Damian had four so-called siblings: one he hated, one he grudgingly respected, one was Grayson, and one he tried not to think about.
This fourth was only a brother in the loosest of terms, he didn't even consider himself to be part of the family, and Damian had only met him a couple of times.
Still, sometimes when he was alone, when he couldn't keep his thoughts in check, they would wander.
"What were you thinking, Dick?"
The voice is loud, harsh. From his hiding place, Damian winces. Grayson does not.
"I did what I thought was best for Damian." His voice is softer, but no less firm. If he hadn't been living with the man for the past year, Damian would never have detected the hurt in it.
"You can't trust him."
"I do."
He says it so simply. Like it is beyond a doubt, a truth that always was and always will be. It's stupid but it fills Damian with warmth. All the same it is Father's opinion that matters.
There is a look in Grayson's eyes that is bright and dangerous. It's almost impressive how he can be so intimidating lying in bed like that with his head wrapped up.
Father, of course, is not intimidated.
"He's an assassin."
Father's voice is made of ice, dispassionate and unyielding, and just like that he kills the warmth.
"He's a kid!" It is like that voice that made Damian so cold has lit Grayson aflame with anger and frustration.
"That does not excuse what he has done, and it does not make him trustworthy."
The words hit Damian full force, their accusation tearing into him. Because what if he is genuinely trying to change? What if he has stopped killing and tried (more or less) to do things the right way, Grayson's way? It does not change what he has done, and it does not make him worthy, not in the eyes of the only one who matters.
"He is your son, Bruce."
Grayson does not scream. He does not even yell. But his words reverberate through the air, full of raw emotion.
Father's expression remains perfectly blank.
"That is irrelevant. Damian shall no longer be Robin." Father's voice is full of Authority, as only his voice can be. His words echo in Damian's mind like a death knell. That is irrelevant.
"No," Grayson says firmly, and Damian is surprised dissension is possible, "Robin is my name as it has always been, and I gave it to Damian. You have never had the right to decide who is or isn't Robin."
Grayson's voice grows louder with each word and is full of savage emotion, deep and old and breath taking. Father stares at him in what Damian supposes to be shock. There is History here, and Father cannot believe Grayson chose to dig it up.
"Now," Grayson says, voice deceptively calm, "How about we continue this nice talk when I'm not recovering from brain surgery."
The guilt that floods Father might have been hidden, but Damian has learned to read Grayson through his constant, infuriatingly annoying, all-is-rainbows-and-sunshine cheerfulness. He is an expert.
As he reaches the door leading out of the cave, Father turns just long enough to say, "Good night, Dick."
His words are gentle, but they are not an apology.
Grayson sighs when the door closes.
"You can come out now, Dami."
Damian jumps. How long has he known?
He comes down from his hiding place and they observe each other for a few moments. Grayson looks utterly exhausted. Father should not have taxed him so.
Grayson gives him a smile that is knowing and kind and equal parts genuine and fake. There is sadness and a hundred other emotions that Damian can't quite decipher underneath it.
"He'll come around, you know."
"Rest, idiot," Damian says.
Damian walks silently through the shadows of the bat cave. Perhaps he can surprise his father.
He freezes when he sees the figure standing in front of the display cases. In front of the uniform of the second Robin. This is a private moment. The feeling of intruding, of not belonging here almost overwhelms him.
"Please, Jay lad. Just come home." The voice is soft, not intended for the ears of others.
His father's face holds an expression of vulnerability it would never have shown were he not so secure in his solitude. There is pain and loss and nostalgia there, and love so unconditional it hurts to look at.
Damian leaves as silently as he had come.
Damian is four years old today. Mother had promised to come see him and begin instructing him personally, but matters have arisen and she can't make it. Something about an undead boy. Instead she gifts him with a private jet and an instructor to teach him to fly it, two ornate and well-crafted swords, and a small island.
He endeavors to be pleased.
Red Hood is collaborating with the bats. It is decided that he will accompany Damian in infiltrating a gang's base of operations.
"Tt. I was trained to defeat armies. I do not need Hood's assistance.
"We were trained by the same people, you know," Todd says.
Damian knows.
"You once told me that family is not necessarily bound by blood. I assume the inverse is true as well."
Grayson regards him, considering his words.
"Bruce loves you," he finally says, "He may not really show it well, but he does."
Damian does not say "And Mother?" but perhaps Grayson can see it in his eyes.
"C'mere," Grayson says, pulling him into a hug.
You would think it would be easier not to think about Jason Todd.