Chapter Text
Alfred stood beside the car, waiting patiently as a steady stream of travelers poured out of the airport. His hands were neatly folded behind his back, a small frown settling on his face as he remained still, eyes scanning the crowd.
Then, he saw him.
Master Damian.
The boy—now ten years old—looked different from the last time Alfred had seen him. He clutched the handle of his suitcase in one hand, the other gripping the strap of an overstuffed backpack that hung heavily on his shoulders. His posture was tense, rigid, as if bracing for something unseen. Beside him, a man—likely in his late thirties—walked with a stiff, no-nonsense air, his expression unreadable. He led Damian forward with an almost mechanical detachment, making no effort to glance at the child he was escorting.
Alfred stepped toward them, maintaining a polite smile even as his chest tightened at the sight. The man barely acknowledged him, offering a brief nod before turning away without a word.
Alfred ignored him. His focus was on the boy.
"Master Damian," he said, keeping his voice soft, measured. "It is good to have you back."
Damian only nodded, his eyes fixed on the ground, not saying a word.
The old butler led the little boy to the car, his heart heavy when Damian clutched his suitcase tightly, refusing to let go even when Alfred offered to carry it.
“That is quite alright, Master Damian. You can keep your suitcase with you,” Alfred assured, though his chest tightened when the boy curled around his bags in the backseat, holding onto them as if someone might take them away.
This was going to be a long drive.
By the time they reached Wayne Manor, the sky had darkened, and the estate stood tall against the night. The outdoor lights illuminated the stone walls, and the familiar ivy creeping up the sides of the mansion looked untouched, just as Alfred had left it. The windows glowed softly from within, casting a warm light onto the driveway.
Alfred glanced at Damian through the rearview mirror. The boy hadn't moved much during the drive, his grip on his belongings still firm.
They were home. But Alfred wasn’t sure if Damian saw it that way.
When they stepped out of the car, Damian followed Alfred inside without a word, his posture tense—far too tense for a ten-year-old. Alfred led him through the grand entrance, resting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, only to feel him stiffen beneath his touch. He nearly flinched.
Alfred pretended not to notice.
“Alfred, you’re back.”
Bruce’s voice broke the silence in the air, drawing Alfred’s attention to the man sitting on the couch, papers spread across the small table in front of him. He started to smile, but it faltered the moment he noticed the small figure standing beside Alfred.
“Damian.”
Bruce cleared his throat, his gaze settling on the boy. Damian hadn’t let go of his bags, fingers still curled tightly around them, his knuckles white from the strain. He looked… smaller than Bruce remembered.
The Damian he recalled was a sharp-tongued, arrogant mini-prince who had once tried to kill his son. Ra’s Al Ghul’s perfect heir. A boy who carried himself with pride, chin held high as he boasted about being the blood son.
But this boy?
He was hunched over, gripping his bags like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. The arrogance was gone.
Bruce wasn’t sure what to say.
“Damian,” He repeated, his voice clearer when Alfred shot him a look that silently ordered him to behave, “It’s good to have you back with us.”
He was expecting a snarky comment to follow, some sharp remark or an unimpressed glare. Instead, all he got was a lifeless nod.
Alfred sighed.
Bruce hadn’t seen his son in a year, and this was certainly not what he expected.
The silence stretched uncomfortably before Alfred gently cleared his throat. “Come along, Master Damian. Let’s get you settled.”
The boy didn’t protest as Alfred led him up the grand staircase, his footsteps nearly silent against the polished floors. His grip on his bags never loosened, even as they stopped in front of a familiar door.
Alfred pushed it open, revealing Damian’s old bedroom—untouched since the day he left. The bed was neatly made, the bookshelves lined with the same titles, and the faint scent of wood and linen filled the space. It was the same room, but Damian stood in the doorway like a stranger.
Alfred turned to him, voice soft. “Your room is just as you left it.”
Damian didn’t respond. He simply stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the space before he slowly—hesitantly—set his bags down by the bed.
Alfred lingered for a moment, watching him, before deciding to give the boy some space. “Dinner will be ready in about thirty minutes, Master Damian,” he said gently. “I’ll come get you when it’s time.”
With that, he stepped out, leaving Damian alone in the quiet room.
The butler headed downstairs, meeting Bruce in the living room. The man was still as confused as ever, staring at the wall like it had his answers.
“What just happened, Alfie?” Bruce muttered, running a hand through his hair with a sigh.
“I fear that sending Master Damian away has only done more harm than good,” Alfred said, his voice heavy with concern. He placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder.
Bruce exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly as he glanced toward the staircase.
Thirty minutes passed in relative silence before Alfred made his way upstairs. He knocked lightly on Damian’s door before pushing it open just enough to peer inside.
“Master Damian, dinner is ready,” he said, keeping his tone gentle but firm.
The boy was sitting on the bed, still in the same spot where Alfred had left him, his posture stiff. For a brief moment, it seemed like he hadn’t heard him at all.
But after a few seconds, Damian gave a small nod and slowly stood, his movements careful, almost hesitant.
Alfred didn’t comment on it. Instead, he stepped aside, allowing the boy to follow him downstairs.
The butler was a tad worried about how Damian would react when he saw Tim seated next to Bruce, chatting happily about a new case he was working on. But all the boy did was allow Alfred to guide him to his seat, settling in without a word.
Tim barely spared him a glance at first, too caught up in his conversation—until he finally turned, smirking.
“Look who we have here,” Tim snarked, rolling his eyes when Bruce shot him a warning look. “Demon brat.”
He was fully expecting a knife to fly at his head or maybe a sword slicing dangerously close to his throat. But all he got was… nothing.
Damian didn’t even look up. No glare, no biting remark, no barely restrained threat of violence. He simply kept his eyes on the soup Alfred placed in front of him, hands steady as he picked up his spoon.
Tim blinked, his smirk faltering.
That wasn’t normal.
Bruce sighed, clearing his throat as he began to eat his own meal. He gestured for Tim to continue speaking, giving him a silent permission to keep talking while Damian ate.
Tim, eager to keep the conversation going, did continue. But his words came more slowly as his eyes kept drifting to Damian, a frown tugging at his lips when he noticed the lifeless green eyes fixed on the plate in front of him.
The silence at the table stretched on, interrupted only by the sound of silverware clinking against plates.
Once they were all finished, Alfred collected the dishes and excused himself to the kitchen. Bruce glanced at Damian’s exhausted form, watching the boy barely move as he pushed his food around, barely touching it. With a sigh, Bruce spoke up.
“You may go rest in your bedroom, Damian.”
Damian didn’t respond—no word, no glance, not even a shift of acknowledgment. He simply stood and walked upstairs, his movements slow and deliberate, as though each step was an effort.
Tim turned to Bruce, his eyes wide and lips parted in confusion.
“What the absolute fuck?” he asked, his voice low but clear.
Bruce just exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t,” he muttered, his tone tired. "I know."
“You know?” Tim repeated, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he looked at Bruce. “Why is he so...silent?”
Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples as if the weight of the question was too much. “I don’t know.”
Tim frowned but didn’t press. Instead, he pulled out his phone, quickly typing out a message.
Damian’s home.
He hit send, then looked up at Bruce, who had already returned to his meal, the conversation clearly over for now.