." Bruce lingers for another moment, then turns to leave. He pauses at the doorway turning back. "Dinner's at seven. Alfred's making pasta. You don't have to come if you don't want to, but... you're welcome."
With that he turns on his heel heading for the door and leaves.
Damian stands alone in the training room, surrounded by equipment designed to make him stronger, faster, better. He doesn't feel any of those things. He feels tired. And he has no idea how to do this.