Chapter Text
It was a pure oversight on Damian’s part.
The mission was routine, the kind of operation he could execute without a second thought, swoop in, shut down a drug deal, beat up a few criminals, and return to the Batcave unscathed. Just another night in Gotham’s endless battle against crime.
Damian had grown skilled at this by now, learning to follow orders, stick to the plan, and resist any urges to break off things and handle things his own way. He’d finally started to understand what it meant to be Robin, to be a part of something bigger than himself. It wasn’t all easy. Given his stubborn nature, a history riddled with assassination attempts on his own brothers, and his generally abrasive personality made it much more difficult. The path to becoming a true vigilante– the one worthy of the mantle Robin, had been turbulent. His early days were soaked in blood, driven by the cold efficiency of a killer trained by the League, but those violent impulses were behind him now. Mostly.
He’s adapting, it’s something he’d been taught well. Even though it was a far cry from the world he was raised in, he made progress. The more time he spent out on the streets of Gotham, the more he hung around his brothers, it wasn’t perfect, and he still had a long way to go, but it was something.
Unfortunately, he’d gotten into a spat with Tim– though, that in itself wasn’t exactly unusual. The two of them had always been at odds, constantly clashing over one thing or another. Lately, however, their confrontations had become less frequent, their animosity simmering down with time. But this time felt different, this time Richard had sided with Tim.
It stemmed from a disagreement over a case, Tim openly questioning Damian’s morality of all things. It baffled him. Tim was always one preaching about ethics and caution, but Damian’s half-convinces that the methods Tim used to gather his intel weren’t exactly legal either.
Whatever– it’s not that Damian cared that much anyway. Still, the feeling gnawed at him, a doubt creeping in. It felt like square one all over again, the familiar ache of being misunderstood, of being on the outside looking in. His brothers had never truly accepted him, had they? Despite all his efforts, Damian couldn’t shake the nagging thought that he was still an outsider. That he was still being looked at with the same scrutiny and suspicion he thought they’d let go of. It stung more than he’d care to admit.
No matter, Damian would prove them wrong. He’d demonstrate just how much of an asset he was, how essential and valuable he was as Robin. He deserved the title, he’d make sure they understood that. The determination burned hot within him, a need to prove himself driving him forward.
It was that determination, the flicker of pride that gave him too much confidence, and he’d act impulsively. When new intel had surfaced about a second drug deal going down, Damian didn’t hesitate. Without even bothering to inform his brother or his father. He slipped into the night on his own, eager to prove himself. Damian could envision it, the achievement of stopping another major crime, proving to them all that he was more than capable, that he was the Robin they needed.
When arriving a the scene, he almost broke into a smile at the sheer ease of it. The criminals were nothing but a bunch of amateurs, newbies fumbling through a world they barely understood. Without another thought, Damian pounces, descending on them with swift, calculated precision. In mere moments all three men were on the ground, incapacitated. A smug grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he approached the crates they’d been guarding.
The satisfaction vanished the moment he opened the first box.
Damian’s expression hardened instantly, his heart freezing at the sight. Inside were limbs– not just any limbs, but those of children, their small hands and feet severed with a grotesque carelessness. They couldn’t have been much older than him– perhaps even younger. The sight twisted his stomach and his pride was replaced with horror.
He opened his mouth, ready to demand answers but before he even could begin to question them, a sharp, blinding pain exploded across the back of his skull. The world spun violently, leaving him seeing stars as the force of the blow rendered him speechless.
Damian tried to look up, but he struggled to focus, he forced his eyes to stay open despite the haze of agony clouding his thoughts. He was an Al Ghul– he was trained to endure pain, to withstand any attack sent his way. A single hit like this shouldn’t have been enough to take him down. And yet, it did.
“Tch, cheeky little brat,” the man sneered, he landed a swift kick to Damian’s incapacitated body. “Stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong. Damn brat.”
Damian blinked through the pain, forcing himself to stay conscious, to memorize every detail he could. The man’s thick accent, his rough demeanor– he wasn’t from Gotham, that much was clear.
“Jerry! Tim! Hen! Get in here and clean the place out! Those old bastards ain’t payin’ us to leave behind a mess!” The man barked, his voice cutting through Damian’s head.
One of the three men, clearly one Damian had taken out earlier groaned as he stumbled to his feet, clutching his ribs. Damian felt a twist of satisfaction, good– at least one of them would be limping around with bruises for the next few weeks. “I’m tellin’ ya, don’t mess with those birds,” the bruised thug muttered, casting a wary glance in Damian’s direction. “More trouble than it’s worth. Who knows what the Bat’ll do to ya if he finds out.”
The man– who now Damian recognizes is the leader of the group if it weren’t obvious for his bossing around, lets out a chuckle. “The Bat who don’t kill? I ain’t worried about a damn thing.” He lit a cigarette with a casual flick of his lighter, the acrid stench of tobacco filling the air and invading Damian’s senses. It was such a putrid, foul smell, Damian never understood why people like Jason, or others he’d encountered would willingly breathe in something so vile.
The bastard took a long drag, exhaling the smoke that hung in the air like a cloud of toxicity before waving the others off. “Get a move on,” He ordered, “I’ll be out there in a minute,”
Damian had been trained to detect danger, to read the intentions of others through the subtle shifts in their body language, through their words. It was second nature to him, an instinct that was honed into him through years of rigorous training. That’s why, despite his condition, he couldn’t stop the involuntary shudder that crept up his spine when he locked eyes with the man towering over him.
It seemed that his time away from the League had dulled his edge. He could feel it– the prickling, an unmistakable presence of fear. He could practically taste it. Damian clenched his jaw, steeling his expression, trying to remind himself of all the training he’d endured. He’d survived far– far worse. Torture, brutal tests of endurance, it was all meant to condition him, to forge him into someone unbreakable. That conditioning would get him through this. It had to.
Yet, he still froze when he felt a hand trail up his thigh.
“So young, maybe twelve?” the man mused aloud, his voice carrying a sickening excitement. Damian’s stomach churned in revulsion as he saw the man lick his lips, clearly reveling in some sort of twisted fantasy. “Nah gotta be younger,” he muttered, the freak seemed thrilled at the thought of it.
Disgust flared in Damian’s gut, but he swallowed it down, forcing his breathing to be steady. “You have no idea who you’re messing with,” He finally growled out, finding his voice. He glared at the man with all the intensity he could muster in this state, his eyes locked onto the man with a fierceness. He could feel his limbs starting to respond, slowly his strength was coming back to him, though his head pounding with a disorienting pain. “You imbecile,” Damian spat out.
The man chuckled darkly at Damian’s vague threat, unbothered. Now with the upper hand, he took his time, stripping Damian of his utility belt. “Quite the collection, eh?” He remarked, rifling through the gadgets. After ensuring that Damian was thoroughly disarmed– not that Damian needed any weapons to kill him– he paused, staring down at him for an uncomfortably long moment the silence between them growing heavy, thick with an unspoken malice.
It wasn’t until he took out a vial that Damian’s calm facade cracked. Panic surged through him as he began to thrash against the weight pinning him down, desperate to break free.
“Let me go,” Damian’s voice was tight with urgency, but the man only smirked in response, his grip tightening as he easily held Damian in place. A sharp prick on his arm made his mind race, tensing as something cold was injected into his bloodstream. “What did you–?”
“I gotta make this quick,” The man interrupted, his voice disturbingly casual as he began to unbuckle his pants, “Gotta make a few deliveries to make, y’know? Business to run.” He had the audacity to laugh as if this was just routine. “Be a good boy and don’t scream,” he added, his tone mockingly sweet, “unless ya want the others to join in.”
Damian’s eyesight blurred, his heart hammering erratically as the drug took hold. His body betraying him, growing slugging and weak, the edges of his consciousness began to fray. Fear clawed at his chest, the man’s hands trailed over him, and Damian’s blood ran cold. He wasn’t naive– he knew exactly what was happening, and what was about to happen.
This man planned on raping him.
Damian tried to fight back– kick him off but his limbs felt impossibly heavy. Every movement was sluggish and disjointed, a pathetic, ineffective struggle, it was as if all his training had- “Stop…” Damian slurred, his voice weak and distorted. He turned his head to the side as if trying to escape the horror unfolding, but there was no escape. “No…” Damian shook his head, tears pricking at the sides of his eyes.
He would have taken anything else– waterboarding, being burned alive, stabbed, tortured– anything would have been preferable to what was about to happen.
It was over almost as soon as it began.
Damian blinked his eyes open, his mouth filled with the sensation of cotton. Slowly, he willed himself to regain awareness. As his vision, he looked down to his bare chest, his body throbbing with a dull, relentless ache. A fresh wave of horror swept over him when he realized he was bleeding– down there. A low groan escaped his lips as he tried to move, but his body was weak, unsteady. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on his utility belt, scattered only a few feet away. Desperately, he crawled towards it, each movement sending sharp pains through his body.
Just as he reached out to grab the belt and radio his father, a heavy, sinking shame washed over him, freezing him in place.
Damian stopped, his hand hovering above the belt, his eyes trailing downward, forcing himself to really look at the state he was in– and the reality of what had happened hit him like a brick.
He had been raped.
The drying fluids on his skin, the blood, and the bruises– there was no mistaking it. The man left marks, ugly evidence of the violation– bitemarks, bruises, and scratches that screamed the truth. A suffocating feeling settled deep in his chest, he couldn’t face father like this. He couldn’t let anyone see him like this. The shame was overwhelming, he had allowed someone to overpower him, to take him– he had been too weak to fight back. It was disgraceful. Pathetic. Damian Al Ghul, the grandson of Ra, the son of Batman, reduced to this.
His bottom lip quivered as the weight crashed down on him, tears threatened to spill, welling in his eyes, but Damian forced them down, swallowing the bile back into his throat. No. He couldn’t cry. He couldn’t break. This was nothing. If Father saw him like this– weak and vulnerable, he’d never be allowed on another mission again. He’d be treated like glass, Robin would be taken from him, his identity, his purpose, all of it would be stripped away.
Damian groaned as he struggled to his feet, his body protesting at every movement. As he limped, each step sending a searing pain through his lower back, with growing horror he realized the bastard had broken his tailbone. Flashes of what had just happened assaulted his mind in jagged fragments. Damian blinked hard, forcing the memories away. He couldn’t afford to think about it– he wouldn’t.
He needed to move. To focus. Get dressed. Clean up. Destroy any trace of what had happened. Quickly.
Damian’s hands trembled as he wiped the remaining substances off his body with his cape. The touch of the rough cloth against his skin made him shudder, the filth clinging to him in a way that no amount of wiping would erase. His stomach twisted in disgust, and he had to choke back the urge to retch. He felt dirty and violated in a way that went beyond the physical. Once he was done, he didn’t hesitate, with a flick of a match he burned his sacred cape. Watching as the flames consumed the evidence of his humiliation, leaving nothing but ash behind.
The silence of the room felt oppressive, just a moment ago his mind was screaming with thoughts and now it all fell silent. Breathing out a long, shaky breath as a numbness settled over him like a blanket. It was as if his body was shutting down, going into shock, the trauma too great to fully process in the moment. He recognized the signs distantly, his mind detached from the reality of it, as though it were happening to someone else.
But it wasn’t. It was happening to him.
Damian sneaks into his bedroom, hurrying into the bathroom. He discarded his soiled clothes, and as he reached for the light switch he hesitated, a fear gripping him. He didn’t want to confront the physical evidence of another man’s violation, the marks left on him like a brand. So, he left the lights off, relying on his memory and limited vision to navigate the space.
He turned on the shower, and the water cascaded down. He stepped in, letting the hot water scald his skin, desperate for it to wash away the filth that clung to him. The heat was almost painful, but a welcome distraction. He scrubbed his skin until it felt raw, each stroke of the washcloth felt like an attempt to erase the violation, to cleanse himself of the horror he’d endured. He peers into the darkness, hoping it’ll consume him.
Reluctantly, he gets out of the shower, drying himself off in the darkness, still avoiding his reflection. He dresses quickly, not even drying himself off completely when he pulls on a fresh set of clothes as if they could shield him from the memories that clung to him like a second skin. Only after he felt a resemblance of composure did he go back into the bathroom to retrieve his dirtied Robin Suit.
The sight of the bloodstains and other unspeakable marks on the fabric fills him with a sickening shame. He quickly grabbed a clothing hanger, not wanting to touch the suit directly, and placed it in the farthest corner of his closet, hoping Alfred wouldn’t go snooping.
Just as he closed the closet door, he heard a commotion outside his bedroom. With his heart racing, he steadied himself and slowly opened his door, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway. He crept silently towards the voices, instinctively drawn to the sound of his father and brothers, who were clearly gathered and discussing him.
Richard is the first to spot him, relief washing over his features as he calls out, “Dami!” The sound of his brother’s voice made Damian sag slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing for just a moment. “Where were you?!” Richard pressed, his voice laced with concern. “Are you hurt?” He asks a moment later.
Damian swallows the truth. He shook his head, the lie slipping easily from his lips. “I am not injured.” He had to maintain a strong poker face. He was surrounded by a room full of detectives, each trained to dissect even the smallest micro-expressions. He couldn’t afford to slip now. “I went to explore a lead.”
Tim rolled his eyes at this, casting a glance at Father that spoke volumes, a clear told-you-so look. “See? The brat’s fine,” he said dismissively, sparing no further glance toward Damian. “I’ve got to finish up a report.” His tone is an indicator that he thought this was a waste of time, but he doesn’t voice it.
Jason stood off to the side, his silence more telling than words. He ran a hand through his hair, a small tell that he’d also been stressed. “Don’t run off like that. You know better,” he says gruffly, but he doesn’t outright scold him. He understood the reckless urge to act, having been there himself.
Finally, it was time for Damian to glance up at Father. The look of disappointment etched across his face was almost too much to bear, and Damian felt a flinch of shame rise within him.
The silence that stretched between them was heavy and charged until Father finally spoke. “I thought we were over this, Damian,” he said softly, the disappointment becoming more evident. “You’re benched for the rest of this week,” There was a finality to his tone, leaving no room for negotiation.
Accepting this, Damian nodded. “Okay, Father.” He ignores how his heart sank.
For a moment, Father stands there stunned by Damian’s acceptance of his punishment. He clearly had been expecting more of a fight, some defiant protest. With his brows furrowed with concern, he studied Damian closely, his instincts as both a detective and father kicking in. “Are you hurt?” He pressed, searching Damian’s eyes for any signs of distress.
Damian’s heart seized in worry, a slight trickle of fear pulsing through him at the thought of being found out. Richard watched him closely, his gaze expectant, silently observing the exchange between the two of them. “No, Father,” Damian replied, forcing his tone into a convicting one, putting on his best “believe me” face. He held his gaze, a desperate attempt to hide the lie.
The silence between them stretched, his father’s gaze scrutinizing, watching for any tell. At last, he relented, his shoulders dropping as he nodded. “Okay,” he said, though a bit uncertain. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but the words get stuck, a visible struggle on his face. Father instead closed his mouth into a thin line, before softening, a gentle smile breaking through the tension. “Get ready for bed,” The warmth of paternal care seeping back into his tone.
That was all the dismissal Damian needed, turning to walk away a sense of relief washing over him. He fought desperately to mask the limp that marred his stride, each step feeling like a betrayal of the facade he was attempting to sell off, a reminder of the pain he couldn’t reveal. When rounding the corner he overhears Richard talking to his father.
“You need to be more affectionate, Bruce,” Richard scolded, a deep sigh escaping him, showing concern by the emotional distance.
Father sighed in response, always the emotionally constipated one. “I know, I just–”
Damian doesn’t bother to hear more.
He climbed into bed, the familiar weight of Titus settling beside him as he gently petted the dog’s fur for comfort. He carefully positions himself on his stomach, avoiding the possibility of aggravating the pain radiating from his lower half. As he closed his eyes, the events of the night crashed back over him like a dark tide.
He could almost feel the warm breath on his neck, the way those hands trailed up his torso, unzipping him with a chilling intimacy. He remembers the whispers, sweet nothings that quickly twisted into taunts, the moment he had begged for it to stop– a plea that had echoed into the emptiness. The piercing sensation of–
Suddenly he’s jolted upright, a visceral reaction to the phantom touch of the assault that lingered like a shadow over him. A wave of nausea rolled through him, his body wincing in pain as he moved. Desperation drove him to the bathroom. Frowning, he glanced down, noting the blood, a stark reminder of his violation. His eyes darted to the bedsheets, now also stained with evidence of his trauma, a silent testimony to the night’s horrors. Taking in a deep breath, he carefully wiped himself clean, the act feeling like an impossible task as he changed into a fresh pair of clothes, desperate to rid himself of the remnants of the night.
Once dressed once more, he turns his attention to the bedsheets, the sight fills him with dread. He hesitates, standing in the dim light as he contemplates his next move. It was four in the morning, the hour when the manor was draped in its shadow, but also when the night owls were most active, Tim would be awake. Getting past him unnoticed would prove to be a challenge.
Yet he couldn’t wait, he couldn’t risk Alfred discovering the truth. The thought of Alfred’s kind, pitiful, and worried glance sent another wave of shame through him. Damian made his decision. Quietly he grabbed his soiled sheets, ripping them off his bed, his heart pounding, determined to protect the fragile facade he had constructed.
Bundling up the soiled sheets with trembling hands, Damian made his way down the dimly lit hallway, the weight of his burden pressing heavily down on his chest. He approached the laundry room, and with uncertainty, he stuck his bedsheets into the washing machine. He frowned in confusion, now realizing he’d never used a washing machine before. Perhaps, he would have to spy on Alfred sometime to figure it out.
“Just put the laundry detergent in,” A voice called from behind him, startling him out of his thoughts. Damian turns to find Tim, casually leaning against the doorframe, his posture relaxed but his expression curious. “Washing this late at night?” Tim raised an eyebrow.
“It’s morning.” Damian scowled, feeling a flash of irritation.”TT. What’s it to you?” He clicked his tongue, snatching the laundry detergent from the shelf. He studied the bottle, eyebrows pinching together in confusion as to how much to pour.
“A cup full should be enough,” Tim explained, his tone light. “Don’t tell me you wet the bed at this age,” he teased, though behind it is one of worry.
Damian scrunches his face in annoyance. “Of course not, you moron.” He filled the cup to the brim, dumping it into the washing machine. He had enough knowledge to know how to press start. “Isn’t it four in the morning? Father would want you to rest,” Damian remarked, trying to focus back on Tim. He met his brother’s eyes, “Father or Grayson will switch you to decaf again,” He reminded him.
Tim rolled his eyes dismissively, “Sure they will,” He said, waving it off. “You’re deflecting, aren’t you?”
Damian now felt trapped, he needed to escape. Leave before Tim gets too close to the truth. Instead of responding, he pushed past Tim, determined to make his exit. “I need to go to bed,” he asserted, he is not running away, he’s just…making an escape.
“You’re limping,” Tim observed quietly, his tone shifting to one of gentle concern, causing Damian to halt.
Damian scrambles his brain for an excuse, his mind racing. “Had a bad landing,” He blurted out, the excuse sounding weak even to his own ears.
Tim fell silent, the tension between them palpable as he hesitated. They had reached a point in their relationship where they could communicate without resorting to insults, though perhaps their argument from a few days ago had Tim holding back. “Okay,” Tim finally replies, uncertainty lingering in his voice.
“Goodnight.”