Chapter Text
The manor is quiet.
Damian should relish that. It should be peaceful, or at the very least secure. It should make him, his father's rightful heir, feel in control of this abode.
With his mother, with the League, things were never rowdy. But there was always a subtle hum of people going about their duties. Well-ordered, serious, intent, but moving; undeniably alive.
An occupied place is like a living thing unto itself, with people flowing through corridors, completing their tasks, like blood in bone marrow. The murmur of voices steady as a pulse - quieter, perhaps, but no less present when evening falls. Even at rest there should still be movement, still be sound.
The manor is still.
Except for the rushed, tense, bursts of motion that happen once a week or so, when the screaming begins.
He prefers the oppressive, drawn out silences and time-slowing stillness to those brief, screeching minutes which seem to stop time altogether.
Damian wanders the halls of his father's ancestral home, taking in the finery and the abundance of unoccupied space and he should feel the master of this place.
This place that is not alive, with hollow bones for hallways and no heartbeat but the sporadic screams.
Mostly, he cannot help but feel very small, and very alone.
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Damian arrived in Gotham two months ago.
Up until that point, he had spent his whole life training to fight, to win, to impress his father. His mother always said he had to be faster, stronger, and smarter than every Robin before him. He had spent the past three years training to eliminate any threats to his claim, particularly his father’s current protege.
Four months ago, his mother informed him Timothy Drake was no longer an obstacle to concern himself with.
That was all she said, and Damian asked no other questions. He did not care about Timothy Drake or his fate. Still, training to defeat the third Robin had been such a fixture in his life, that part of him figured that he would turn up again in a few months. Damian simply continued to train as always, and adjusted his plans to meet his father accordingly.
A skilled tactician knows how to accept good fortune, as long as one hand stays on their weapon, in case of a trick.
Damian was counting on it being a trick.
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When he first arrives at the manor, Damian sneaks into the batcave and watches for a while.
It is dark, cast with long shadows from the lone lighting rig in use. It’s skeletal bars hug the stalagtites of the cave’s ceiling, and Damian settles himself against the biting cold of the metal, content to perch there for the time being. The only other light source is the screen of the large computer. It appears to have been left unattended, as the monitor remains unmoving and there is no clacking sound of someone typing.
The entire cave is still, not even a bat stirring from its rest on the cave’s ceiling. Damian assumes the cave to be empty. He takes the opportunity to cast his gaze around, studying the layout. Just off center of the main floor, there is a glass display case holding a tattered red-yellow-green suit. His mother had informed him, at least briefly, of all of his father’s former proteges and he’s rather sure that this is the suit Jason Todd died in. It stands here for him to regard, surrounded by the multitudinous detris confiscated from Gotham’s varied rogues, a stark reminder of the consequences of incompetence.
Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees the computer screen flare, shifting to a new page, and he turns to study the console and the chair before it more closely. Damian tilts his head, the only indication of surprise he allows himself, as he realizes his father is here. He had been sitting, staring at the screen in such stillness and silence, Damian hadn't noticed him.
He cannot see his father’s face. For all it is not yet late enough for vigilantes to prowl the streets, Bruce Wayne is already in the full batsuit - cowl darkening his gaze and concealing his brow. His mouth is a firm, unwavering line.
His father sits with tense, hunched shoulders even though he is alone, and he is evidently focused intently on his work. He has been for some time, based on the coffee mugs scattered around him and the plates of uneaten sandwiches pushed to the side of the keyboard.
Damian watches closely for any movement he may have missed, for an indication of anyone else appearing, for Timothy Drake. He is waiting for the trick from the Robin his mother called the cleverest, the strongest of mind. It never comes. He waits long minutes, but there are no robin costumes in the cave, except for Todd's and it’s ominous warning.
So, Damian makes one last scan of the room, takes his hand off the handle of his knife, and drops down to the floor of the cave.
He introduces himself to his father.
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Bruce Wayne regards him with a startled look, or at least that’s what Damian supposes the slight jump in his shoulders means, though it quickly settles back into a blank, unreadable expression. Nothing in the flat stare of the cowl changes as Damian explains his existence and the circumstances of his arrival here. Damian stands alert and proud, with shoulders back and chin high, just like his mother taught him.
His father doesn’t even seem to notice.
He sighs so softly Damian barely hears it, tells Damian he may stay, and sends him upstairs to find Alfred Pennyworth, the butler. Then he turns back to his work, like Damian has already left. So, Damian goes.
Up in the manor, Damian finds Pennyworth waiting for him in the foyer. He supposes his father must have some discreet system to contact the man. The butler nods formally to Damian and leads him into the dining room.
Damian is seated at the table, the sole occupant to a furnishing that stretches down the room, designed to easily seat ten or more. He is given a meal, and though the cooking is impeccable it’s tasteless on his tongue. The clatter of his silverware on the porcelain dish is too loud in the silence, echoing obnoxiously. He only mananges half the serving before setting his linen napkin aside and waiting for Pennyworth to return.
The butler reenters the room promptly, as if summoned by some sixth sense, and clears the table. He then leads Damian on a brief tour of the manor, and it’s endless, empty halls and sheet-covered rooms. They end in the family hall, where Damian is shown to a room that is to be his.
It is a sizable chamber at the far end of the corridor, very distant from the carved double doors of the master bedroom - his father's quarters. Pennyworth tells him to devise a list of any clothing or toiletries he will need, and that they will be procured in the next few days.
Then, Pennyworth instructs Damian not to disturb any of the other rooms on the floor, and leaves him to his own devices.
As soon as the butler is out of sight, footsteps fading into the quiet that permeates the rest of the building, Damian makes his way down the hallway, inspecting each room’s contents as he goes.
He takes care to never step far past the threshold, not wanting to leave any sign of his presence, but in the end the caution is hardly warranted. Most of the rooms nearest his are impersonal and empty. They likely haven't been occupied in decades, if ever. It’s only when he gets to the line of three doors at the other end of the hallway, the ones closest to his father’s, that he finds anything of interest.
The first room has a ribbon taped across the top of the door with little blue elephants dancing across it. This room seems to have belonged to Richard Grayson, and the second must have been Todd's, if the indent spelling out Jason wuz here scored deeply in the paint of the doorframe is any indication.
When Damian quietly swings open the doors to each room they both appear untouched, old stuffed animals and circus posters line the walls in one and in the other stacks of classic books - Emma, Robin Hood, Jane Eyre - lay on the desk and every other available surface. Everything is left carefully in place. They are like shrines to the son that left, and the son that died.
Damian supposed the third room must have been Timothy Drake's. The door is not intentionally defaced like the others, but there are little dents and shallow scuffs that suggests someone was once regularly coming and going from this room. The interior is, perhaps, more sparsely decorated than the other two rooms, and it is much messier, but it, too, is unoccupied and has clearly been preserved.
Drake is gone, but it is unclear which of his brothers’ footsteps he followed. Estranged in a different city or buried six feet beneath the earth, Damian supposes it doesn't matter much, Timothy Drake is no longer relevant to his life.
Damian has the respect to at least leave his father’s quarters undisturbed. He finds it vexing that he has been placed so far from his father’s room, especially seeing as there are a good four unclaimed rooms between Drake’s and his own. Perhaps, one must earn favor to get a closer room.
Damian ponders this as he turns to make his way back down the hall, when his eye suddenly catches on the door flanking his father’s room, on the opposite side from Grayson’s. All the rooms on that side of the hall were unadorned and unlived in, but he realizes that, in his haste to examine the rooms of his father’s adopted sons, he has yet to open this last door.
Unsurprisingly, it is as plain as all the other doors to unused rooms. There are no chips or dents to suggest anyone regularly shoulders it open while carrying a backpack or flings it against the wall when running late for classes in the morning. Damian goes to turn the knob, ready to encounter another boring bedroom and finally complete his search of the hallway, but this door is locked.
It's curious, as none of the other rooms were secured. However, as all the family rooms are located on the other side of the hall, even Damian’s, far as it may be, he deduces it is likely a storage closet. It is probably full of antique linens and spare silver candle holders, items of no particular interest but that hold some value, and that have been locked away as a precaution against thieving maids.
Damian finally turns and heads back toward his own room. When he's about halfway there, he thinks, for a moment, that he hears a faint scratching sound somewhere behind him. When he glances over his shoulder to look, there are just the rows of plain doors, and the silent stillness of the manor seeping into the hallway now that his footsteps have ceased.
He supposes it must have simply been the creak of the old house settling, and resumes his path.
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Damian has spent three days in the manor, and he has formed a routine of sorts.
In the morning, he goes down to breakfast in the dining room. Pennyworth always sets out two place settings, but his father does not attend. If he sees his father at all, it will be as he hurriedly grabs a mug of coffee from the table, tie half done and briefcase in his other hand, before rushing back out of the room. He does not acknowledge Damian, and Damian is unsure if this is by design or if he has simply been forgotten beneath the evidently unending load of his father’s other responsibilities.
Damian came here expecting to fight, to overthrow his opponent and take his rightful place at his father’s side. But there is no opponent to defeat, not a physical one at least.
Damian is seated at his father’s right hand at this table, but his father is not here. Damian came here ready for battle, but he does not know who his enemy is. Without Drake, he does not know if he even has an enemy besides his father’s lack of interest - and he doesn’t know how to win it if there is no one to take it from.
Besides, the stillness and the silence of the manor has wrongfooted him, and rather than the rage he and his mother carefully cultivated for this moment, he feels tired, weighted down.
After breakfast, Damian trains. He is not allowed down in the batcave unmonitored. No one has offered to monitor him, and he figures going against his father’s wishes will not help him earn any favor, so he finds the fitness room on the main floor of the manor and contents himself with practicing his hand-to-hand combat.
Pennyworth has informed him that he will not be enrolled at an educational institution until the start of the next semester, which is months away, so after training Damian finds himself with an excess of time. For a time, he trails along after the butler, trying not to feel like a lost duckling, but finding the movement and sound of another person comforting.
Pennyworth, though professionally gracious, is constantly busy and only tolerates Damian’s presence for an hour or so. Inevitably, he will lead them back to the kitchen, take a moment to give Damian a tired smile and hand him a cookie, and then suggest Damian go explore the gardens, before carrying on with his errands.
The days have been fair, and Pennyworth often encourages Damian to go outside whenever he catches sight of him in the house again. Damian would take offense at the possibility he was being managed, but at least internally he can admit he has been feeling rather lost and some guidance might be welcome.
And he does enjoy the grounds. There are lush gardens, a wide lawn, and even the edge of some woodlands with tall trees stretching overhead where all manner of birds roost. Damian enjoys being out here, and he supposes a few days for everyone to adjust to his new inhabitancy of the manor is not out of order.
There will be time enough to claim the Robin title and earn his father’s favor. Though, without Drake to overthrow, his way of achieving the title is murkier. He supposes he'll just have to demonstrate his combat skills in training, or maybe follow his father out onto the Gotham streets one night and prove his worthiness.
For now, Damian enjoys the freedom of a few unscheduled days to explore the grounds unmonitored. Out here, the oppressive shadow of the manor is lightened. The birds’ flitting wings catch the breeze in graceful movements and their song fills the air.
It is pleasant to be surrounded by living things, and not the haunted, unoccupied spaces in the manor.
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On his fourth night in Gotham, Damian hears the screaming for the first time.
It wakes him, jolting him out of the deepest sleep he has managed to fall into since moving to this new place. It is a horrible sound - wailing, and deafening, and resonating in the old high-ceilinged manor in a way that makes it difficult for his sleep-addled mind to pin-point the exact direction of its origin.
Damian glances around his room, eyes wide against the darkness, wildly trying to locate the source of the sudden screeching, but he’s greeted with empty space. There is the patter of quick steps in the hallway and the quiet click of a latch, rather than the half-anticipated slam of a door.
Damian rises from his bed and creeps to his own door, the floorboards cold beneath his bare feet. He opens it slowly, the hinges barely squeaking as he takes a quiet breath and looks. Sometime between his getting out of bed and arriving at the door, the screaming abruptly abated. When Damian finally peeks around his doorframe, the hallway is still and silent, like always.
All the doors are closed. They stand like ghosts, pale and pristine in the shadows, indistinguishable from each other, except for the three shrines to the lost Robins.
Damian goes back to bed, but sleep eludes him.