author's note: wow I'm awful. did you know I started this well over a year ago? longer than that, really. and it's been nearly complete for so long, I'm downright ashamed it's taken me this long to give you the final piece. but here it is, product of my love and time and tears. I'm going to crawl into a hole and die now kthx.


in-del-i-ble
adjective: 1. making marks that cannot be removed


He wakes to the sound of haphazard dripping, and the occasional groan of metal. There is an unpleasant ache in his right temple, and when he tries to move, one of his wrists voices a severe complaint. They are bound together behind him, slung over the back of the small metal chair he occupies. His vision is slightly blurred, one eye doesn't seem to open quite as wide as the other, and he discovers the flickering light above him that sways back and forth is causing one of the peculiar noises.

The other?

Blood, trickling down his arm and falling into the empty depths of a metal bucket beneath his chair. Delightful.

Almost as delightful as his mother choosing that particular moment to make an entrance. She does so clad in long, brown and forest green robes, a sly smile woven across her lips. Her hands are folded behind her back, and she holds her head high-looking every bit like her father in the amber sunlight that filters in through an old skylight.

"Damian, my child...," she sighs, stepping towards him slowly. She does not use complimentary adjectives between those words anymore-she has not since his father and grandfather's passing. She reserves those endearing terms for her protege, her perfect soldier, her other son-his clone. She has not done many things since their passing, really, slipping into the darkest corners of the world with the league, declaring vengeance on everything outside their underground den. Declaring vengeance on him.

She blames him for losing the only men she ever held dearly in her heart-him and Grayson and anyone with a Bat on their chest who did not uphold their promise to keep Gotham safe. Who let Ra's Al Ghul nearly run it into the ground, and who, in turn, let Bruce sacrifice himself to save the people. He was sixteen when his mother stopped placing him on a pedestal and began hating him, when her eyes held no warmth for him ever again. When she started being a hallucination of his under the affects of fear gas.

"Mother," he acknowledges her, dragging himself from the pit his mind has burrowed itself into. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I came to see how you are faring, Habibi." She leans down, reaching out so her fingers hover above whatever wound adorns the right side of his head, not quite touching, but the smallest of hairs on his skin prickle at her nearness.

He snorts and she withdraws her hand, a derisive 'tut' on her lips. He catches sight of something small held in her other hand. "You had your little replacement beat me nearly to death-how do you think I am?"

Another 'tut'. "You may as well begin addressing Tallant as your brother, darling. After all, he is my son-more than you have been of late."

"He is nothing more than a mindless drone that you've twisted to suit your needs. A copy. A second chance."

"So were you, once."

He falls quiet because the remark stings, as though she'd slapped him across the face. It would have been preferable, really. He grits his teeth as she smiles, crossing her arms. "Why have you brought me here, Mother? For revenge? To lift the vice that settled around your heart when Father and Grand-"

"You do not get to speak of him! Neither of them, not anymore!" She snaps, her composure slipping a moment as her eyes widen and her hair looks wilder. But then she is back in control, a glare carefully constructed in it's place and he snickers.

The League follows her blindly as they did his grandfather before her, it is all they know-but Damian knows she is as unfit for the job as ever. She always has been. It is why Ra's looked so desperately for a successor in him, in his father-even in Drake. As ruthless as she can be, as cunning as she is, Talia is betrayed by her emotions. With Bruce, with him. Faced with the ideals she was taught and those she had grown to care for, she has always made the wrong choice.

And it is an unfortunate trait he has inherited where Brown is concerned.

"If you meant to kill me, you would have done so already."

"And if I plan to have you suffer, first?" Her sickening smile lets him know she's rather serious about this, and though the idea should make his skin crawl, it doesn't. Because he's got one more brilliant idea loaded on his tongue.

"You'd better make it quick, before the cavalry arrives."

"Oh, I don't think I need to be worried about that."

"I had Alfred sew trackers into all my clothes years ago, Mother. Even if your son stripped me of them before breaking my wrist, they would still have tracked my journey here."

"And they did. In fact, my precious Tallant was still educating you when that-" and here, her upper lip seems to curl in distaste a moment, "tramp of a girl arrived."

He tries not to let it show that his heart rate has spiked considerably at her less than pleasant mention of Brown. Because that's the only "girl" she could mean-she's never quite approved of his...companionship with the member of the bat-family holding the lowest social standing. Nevertheless, his mother sees right through him-easy enough to do when she's the one that taught him to bury his emotions.

"Yes, the girl is here." The use of present tense alleviates his dread only slightly. After all, this is the home of the League of Shadows and Brown is...well, Brown. "The speed with which she found you was admirable-but far less so was her walking in the front door and declaring her intent to rescue you."

He wants to facepalm. Or groan. Or both.

"The Shadows surrounded her in moments." The feeling of dread returns to press against his chest. "Fret not, Habibi-you rescued her."

Wait-what?

It is then he notices the small device she holds in her hand again-a remote. Her fingers tap at it, and a small screen slides free of the paneling in the wall behind her, flickering to life. And there is Brown, parading around in civilian clothing-it's not her Knightwing suit, strangely-and seemingly touring the grounds with...with him!

He knows his neutral expression has slipped when his mother begins cackling softly. "She's taken quite a shine to Tallant. I had not realized you and she were so involved, but judging from the way she received him-"

"Enough!" he snaps, slamming the chair legs down beneath him in anger. Pain erupts in his wrist as a result, but he ignores it, eyes focused on the suddenly-so-interesting ground.

"It burns you, doesn't it? To see that she is deceived so easily, to know that even the woman you care for cannot tell the difference."

She's right, though he would never admit it. Because if Brown is unable to see through Tallant's mimicry of him, who will? Grayson? Pennyworth? Though they have raised him, shaped him, spent years observing him in detail, they do not know him as...intimately as she does. If she cannot differentiate, what hope does he have that they will? What does it matter when someone who acts as he does can simply waltz in and replace him? And it is then that he realizes this is precisely what he plans to do-what his mother has planned.

"Ah, that is the look I awaited. You've figured it out, have you?"

"That you plan to have him replace me not just as your son, but as...everything else?"

"He is deadly, skilled, and obedient. He will be everything you were not."

"Yes, the perfect slave." He tries to sound condescending, disgusted, but it doesn't faze her. "The perfect tool."

"He will do what you never could. He will infiltrate the circle of bats as a son, a prodigy, a lover-" a low, guttural growl starts in the back of his throat, rolling forwards. "And then he will rip them apart, a dragon in a den of lions."

His gaze remains locked on the screen, watching Brown interact with his copy as his mother leans close by his ear, her voice laden with triumph. "This is why I have not killed you yet, my child. I will wait, and allow you to watch as your family is torn away from you, as everyone you care dearly for is destroyed-and at the end, when all the bats and birds have fallen from their mighty perch, and you have nothing left but the pain and the guilt of being unable to help them, then will have Tallant kill you."

She leaves him then. In silence, he watches the screen until he can no longer keep the rage down, and manages to hop the chair around so he faces the corner. The pain in his wrist flares up, but he does nothing to soothe it. He does not know how long he stays there, head bowed, but he does not care.

At least, he doesn't until he hears the door creak open, and voices he has dreaded hearing fill the room. "I would not approach him-though it took me little time to subdue him, he has still been trained by my mother and the League-he is dangerous."

"Yeah, yeah, you've told me three times now, Dami. I got it-don't touch the scary clone-boy." His stomach twists; the way she says his name actually sickens him. He hears the footsteps approach, hers as loud and stomping and un-ladylike as ever, his calm and calculated. She shuffles closer, and warmth lingers on his arm as she brushes past. "It's like Terminator meets Stepford Wives. It's real creepy, y'know, how much you look almost exactly alike."

And suddenly, she is there in front of him, hair falling in golden waves and looking far better than he imagines he does. He supposes the sight of her should comfort him, should bring him the pleasant feeling that he had attributed to being rescued. But he isn't being rescued, because she hasn't a clue that he's the real Damian, she hasn't any idea how foolish she is, how this will have ruined everything, how-

She leans down to his eye-level, seemingly examines him a moment as he looks up, and winks.

-how maybe she isn't so uselessly stupid after all. "Almost. Exactly. Alike," she repeats, before he hears the faint sound of humming, and spots the black hair clip by her ear that is anything but a fashionable accessory. "I'm pretty sure it's time for Mambo Number Five."

The skylight above them explodes with a nearly ear-shattering boom, and in drops three figures, one all in black, the second in red and the third toting guns and a worn-out leather jacket as if it isn't the most un-aerodynamic costume ever. Tallant stares wide-eyed a moment before one of them moves on him, and his self-preservation instincts kick in. Of course, Todd is the first. "C'mere, Clone Boy. Let's dance."

If it weren't such a ridiculously cliche movie trope, he'd tell Brown he could kiss her right now. "We need to stop meeting like this," she hums, lips pulling up at the corners for a smile. As the commotion starts, she leans closer and begins untying the bonds on his wrists. He hisses once as the pain bites at him, and she hesitates, a questioning look thrown his way. Her fingers brush lightly against the broken one, and she makes a face. "Ow."

"Yes. Very."

"Well, let's get you outta here so Alfred can take a look at it, yeah?" She smiles, an optimist in the face of overwhelming obstacles, as usual. Surely she must realize that escape will be difficult once Tallant is no longer the only assassin out for their blood? "Tim, how's it looking?"

As the ropes fall away, Damian regains mobility, and shifts in his seat to see that while Todd and Grayson have his clone engaged, Drake has positioned himself by the door, holo-screen protruding from his gauntlet. "They're close. Either the explosion was louder than I thought it would be, or Jason's guns are."

"It's prolly just his mouth," Grayson chuckles, smashing his elbow into Tallant's nose. It is in moments like these, fighting with them, that he is truly himself, and not the dark, brooding knight he has fashioned himself into for Father's sake.

"What's that about my mouth, Dick?" Todd speaks up, grinning wickedly as he slams the barrel of his gun against the clone's head.

"It never stops!" Brown chimes in, her gentle touch snaking beneath Damian's arms and helping him to his feet.

"Your assistance is unnecessary-I am capable of walking on my own."

"I know, but that doesn't mean you don't need a little boost. You kinda look like hell."

"Yes, well, you took your time."

She frowns, for a moment looking confused. "Did you think I enjoyed being paraded around by some cheap copy of you? Acting like it was you?"

He huffs. "And how exactly did you tell the difference between my precious...brother and I?"

She bites at her bottom lip. "Is this really the time? We've got your mother's flying monkeys on the incoming and a rescue to see through." He continues to stare, looking unimpressed with her efforts to avoid the question. So she shrugs as nonchalantly as she can, despite the fact that he can see her shaking ever-so-slightly. "He may sound like you and act like you, but he doesn't look one hundred percent like you. Clone you all she wants, she can't plan for scars that are more recent than him being flushed from his tube."

Her fingers press lightly against the skin beneath his eye-and the small, puckered scar, a remnant from that night with Black Mask. This small fact should appease him, clear his mind, but she stands quite close to him-as close as she would have had to stand to him, and so, it upsets him only that much more. She squirms briefly before snapping, "fine-he kissed me, okay?! He kissed me and it wasn't like you and that's how I knew!"

"Hey, lovebirds, how's about you save your squabbling for the ride home, yeah?" Todd snickers. "We're movin'."

Grayson slams his fist into Tallant's face one last time and the clone drops. He shakes it off and glances over at them. "Well, you heard him-let's go!"

"Sir, yes, sir," Brown chuckles, saluting him before reaching for Damian's arm. He pulls away from her touch, frowning, and it elicits a roll of her eyes. "Seriously?" Behind her, Grayson tosses a grappling line up through the shattered skylight.

At the door, Drake finishes fiddling with something Damian can't quite make out with one eye acting up, but when it whirs to life a moment later, he surmises it is either a pressurized bomb, or more likely; a pressurized lock that will buy them a small window of time. "C'mon, Grumpy, we'll talk about this once all five little birds hi-ho-home," she says, and just for a moment, the Disney reference entertains him-because unlike the past few weeks, he actually gets it.

But the moment passes as soon as they make it topside, in the winding gardens that surround the skylight and cover the underground quarters of the League that his mother's mansion hides. Assassins flood from the windows and rooftops, and the group of them form a wary circle. "So much for that-," Drake begins, before an explosion rocks the ground at their feet. Smoke billows up around them, and he sees the hint of a ridiculous smile plastered on Red Robin's lips.

It will not matter, in a moment. As the Shadows inch closer, Damian grits his teeth, knowing his wrist may not last much longer-afterall, he's trailing blood everywhere. "It's starting to look like Mordor's unhappy we simply walked in, boys. And this is more like the reception I was expecting," Brown mumbles, her nerves leaking through her quivering voice. She takes a step closer to him, knocking their elbows together, but he does not look over.

"M'sure we could have one of these fine ladies give us a kiss, if that'd even the playing field for you, Blondie."

"Shut up, Jason."

"I'm just saying! We deserve to get in on the action this time."

Damian's hands ball into fists as his blood boils. If the assassins do not leap soon, he will-and strangle the life out of Todd. "Jason," comes Grayson's warning tone. The mass of black leather and sharp knives closes in, and he feels Brown inch ever closer. He catches sight of Drake in his peripherals, watching her, and it fills him with a sort of sick delight.

Because no matter what happens now-no matter what has happened, leading up to this-she came after him. She came after him as she said she would. She chose him.

"Hey, Damian?" There is no lightness in her voice, none of the usual cheer and bubble. And the lack of nickname...he snaps to attention. "You know I love me some cliches and all, but this, well...," he glances over to be met with a familiar glint in her eyes, a tenderness that does very unpleasant things to his stomach and chest. The kind of look he remembers her having that night, after Black Mask and before everything else.

He opens his mouth to warn her away from whatever ridiculous train of thought she seems to be boarding, but no sound escapes his lips. It's a stagnant pause, and he thinks it's because part of him wants to hear what she has to say. Part of him knows, really. But he wants to hear her say it, just this once-even if it's the only time she ever does.

The Shadows close in, and his fingernails scrape against his palm as he attempts to choose what to watch; her or them. But when she speaks his eyes instantly focus on her quivering lips, the painful wrinkle in her brow, the way her hands clench and unclench at her sides. And without thinking, he reaches out and twines their fingers together wordlessly. He squeezes once, lightly; telling her to press on.

"Is this really the time?" Drake grunts, and Damian's quite sure he's never wanted to punch the boy more in his life.

But Brown ignores him, her fingernails digging into the palm of his hand and causing the red to fade from the edges of his vision. "I'm sorry I didn't pull my head outta my butt sooner, kid. I'm sorry I didn't have the sense to stay that night. I'm sorry I hurt you," she says it so simply, so mournfully, that he almost hasn't the will to keep from surrendering right then and there. But he needs to hear it from her lips, once and for all, to assure himself this is real and not some cruel, twisted joke his mother has concocted.

It's when she lets loose a laugh, contrasted against the tears in her eyes, that he knows this is it. "I'm sorry that I didn't realize that I-"

I think I may have loved you, once
I think you did

Now, when he opens his mouth, there are words building on his tongue, thoughts and feelings threatening to roll outwards (if he did feelings, that is.) But again, he doesn't quite manage to make sounds. And this time it has nothing to do with him-and everything to do with the the two-hundred pounds of black-clad assassin that has barrelled into his side, knocked the air from his lungs, and pushed him to the ground.

Brown and Grayson call for him, while Todd swears rather colorfully and relatiates by firing at the nearest Shadow, and Drake slams his bo staff into another. The one atop him hisses, and the lips that curl out from under the black fabric are distinctly masculine, so Damian feels nothing when he smashes his forehead into the man's nose. He pushes him off, noting that the others now have their hands full as well.

He rolls to his feet, ready to pounce, but someone else hits him before he gets the chance, someone bigger and stronger. Fists hit him in the kidneys, hard enough to have him doubling over, the pain leaving him sick and lightheaded. As if he hadn't been from bloodloss already, thank you. He has enough sense about him to duck the next blow, stumbling backwards and hitting the ground, hard. Pain tears into his wrist, and he thinks bitterly that this is it, this pathetic excuse for a fight is what does him in as the assassin looms above him, sneering.

Then he hears a large crack, and the man's eyes roll upwards behind his mask, shortly before he tumbles forward and hits the ground, face-first.

"Excuse you, interrupting a girl when she's about to life-or-death tell a guy she loves him is a real dick move." This time, he does not grouse when the petite blonde helps him up (partly because the kick she had just delivered to his attacker's head had been rather noteworthy.)

"Okay?" she asks, and he graces her with a half-grunt in response. He can pinpoint the moment she refrains from rolling her eyes at him. "And your head?"

"Fine." She smiles radiantly, and the brief pause that fighting off the first wave of Shadows has given them allows him to think. As the churning feeling in his stomach skyrockets into his throat, he grips her hand tightly, and lifts his chin towards his mother, who stands atop the stone staircase on the other side of the courtyard, watching. Her assassins have stilled their approach, and now circle the group of Robins like a pack of wolves on the scent of blood. His damaged wrist aches in protest as he forms a fist, blood trickling into his palm, and he thinks that this isn't much differently, really.

"What're they waitin' for," Todd grumbles, his fingers hovering over the trigger impatiently. His desire for a fight has not been sated, evidently.

"Me," Damian says, and feels Brown inch ever closer. "They're waiting for me to surrender. To give myself up in exchange for your lives."

"Only they don't do mercy," Drake says matter-of-factly.

"Precisely."

"C'mon, Debbie Downers, one of us might make it outta here alive." Todd sounds almost gleeful. "And my chances with these guys are preeeetty good."

"Enough, Jason," Grayson snaps, finally.

The only one who says nothing is Brown, who stands next to him, the same glint still burning in her eyes. But he has already made up his mind. He isn't going to play his mother's games anymore. She resists when he slips his hand from hers, and she sports a painfully confused look that he barely brings himself to ignore. He has long since considered her a weakness for him, the night with Scarecrow being a shining example of it.

But it is now, with an incomparable number of Shadows bearing down upon them and his mother's smug grin making his blood boil, that he realizes she is his strength, too. Words he would never utter aloud, but he's certain are evident on his face as he steps away from her, from the other boys, and towards his mother.

He makes it two feet before Brown collides with him; lips, body and-well, she's the one for cliches, not him. Her mouth covers his in an instant, hard and fast, and she practically inhales him as she presses herself close. The faint smell of pomegranate fills his nostrils as his fingers tangle in her hair, and her hands find the collar of his shirt, tightening into fists and holding on. This is nothing like the times she has kissed him before. This is focused, full of need, and it feels for a moment like the world has dropped away around them.

When she pulls away, her forehead pausing briefly against his, she whispers, "I need you, y'know."

"I know."

When he turns away from her, finally, he sees that the smug look is gone from his mother's lips, now. Instead, it snakes across his own. He squares his shoulders, steps forward, and as he speaks, his voice reverberates through the whole courtyard. "Go ahead, mother. Finish whatever it is you think you've started. It matters to me no longer. You cannot make me suffer by hurting them-they are not weak, they will not break as easily as your toys, and I have long outgrown being afraid of you."

I am happy. The words fill in the gaps that his voice doesn't, and though he doesn't say them aloud (he doesn't need to say much aloud, with his mother), he sees the realization wash over her face. Wrinkle lines deepen, anger flares brightly in her eyes, and he must say he's impressed she retains her composure. The Al Ghul line is not known for it, afterall.

"You have outgrown your fear of me?" She looks infuriated, but a smirk winds its way across her lips, different from the one she's worn so far; different from his own. This is not smug, nor winning-this is some twisted form of pride. "You surprise me, child. Though, I suppose you are not a child anymore, are you?" A pause, where her lips part wider, and her voice rises so that everyone-him, the Robins, and the shadows in her court-can hear her. "Be afraid a while longer, Habibi. Be afraid enough to run."

She does not say there is hope for you yet, my son, but she does not need to. It's clear as day, to him. Because now she's seen that he has something to fight for-something to live for. She knows a weakness that could break him, or a strength she could use to mold him into the leader she seeks. Whichever way she plays it, she knows now that she still has puppet strings to pull and the means to manipulate his life again, as she did when he was young.

If they leave now, things are far from over, and part of him thinks, damn his mother to hell, finish it now. It'd be far simpler-far safer for those standing by him. Grayson clears his throat, and when Damian turns to look at him, a question hangs in his eyes. He knows the choice being offered. He knows how Talia works-after all, he pulled Damian from her clutches once before. What do you choose?

A fight to the death, or a lifetime of looking over your shoulder, wondering when she'll surface next. The choice is simple, really.

He exhales through clenched teeth, wiggles the fingers in his hand to assure his wrist hasn't cost him their use yet, and steps forward again.

"What're you doing, Damian?" Brown questions from behind him, and he hears the dread in her voice. "Dick, what is he doing?"

"Something I should have long ago," he says. "Ending my mother's hold on me."

"You mean to challenge me? Oh, Damian, please. Don't make me laugh." Yet still, a soft, cascading laugh ripples forth from her lips. "I taught you everything you know, boy."

"Not everything." He feigns nonchalance, even throwing in a half-hearted drawl as he continues. "I am the son of the bat. I grew up surrounded by acrobats and ninja and some of the most-" here, his eyes drift back to Brown and the others, "inventive and improvisational of the bat clan. I have learned much, mother. It is time I showed you." He raises one hand-the one that functions at one hundred percent-and bows, a gesture simple enough in nature that extends his challenge. The courtyard is eerily quiet, at a standstill, but he's quite sure he can still hear her grinding her teeth together.

"You know what it means to challenge me, Damian."

His brows set in a hard line. "I do."

She looks for a moment disappointed, like she expected better of him, but it's gone an instant later, replaced by a hunger so fierce she resembles a caged lionness who has not been allowed to hunt in months, years even. Which would unfortunately make him prey. "Then I accept."

Murmurs split the crowd of Shadows. Emotions hidden behind masks, they back away from the bats, creating a ring at their center, encircling the remains of the skylight and garden. They're tense, on edge-it has been quite a long time since the Al Ghul line has seen unrest like this.

Talia descends the steps slowly, with painstaking elegance as they all look on with bated breath. But not Damian. No, he knows it's all for show, a delay meant to fill the stage with suspense, so that when they're all least expecting it, she'll leap. It's meant to draw out his rapidly thinning patience, to goad him into striking first. It should make him impatient, sloppy, but he's played this game with more of Gotham's filth than he cares to remember-and he's gotten very good at winning.

It's a slow jog when he takes off, but an all out sprint once he picks up speed. He can already see the smirk painting itself across his mother's lips, that lioness grin stretching wider and wider as he nears, as the stairs melt away and she reaches even with the rest of the courtyard. Then, at the last second, she disappears, smoke amongst a sea of black. He sees the knife pierce the air where she'd been expecting him to be, where he'd veered from as she made her move, and instead struck a Shadow he'd swapped places with.

"Very good, darling-using my own tricks against me," he hears her voice say from the left a moment before she comes at him from the right. He has to fold into a crouch to avoid the second knife, but the third, this time in her hand, grazes his arm. Damian grits his teeth against the sting, and swings out a leg, narrowly missing her. He rolls back, away from her, using the momentum to spring to his feet and sidestep the third knife as it arcs past him.

"If I didn't know any better, mother, I'd say you weren't even trying."

He hears the mix of Todd and Brown in his voice, and feels his lips peel back into a grin that's almost Grayson. Though taunting, he speaks the truth. She isn't trying-at least, not to kill him. The knives are all warnings, filled with the same disappointment he glimpsed when he stood his ground instead of running, tail between his legs. She is still giving him the option to walk away, to continue the endless back and forth game they've been playing for a handful of years. It's all still just a show.

But he meant it when he said he outgrew it long ago.

"It is a good thing you know better, then." Standing just a few feet from him, across the open courtyard, Talia's composure remains undaunted, perfectly well put-together, but her eyes betray her. Palms flat, he beckons her forward, then bends at the knees, lowering enough to steady himself. It is a moment still before she moves, as she ponders her next move and takes in his stance, calculating the weak points she will strike.

Damian never gives her the chance. She's halfway to him when he slips down through the shattered skylight, and hangs from it using his bad wrist. A curse hisses past his clenched teeth as his good arm reaches up, snags the folds of her robes, and pulls. He hears the satisfying thud as she hits the ground, and wastes no time in swinging himself back up.

Only to be met with the heel of her shoe.

The back of his head connects with a pane of glass not decimated by Drake's bomb, and he hears it crack. Everything spins out of focus a moment, blurs and twists, but then Talia's looming over him, and he flashes back to the alley the night Crane attacked. This is not a place he wants to be. He rolls away from her as she moves to stomp him into the ground, and the force of her kick shatters the glass he'd weakened.

His mother falls forward as it gives out beneath her, and the move is the only thing that saves her from the shard of glass clutched tightly in his hand. He backpedals with his good arm, stands in tandem with her, and catches sight of her split lip and sliced cheek; a result of this fall or the first, he does not know.

"If I didn't know better, my child, I would say you are trying too hard," she remarks casually. "Tell me, is the wrist Tallant broke failing you already?"

"Tallant?" he tries to muster the most infuriating grin possible, all while the pain in his wrist flares up as if to spitefully confirm her words. "You mean the clone lying in a pool of his own blood beneath you?"

She laughs, quite derisively. "If you mean to shock me, Damian, you efforts are best directed somewhere else. He outlived his purpose the moment your little friends arrived."

And it's the way she spits out the word friends that gives him an opening. Because deny it all she wants, she cares for Tallant as she cares for him, as she has cared for every copy she has raised and called son. She is, at her core, a mother, no matter how poorly she wears the title.

"My family, you mean," he nods. "The people who have done more for me in the last eight years then you could have in a lifetime. The ones who have taken yet another child from you."

The words are enough this time, enough to make her look down, through the shattered glass and lingering smoke to catch a glimpse of her broken son. Enough to give Damian the opening he needs. The glass held tightly in his weak hand races towards her faster than his feet carry him.

She just barely catches it before it strikes her shoulder, just wide of her heart. He sees the blood blossom on her hand even at this distance, and watches her lips part, no doubt to mock the poor aim his damaged wrist gives him, but he's upon her already and thus, she is not given the time.

With one move, he's pushed her hand towards her, forcing the glass shard into her skin, and in the next, his leg has swept hers from beneath her. This time, he hears a crack that isn't a window pane, and watches her eyes widen as pain blooms at the base of her skull and shoulder both.

Were he borrowing humor from Brown or Todd again, or even Grayson on a good day, he might offer to help her with the glass shard aloud before ripping it free of her shoulder. As it is, he wishes to be done with this dance before his knees buckle entirely, or exhaustion and pain cripple him further.

"Enough, mother," Damian breathes, the sharp edge trained at her throat as he crouches by her. "It is over."

She smiles crookedly with the busted lip. "Not quite."

With a sigh, he steps back, keeping a firm grip on the glass without drawing blood. "I will extend to you the same courtesy you have given me more than once today-I will not kill you. But know that I could. Know that I wish to end this now, to sever all ties and keep the League away from me, from my family, and from all of Gotham."

"You ask for much for someone who will not finish things with tradition," she says.

"I swore an oath when I was accepted by father and my brothers, and I have not broken it in the years since. I will not waste that on your foolish traditions, mother."

There is a stagnant pause, a silence that stretches past them and rolls outwards, reaching the Shadows and bats, cementing his words and determination with every breath. "Am I understood?"

A longer moment still before his mother answers. "Very clearly."

He does not try to mask the relief he feels. His shoulders drop and his jaw unclenches and he murmurs a thank you in his head he will not speak aloud. In response, his muscles and bones ache, finally voicing his exhaustion as a complaint he feels all over.

His mistake is giving in to them.

Anxious to get away from this place, to never see his mother and her puppets ever again, he turns away from her. He faces the family he has chosen as he turns his back on her for the final time, and that is when she strikes.

"Damian!" Brown's warning registers alongside Grayson's, and he pivots, releasing the shard of glass he'd kept a firm grip on. Flung from his good hand this time, it finds its mark without interruption, while the knife she'd thrown, the one the others had seen coming (that he should have, too) goes wide and misses him entirely.

It's all instinct, reflex and he barely realizes it is over at once. He is back at his mother's side in an instant, hands hovering over the shard now embedded in her chest, over the stream of blood blooming around it. Though the lines in her face indicate pain, the smile sitting neatly on her lips reads happiness, especially when accompanied by the twinkle in her eyes.

"Thank you," she breathes, her hand coming to rest gently on his cheek. "You have always been the man I'd hoped you'd be, molded not only by your father and I, but the others as well. A man worthy of the League's respect, and of a mother's pride."

"You did not have to," he says, and the part of him that's still a little boy desperate for his mother's love aches. "I did not want-"

"I know," she smiles, and this time, it is sad. "But I did. I can see them now; father and my beloved. It has been...so long. How happy they will be when I tell them...of the man...the leader...you've become. I am only sorry...I had to take so much from you to make...you...so..."

He wants to say a million and one things to her, to blame or thank her, both. But no sound escapes his lips, and all too soon her eyes roll back. "Mother?" he tries, though he knows it's futile. He shakes her, as though waking from slumber. "Mother?"

If his voice quivers with the memory of being sixteen and being told his father and grandfather were dead, he does not notice. Because then, it was not his choice. Then, he was not in control-not like now. Now, with his mother's blood on his hands, a fate he never wanted for either of them.

"Damian!" For one ridiculous moment, he thinks Talia has played him one last time, but then it clicks that there's distance between him and his name, and that the speaker is distinctly masculine. He looks back towards Grayson, and he knows at once something is wrong. His eyes are wide and he is crouched along with Drake, while Todd looks down, his mouth set in a hard line. And Brown-

"No!" He's on his feet in an instant, her name catching in his throat, constricting.

I am only sorry...I had to take so much from you to make...you...so...

His mother's words hit him with considerable force, and he suddenly finds it very difficult to breathe. He sees for a moment her final knife, thrown wide, and knows with certainty it hit its intended target after all.

"No," he repeats, knees hitting the ground somewhere in between his brothers, arms reaching forward, fingers almost shaking. He feels the knife before he sees it, and Drake, who caught her before she hit the ground (making this an occasion where Damian would rather thank him than punch him), slides her somewhat hesitantly in Damian's arms. "Brown..."

This time he's sure he hears his voice quake, much as it did the night he found her in the alley in a pool of her own blood. Now, it takes him a moment to focus, to notice there is no blood and rather than fading, her pulse has doubled. And when she groans, it sounds annoyed, not pained.

"Crap, that hurt," she mutters, soft and plaintive. Slowly, she comes alive in his arms, eyes opening and hands sliding to the offending blade's hilt, where they rest on his. She meets his shock with bright blue eyes and a radiant smile that's somewhere between mischievous and abundantly proud of herself.

"B-Brown! But I thought-" words fail him.

"What? That I was dead?" she sits up straight, fingers slipping past his to clasp the blade. "I thought we agreed we were going to stop almost dying just to get the other person to-"

He completes her sentence by pressing his lips to hers, and hears what he assumes to be Grayson tapping Drake over the head when the latter curses. Damian breaks the kiss once Todd begins catcalling and watches a red that matches the idiot's helmet creep across Brown's cheeks.

He doesn't wait to ask how; he pulls at her shirt until it lifts to reveal that despite his initial belief, she did wear her suit. Or at least, the reinforced bodysuit that did a fair job of stopping the knife in its path. "Wow," she says with a laugh, playfully pushing at his chest. "Someone needs to teach you boundaries again, D."

There is a beat during which he is acutely aware of her hand pressing against his chest, before the rest of the world catches up and the smile falls from eyes no longer focused on him, but past him. "Apparently the stalker squad needs a refresher lesson, too."

Slowly, he and Brown stand to join the others, and Damian turns to see the crowd of ninja closing in as one. Some drop to their knee, while others bow their heads-but all acknowledge what has happened.

"Are they bowing to us?" Todd whistles again, and the grin that stretches ear to ear spell all kinds of trouble.

"They're bowing to him," Drake nods in Damian's direction, barely masking his disdain.

"Well, that's creepy," Brown says, and squeezes his hand. Two among them step forward to stand on either side of Talia, while Pru emerges at the front, dropping to a knee before him. "Why are they being creepy?"

"He challenged the Demon's Head for the throne. He won. The League of Shadows recognizes its new master," she speaks slowly, deliberately, and by the way Brown bristles beside him, she has caught the condescending tone. It probably helps that he spent most of his early teenage years addressing her similarly.

"The kid didn't challenge her for anything other than a ticket out of crazy town," Todd sounds confused.

"And, y'know, our lives," Brown mutters.

"It did not matter," Damian sighs. "The moment I issued the challenge, I knew what it meant. To face my mother for our freedom, or anything simpler, it would not have made a difference."

He looks out at the crowd of Shadows, then, and is unsure how to feel about it. If his mother had offered him the world at ten, or twelve, perhaps even his darkest moments at sixteen, he'd have taken it. But nearly half a lifetime playing by his father's rules alongside bird and bat, alongside family, has changed him, and as a jaded man of nineteen he wants none of it. He wants no part in the world that orchestrated the death of his father, grandfather, and now, his mother.

He sighs a second time, rolling his sore shoulder as he ponders what to say. He understands that this should be an honor, that it is his birthright, but it leaves such a bitter taste in his mouth. "I do not wish to disrespect my mother's choices," he begins, raising his voice so it reaches them all. "But I hold no loyalty to the League and it's archaic traditions. I have no use for assassins and ninja at my beckon call. My duty is to Gotham and it's people."

"The Shadows are yours," Pru says, insistent. As though he needs only to be reminded a handful of times more to believe, and to accept.

"No," he shakes his head, gaze level. "They-you-are now your own people." He takes a step forward, towards them, glancing at Brown as he does. She smiles hesitantly, unsure of his next move. But she needn't worry; he knows what he wants, now. He knows that she wants the same thing, and he has the opportunity to experience happiness.

So he takes the leap. "Henceforth, the League of Shadows is no more. No longer an entity meant for death, an insidious thought meant to cripple the weak and strangle the poor." What little he can see of them beneath masks and hoods looks conflicted. "You are not Shadows, anymore. You are people. Your own, free people, independent and capable of making choices for yourselves, and not for a leader. Capable of finding a purpose other than killing."

An eerie quiet settles in the courtyard as he finishes. "Seek life. Enjoy it."

Pru's brows crease together, and she speaks when the others won't. "An easier given task than undertaken. Most of us were raised Shadows, si-" she hesitates, the word catching in her mouth thickly when he offers her a reprimanding glare. When she speaks again, it sounds as though it's with great difficulty. "Damian."

At least it's a start.

"I'd be happy to show you how," Todd speaks up then, and Damian doesn't need to turn to know there's a disgusting leer painted on his features. "I'm an excellent teacher."

"No," Damian says firmly, looking around the crowd of Shadows again. "Should they need help adjusting, perhaps Drake would be a more suitable companion. He understands the inept social skills found in the everyday, bland human being, at the very least."

There is a long, drawn-out moment as his words sink in. Then, both Grayson and Todd are doubled-over, practically clinging to each other's stomachs as laughter ripples outwards from them. Drake smiles thinly at the joke, while his brothers continue to howl about the kid actually making one. They laugh pretty much the whole way home, until Brown pulls the van over and tells them to shut up, or walk. Damian nearly tells her he loves her, then. But he doesn't.

Instead, he waits.

And he waits hours. Long after everyone's gone off to change out of their suits and clean up. After Pennyworth's accosted him with needle and thread and held him still with a gaze so sharp, Damian thinks it'd be wise to stay in this chair, maybe until the end of time. After a shower in which he scalds off what is likely an entire three layers of skin and curses his wrist until he's blue in the face. After they've all found their way to the kitchen and shared a few drinks in celebration of, well, not dying, surprisingly enough.

After mostly everyone has shuffled off to sleep for three days. And as much as Damian would like to join them, he finds it might be rather difficult when he finally limps to his bedroom and finds he has company. Clad in what might be the same shorts and tee as the night after Black Mask, Brown sits on the edge of his bed, hands pooled in her lap.

The smile that paints itself across her mouth is hesitant, almost shy, and crooked at the corner where her lip is split. "Hi."

"Hello." He ducks his head when she pats the mattress next to her, but quietly makes his way over anyway. When he sits, her fingers brush against his, carefully plucking the half-empty glass of bourbon he'd brought from the kitchen from his grasp. Damian watches as she downs it, then frowns. "That was for the pain."

He lifts his wrist, tightly held in a temporary cast, as proof. She smiles, a nervous tremble to her lip, but her eyes are bright, fixed on him. "M'pretty sure Alfred gave you painkillers," she says, and it almost sounds scolding. "Mixing's a no-no, Little D." Yes, definitely scolding.

"Pennyworth gave us all painkillers," Damian points out.

"Did he?" One brow quirks, and there's a loose shrug of her shoulders. "Must've slipped my mind."

A long, heavy silence settles between them, and he notices Brown fidget uncomfortably, her fingers tightening around the glass she still holds. She sucks in a shaky breath, then; "I'm sorry."

He blinks, because that certainly hadn't been what he'd expected. "Sorry? What for?" Quick to help, his brain supplies him with the image of her and his clone-brother tangled together, of his blood boiling, rage bubbling in his throat when he'd realized she'd kissed Tallant, thinking it was him. He nearly winces when he remembers the bite of his words, accusing her when she'd only come to rescue him.

Brown opens her mouth to speak, but he grunts, shaking his head. "Don't be. It was stupid of me to be angry with you."

"What?" She looks confused, so he clears his throat and elaborates.

"It was the most reasonable course of action at the time, I see that now. And it worked out in the end, I think." He tries very hard not to pose it as a question.

"Well, yeah, but-"

"If anyone should be apologizing, it is me. I overreacted and didn't realize you were trying to-" he presses, watching as her confusion dissolves into a frown, quickly betrayed by the pitying smile on her lips. "What?"

"I don't think we're talking about the same things, Damian," she says, and she sounds sort of sad.

"What?" he repeats, and it earns him a laugh, sweet and soft as it tumbles from her lips.

Slowly, she leans across him to place the glass on his bedside table, then scoots closer, her thigh coming to rest against his. "I wasn't apologizing for what happened with your...clone," the word comes out careful as she dances around using something closer to home. "I figured that was kind of, a given, or whatevs." She lifts her hand to wave it off, but he notices the tremble in her fingers as they settle against his thigh.

And he certainly notices the way his skin warms at her touch, a spark that zigzags through his body like lightning, igniting familiarity in his bones. It reminds him all too easily of the night after Black Mask, of the last time they'd been alone in his room, of the slow-building inferno her touch had started in his gut. And that's when it clicks.

"Oh," he manages to say, but it's thick against his tongue. He feels like an idiot.

"Oh," Brown mimics, but the word curves hesitantly upwards with her lips. "I've never really...apologized for that night. For running out on you. At least, not properly. I tried that night on the roof, but, well..."

The trembling worsens, so he laces their fingers together, squeezing tightly, content to find that Pennyworth's painkillers numb the pain in his wrist. "We are here now. You don't have to-"

"I do," she cuts him off, and her laugh's just as shaky. "I was a total coward, and a selfish one at that. I ran off without ever thinking of how it would affect you, of how you'd feel." Her lips purse, her brows knit together, and a redness builds in her cheeks. "Actually, no, that's exactly why I took off."

"You called me Stephanie that night, you remember?" She seems to realize it's a ridiculous question before the words even form in his throat. "Of course you do," she laughs again, shaking her head. She bites at her bottom lip, then sighs. "You'd never called me that before, and I guess I just...I realized what that meant-what it could mean, anyway-and I panicked."

"I was afraid of what you felt, but mostly, I was afraid of what I felt. Because I didn't know what that was and-and I didn't want to hurt you if I didn't-if it wasn't…," the words fall away from her, and she grimaces. He can't help but smile, softly. "And I know that's exactly what I ended up doing, so double stupid points to me."

Damian reaches forward, fingers held against her chin, turning her to face him. "You're not stupid," he says, and in their proximity, he feels her breath ghost over his lips as she laughs.

"I think ten to sixteen-year-old you would have to disagree." It's an easy joke, a comfortable slip of the tongue to help defuse tension, perhaps even shake the serious tone, and Damian's having none of it.

"I wasn't kidding," and when she grins almost childishly, a brow raising into her hairline, he's the one who feels stupid. "Now, I mean. I'm not kidding now."

"Mhmm."

He huffs, and turns away from her with a roll of his eyes. She's beginning to grate on his nerves again. It's a moment before he feels her fingertips curl against his jaw, drawing him back to her. He offers very little resistance, and his eyes lock together with hers; bright and sparkling and blue. "M'sorry," Brown whispers. Damian grunts in response, low and guttural, the tip of his nose ghosting against hers. "About everything."

"As am I," he responds, leaning into her touch, his forehead pressing against hers. There's a beat before he closes the distance between their lips, too. His good hand slides up to tangle in her hair, while the other squeezes the fingers intertwined with his. She seems to melt into him, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and she pushes back fervently. His back hits a nest of pillows with a gentle thud, and her arms circle around him, pressing her closer as Brown takes control of the kiss.

Damian's lips part and she runs a tongue across them, heat pouring out of her skin, wrapping around him like a safety blanket he has no intention of abandoning. Her fingers dance at the hem of his pants, just beneath his shirt, and he responds with a groan. She settles above him, and he reaches up, hands ghosting a path from her thighs up to her waist. He stops when they meet her ribs, and as she moves, her elbow knocking against his bandaged wrist, he lets out a curse, a simple hiss between his teeth.

And it's enough to break the spell. She pulls back, cheeks flushed and air tousled, concern weaving across her face. "Damian?"

"It's-I'm alright, Brown. I'm fine." Carefully, she caresses his cast with gentle fingers, then his cheek, looking down at him with a glint in her eyes he can't quite read. "I'm fine."

"Stephanie," she says, so low and so soft, he nearly misses it. But then she slides off him, settling onto the mattress and snuggling close to him, her head pressed against his chest, and when she repeats herself, there's no mistaking it. "You can call me Stephanie, you know."

Damian swallows a response of 'because that's worked out well for me so far' and instead, reaches up with his good hand to comb his fingers through her hair. "Stephanie," he tries it out, and fights the urge to smile around the name. She lets out a contented noise in response, and he tries not to sound disappointed when he says, "we didn't have to stop, you know." He can already feel the heat thrumming out of her, he knows it would be easy to let it pull him under.

"I know," she purrs, her breath tickling his neck as she looks up. "But we have all the time in the world to keep going." She leans closer, presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he catches a radiant smile as she settles back down. The room is beginning to dim.

"I love you," Stephanie whispers, and her fingers twine carefully around his damaged ones.

"I love you, too," he responds, and it isn't long before he gives in, letting her presence lull him to sleep, knowing that this time, she'll be there when he wakes.