Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

English is not my native language, I apologize for any mistakes; this is my first fanfic on AO3. Enjoy reading!

The Wayne Family Dinner
It was just another ordinary day—at least for the Waynes. A quiet afternoon after school for some and work for others. Richard was at the manor, having promised to spend the weekend with the family. Jason claimed he was only there for Alfred’s sake. Stephanie and Cass enjoyed being around their "brothers." Duke was still settling into the manor, and while Damian helped him, he did so with great reluctance.Tim, despite spending most of his time holed up in his room with his precious coffee, was also present.

The Wayne Manor, though immense and silent, was full of life that late afternoon. Alfred had prepared tea and snacks, which naturally drew everyone to the main living room.

Dick was sprawled across the sofa, legs tossed over the backrest with a lazy smile on his face, finally looking relaxed after weeks of chasing leads in Blüdhaven.

Jason, as always, had claimed an armchair further away, arms crossed and expression bored. But everyone knew he was only there because Alfred had given him "the look" earlier—a look even the Red Hood wouldn't dare ignore.

Stephanie talked non-stop, gesturing wildly about a recent patrol where she had, according to her, saved the entire night. Cass smiled at her small, precise gestures, reinforcing the story without saying a word.

Duke watched it all, still trying to adjust to the weight of being among them. He seemed to be making an effort not to take up too much space, until Damian, sitting beside him and working in a sketchbook, dropped a dry comment:
"If you continue to behave like a guest, you will eventually be treated like one."

Duke arched an eyebrow. "Was that your way of saying you already consider me part of the house?"

Damian grumbled something in Arabic and snapped the notebook shut, which only drew a laugh from Dick.

"That’s his way of saying 'welcome,' Duke," the eldest said, trying to hide his amusement. "Trust me, it took me years to translate the 'Damian Wayne' language."

Tim, meanwhile, emerged with a steaming mug of coffee, tired eyes and deep dark circles under them, and slumped into one of the armchairs. "If anyone has the nerve to tell me I’m drinking too much coffee, there will be consequences."

Jason didn't waste a beat. "You’re already suffering the consequences, 'Spreadsheet Head.' Look at that face. You look like you haven't slept since 2018."

"Funny coming from you, who looks like he hasn't slept since he came back from the dead," Tim shot back without looking up from his phone.

The silence that followed lasted only three seconds before Stephanie burst into laughter and Cass hid her smiling face behind her hand.

Alfred entered at that moment with his signature tranquility, balancing a tray with more tea. "Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, keep the comments regarding resurrections and sleepless nights to a more... civilized tone."
Everyone fell silent instantly. Even Jason raised his hands as if he were innocent.

Bruce hadn't arrived from work yet, and perhaps that was why the mood felt lighter. Without the weight of the Dark Knight’s gaze, for a few moments, the family felt like just that: a family.

Dick leaned forward, looking at everyone with that unique way he had of pulling people together. "Okay, since we’re all here, why don't we do something together? A movie, a game... anything that doesn't involve watching over Gotham for one night."
Damian looked up from his notebook, suspicious. "Family games usually end in brawls."

"That’s part of the fun," Jason replied immediately, the corner of his mouth quirked in provocation.

Tim sighed, but a faint smile escaped. Stephanie already started listing game options, Cass nodded with silent enthusiasm, and Duke, though hesitant, looked excited.

The group ended up spreading out in the manor’s game room. Stephanie was the first to decide:
"Let's play cards!"

Jason arched an eyebrow. "You only want that because you know how to cheat."

"Me? Never!" Stephanie placed a hand over her heart, playfully offended. "I am the soul of honesty."

Cass said nothing but nodded vigorously, drawing laughs from everyone. Damian, arms crossed, made it clear he had no intention of participating—until Duke pulled up a chair and tossed a deck of cards in front of him.
"Come on, little Robin. If you lose, it’s house tradition: you do the dishes."

Damian huffed, but the glint in his eyes gave him away. "Very well, but do not expect me to go easy on you.

Tim, still holding his coffee, was dragged to the table by Dick, who seemed more excited than all of them combined.
The game began relatively peacefully, but as usual, it didn't take long for the taunts to start.

"You hid a card, I saw it!" Damian accused Stephanie, pointing as if he’d uncovered a crime.

"Me? Never!" Stephanie feigned indignation, hiding a smirk.

Jason laughed out loud. "This family is full of liars, but you’re the worst, Blondie."

"And you’re the king of the grumpy face, congratulations," she retorted.
Duke was laughing, trying to keep up with the rules while Dick narrated the game as if it were a world championship. Tim, his patience at its limit, muttered:

"This goes against all mathematical probabilities. Someone here is clearly cheating.

"Just because you aren't winning doesn't mean someone is cheating, Drake," Damian retorted with his nose in the air.

In the end, victory went to Cass, who had played silently while letting everyone else fight amongst themselves. She simply laid her cards on the table with a slight smile.

"Silent cheating... I should have suspected," Jason commented, but with disguised pride.

Laughter echoed through the room until Alfred’s firm but calm voice was heard from the hallway:
"Gentry, dinner is served"

It was like a spell. The ruckus died down, and one by one they stood up and headed to the dining room. The long, imposing corridor seemed less cold when filled with the overlapping conversations of the family.

At the table, everyone settled into their places. Alfred brought the dishes with his usual calm, and the smell of home-cooked food filled the air. Bruce still hadn't arrived, but no one seemed to notice the absence in that moment.

Damian, sitting between Duke and Dick, grumbled something about "wasting time with childish games," but he couldn't hide the quick glance he cast around the room—seeing everyone together, around the table, laughing, arguing, and interrupting each other.

It was a rare scene. And though no one said it out loud, they all knew that moments like this were what truly kept the Wayne family together.

Dinner continued with the chaotic hum typical of the Waynes. Stephanie talked incessantly about a mission where she almost hit Jason with a slingshot stone; Jason countered that if she had hit him, he would have made her swallow the whole slingshot; and Dick tried, unsuccessfully, to impose some kind of order.

That was when the dining hall door opened. Bruce entered silently, his dark suit impeccable, but his tired features betraying the weight of another day as Gotham’s billionaire.

"Good evening," he said in his deep voice. Everyone fell silent for a moment, like an automatic reflex. Alfred approached, taking his coat naturally, and Bruce took his place at the head of the table.
Dick was the first to break the ice. "Look at that, I thought you’d be stuck in meetings all night."

"Some things cannot wait," Bruce replied, serving himself in silence. But his gaze swept the table quickly, lingering on Damian for a few seconds, as he always did.

Dinner continued, now more subdued. Between conversations, it was Duke who, without realizing the gravity of the question, spoke up:
"Hey, Damian... I’ve always wanted to ask. Why are your eyes green? I mean... Bruce has blue eyes."

Everyone turned toward the 12-year-old boy, who until then had been cutting his vegetables with meticulous calm. His fork stopped mid-air, and he raised his eyes—those intense greens, sometimes almost glowing under the light.

Damian answered without changing his tone:
"They aren't actually green."

Duke blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"

"They are blue. Like his," he said, with a slight nod toward Bruce. "The green is a side effect of the Lazarus Pit."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Stephanie’s eyes widened, Cass lowered her utensils, and Tim choked on the coffee he’d brought to the table. Jason, for his part, froze—and for the first time in a long while, his expression truly hardened.
Dick was the one who broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper:
"Are you saying... you’ve been in the Pit?"

Damian placed his fork and knife on the table with irritating calmness. "More than once."

The air in the room grew heavy. Everyone looked at him, but it was Jason who seemed most struck. His jaw was clenched, his dark gaze fixed on the boy.

Stephanie whispered, as if trying to rationalize: "So... you... you’ve already..."

"Died," Damian completed drily. "Yes."

Cass looked away, uncomfortable. Tim rubbed his temple, trying to absorb the information.
Duke sat paralyzed, clearly regretting the question but unable to say anything.

Jason slammed his hand on the table suddenly, the sound echoing through the hall.
"Are you kidding me?! He went through the same hell I did and nobody thought it was important to mention it?!"

Bruce finally moved. His expression was a mixture of stone and repressed pain, his eyes fixed on his youngest son.
"Damian."
The boy stared back, steady, not backing down. "It is no secret. You simply never asked."

The silence returned, heavier than before. Dinner, once light and chaotic, had transformed into a field of tension where every word weighed more than any weapon they had ever carried.

Jason stood up so fast his chair scraped noisily against the floor. His face was overtaken by raw fury, something he rarely showed so openly.

"Of course... of course this is the work of the Snake Queen and that old wretch Ra’s!" he spat the words, hands curled into fists. "They threw you into that damn pit and thought it was fine?! Like it was just... a healing bath?!"

Damian didn't answer immediately. He just stared at Jason, jaw set, trying not to let anything show.

Bruce, meanwhile, blinked slowly, confused. "I... I thought it was from your mother’s eyes," he murmured, almost to himself.

That sentence made Jason explode further. He pointed at Bruce, eyes flashing. "You didn't know?! You didn't know?"
His voice rose, and Alfred took a step forward, but Jason ignored him. "Your son died, Bruce. Your son died more than once and you... you thought it was just genetics?!"

Silence fell again, but this time even heavier. Bruce didn't answer. He just stared at Damian, and for the first time in a long time, he looked genuinely lost.

Dick, beside him, went pale. He lowered his utensils slowly, fingers trembling. "This... this can't be real," he whispered, his voice failing. "Damian... you... you died?"

Damian let out a breath through his nose, impatient. "I already said so. Yes. There is no need to repeat it as if it were something impossible to understand."

But there was a shadow in his eyes, something even he couldn't completely hide.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in desperation. "My God... I didn't even realize. You’re... you’re just a child."

Jason hit the table again, his voice thick with anger and pain. "They used you like a war toy! Your own mother, that cursed old man... They ripped your life away and only gave it back because they could!"

Stephanie watched in silence, swallowing hard. Duke kept his eyes wide, clearly regretting having started this, and Cass looked down, her fist clenched in her lap as if holding back the urge to act.

Bruce tried to speak: "Damian... why did you never tell me?"

The boy stared at him, cold. "Because you never asked, Father."
The words cut deeper than any blade.

Dick let out a broken sigh, his eyes welling up though no tears fell. Jason was breathing heavily.

The dinner, once full of life, was now in absolute silence. And at the center of the table, Damian, with his intense green eyes, looked smaller than ever—yet at the same time, unreachable.
Damian looked away, his fork motionless over his untouched plate. His voice still echoed in everyone's memory:
"They stole my childhood. They stole my life."

Dick lowered his head, lacking the strength to look at his little brother. Stephanie kept her hand over her mouth, trying to hold back any words that might escape. Cass remained still, eyes glistening in silence. Tim, for once, had no answer—he only looked at Damian as if seeing an open wound he had never noticed before.

Jason... Jason stayed there, motionless, his eyes locked on the boy. The anger had dissolved, leaving only a sad, deep, almost suffocating weight.

And Bruce... Bruce sat rigid at the head of the table, but inside, every one of Damian's words was a blade driven into his heart.
The Wayne Manor, so vast, seemed small in the face of that silence. A silence that crushed, that said more than any argument ever could.

No one dared break it. Not Damian.
Not Bruce.

And at that dinner table, what remained was only the devastating weight of a truth that no one was ready to hear.

Chapter Text

Evening fell softly over Wayne Manor, tinting the massive windows with shades of gold and rose. The silence was comfortable. Only the rustling of the garden trees drifted in through the open windows. In the makeshift studio on the upper floor, Damian sat before a table covered in papers, brushes, and watercolors.

He dipped his brush into the water, then into the emerald-green paint, and pulled it slowly across the paper. The vibrant color seemed alive, almost glowing under the sunlight streaming through the window. He watched it with narrowed eyes—the same color as his own, the same color as the Pit that had returned him to the world of the living.

The boy pressed his lips together, his hardened expression hiding the knot in his throat. Every stroke of green felt like a memory: the cold water enveloping his body, the echo of voices from the League, the sensation of drowning and being reborn. Still, he kept painting. It was as if, somehow, putting that color on paper was a way to control it.

"Looks like a scene from a horror movie." Jason’s voice echoed from the doorway, casual and laced with sarcasm.

Damian looked up with an irritated glare but didn't respond. Jason walked in with his usual confidence, his boots thudding against the wooden floor. He looked over his brother's shoulder and arched an eyebrow.

"What are you doing, kid? And why all this green? You're using a lot of it," Jason said, tilting his head and picking up a nearby brush.
"I don’t know yet," Damian replied curtly, trying to hide the drawing.
Jason gave a lopsided smirk. "Let me guess... art therapy?"

Damian huffed and turned toward the window, but Jason pulled up a chair and sat beside him. There was something different in the way Jason looked at him—a mix of curiosity, affection, and a sliver of pain that only someone who had also been through the Pit could understand.

"I used to have nightmares about that green too," Jason said softly, picking up a blank sheet. "Except, in my case, I tried to ignore it. You’re braver. You’re facing it head-on."

Damian remained silent. Jason took some blue watercolor and began painting crooked, almost childish lines on the paper.
"That makes no sense," Damian commented, furrowing his brow.

"Of course it does," Jason smiled, still drawing. "I’m terrible at art. That’s what it’s for—putting the ugly stuff on the paper instead of keeping it in your head."

Damian let out a muffled grunt, but without realizing it, his expression softened.
Minutes later, light footsteps echoed down the hallway. Tim appeared at the door, carrying a tablet.

"What are you guys doing?" he asked, curious.
"Art," Jason replied, faking a serious tone. "Something you wouldn't understand."

Tim raised an eyebrow and entered, sets his tablet on the table. His eyes landed on Damian's paintings—swirls of green, black, and red mixed in an almost abstract, whirlpool-like pattern. He didn't make a joke or a comment. He simply pulled up a chair and sat next to his youngest brother.

"May I?" he asked, reaching for a brush.
Damian hesitated but gave a slight nod. Tim dipped the brush in yellow paint and began adding subtle details to the edges of the whirlpool, like small rays of light emerging from the green chaos. Damian watched him out of the corner of his eye, curious.

"I thought you didn't care about these things," Damian murmured.
"I don't, usually. But... you're putting a lot into this green," Tim said softly, his tone gentle. "I thought it needed some light."
Jason chuckled. "Look at that, the detective knows how to be a poet too."

Damian suppressed a smile and returned to his own painting. This time, his hand trembled less.

Shortly after, the door opened again and Dick appeared with a warm smile, carrying a tray with a pitcher of juice and cookies that Alfred had clearly sent.

"Look at this art club!" he teased, walking in. "Are you guys... collaborating? This is historic."

Jason made a face. Tim sighed. Damian pretended not to hear, but his shoulders relaxed. Dick set the tray on the table and leaned down to look at his younger brother's drawings.
"This is beautiful, Dami," he said with sincerity. "Intense, but beautiful."

Damian looked away, embarrassed. No one ever called the things he did "beautiful." He didn't know how to react.

Jason grabbed a cookie, and Tim did the same. Dick sat on the edge of the table, naturally draping an arm over Damian's shoulders and pulling him slightly closer. The boy didn't resist; he didn't have the energy to fight it.

For a few minutes, no one spoke. The sun poured through the window, gilding their hair and illuminating the streaks of paint scattered across the paper. It was a simple scene—four brothers, painting and laughing quietly, eating cookies stolen from Alfred. But to Damian, it felt like a small miracle.
The green was still there. It always would be. But for the first time, it didn't seem so terrifying.

The comfortable silence in the art room was interrupted by firm footsteps in the hallway. Bruce appeared at the door, his suit still sharp from a meeting, his serious expression softening at the sight of his sons gathered together.

He paused for a moment, observing the scene. Damian, who rarely relaxed, was focused on his brush, surrounded by his brothers, all with paint stains on their fingers. It was a rare sight.
"I think I’ve found the heart of Wayne Manor," Bruce commented, his deep voice carrying a note of quiet humor.

Jason looked up, arching an eyebrow. "What? Did you come to arrest us for messing up the studio?"

Bruce smiled slightly as he entered the room. He leaned over the table, picking up a sheet Tim had just set down—a colorful, simple drawing. The man who was usually intimidating even to dangerous villains looked... proud.

"This is great," he praised, looking at Tim, then at Damian. "And yours... it’s intense. There’s a lot of you in here."
Damian felt his face heat up. He wasn't used to sincere praise, especially from Bruce. He looked away and muttered something incomprehensible.

Bruce pulled up a chair and sat beside his son, picking up another brush. Jason raised his eyebrows.
"Going to paint too, old man?"
"Why not?" Bruce replied seriously, as if it were a strategic decision.
Tim and Dick laughed, and Jason shook his head, smiling. Damian watched him with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.
Bruce dipped the brush in blue paint and began drawing simple lines on a clean sheet. His stroke was firm, yet unpretentious.
"You know..." Bruce said after a few seconds of silence, without taking his eyes off the paper, "when I was your age, I couldn't even hold a brush like this. I was too busy trying to... survive."
Damian looked sideways, surprised by the confession. Bruce continued:
"Maybe that’s why I think it’s important that you have this." He pointed to the drawings spread out. "A space where you can... just be a boy."
Damian didn't answer. He didn't know how. But a strange, warm sensation spread through his chest.
That was when Alfred entered, silent as always. He held a tray with a teapot and more fresh cookies.

"Well, well," he said with a slight smile. "I see we have a true exhibition in progress."
"It's nothing," Damian muttered, uncomfortable.
"On the contrary, Master Damian." Alfred placed the tray on the table. "It is a beautiful reflection of who you are. And that is anything but 'nothing'."

Damian lowered his head, but he couldn't hide a small, shy smile. Alfred served tea to everyone with his usual calm, and the conversation between the brothers returned—light, filled with contained laughter.

For a moment, Damian just observed. Jason argued about which drawing was "cooler," Tim tried to explain color theory, Dick laughed at everything, Bruce painted in silence, and Alfred organized the chaos.

Damian took a deep breath, smelling the scent of paint and fresh tea. That room felt like a home. A safe place. Something he didn't know if he deserved, but for the first time, he didn't want to lose.

He picked up a clean brush and, discreetly, began to draw something else: no longer a green whirlpool, but a simple scene—the table full of papers, his brothers, Bruce, and Alfred in the background. His family. The family to which he belonged.
And, without realizing it, a small, genuine smile formed on his lips.

Chapter Text

Night fell over Gotham, silent and soft, like a dark curtain dotted with distant lights. At Wayne Manor, time seemed to slow down. The studio still carried the scent of fresh paint and tea, with brushes dipped in cups of colored water and sheets of paper scattered in every corner. The sun had already set, but the room remained illuminated by yellow lamps, warming the atmosphere with a cozy glow.

Damian was still sitting in the same chair, but now with his arms crossed over the table, his chin resting on a closed fist. He was observing the drawing he had just finished: the scene around the table, every detail painted with precision. Jason with his smirk, Tim serious but curious, Dick laughing out loud, Bruce leaning over the paper, Alfred with his calm demeanor in the background. It was simple, but... true.

Jason stretched in his chair, breaking the silence.
"Man, I swear this painting thing relaxed me more than any training session." He twirled the brush between his fingers, lazy. "This could become the official family therapy."
"As long as you don't spill paint on Alfred's carpet again," Tim countered without taking his eyes off his own drawing.
Jason smirked dismissively. "Relax, Pennyworth loves cleaning up messes.

"Oh, of course," Alfred replied, appearing with his impeccable tone of British irony. He entered the room with a cloth in his hands, distractedly tidying the paint jars. "That is exactly why I have spent years asking you to be careful."
Damian suppressed a laugh. Jason raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Dick, sitting on the edge of the table, swung his legs like a child. He picked up Damian’s drawing without asking permission, and his eyes brightened at the result.

"Dami..." he said, with a sincerity that made the boy flinch. "You really outdid yourself. This is incredible. Seriously, man, it’s like you captured us... alive, you know?"
"It was just a scene study," Damian muttered, uncomfortable with the praise.
"It’s more than that," Bruce commented, still seated, analyzing the scattered sheets. His voice was calm, but it carried that weight of authority everyone knew. "It’s... a memory. Something we’ll want to keep."
Damian blinked, surprised. He wasn't used to seeing Bruce sentimental.
"We could put it in a frame," Dick suggested, smiling.
Jason let out a laugh. "Great, the Boy Wonder is a family artist now, too." He leaned over to ruffle Damian’s hair; the boy brushed his hand away with a grimace, but without the usual venom in his eyes.

Bruce stood up, adjusting his blazer, but before leaving the room, he stopped behind Damian’s chair and placed a large hand on his shoulder.

"You have talent," he said softly. "But more than that... you have something to say. Never underestimate that, Damian."
Bruce’s touch was firm, protective. Damian instinctively tensed, but he didn’t pull away. There was a strange comfort there. A security that didn’t depend on words.
When Bruce withdrew, Alfred approached, leaning on the back of Damian’s chair.

"Master Damian, I know you prefer to act in silence, but I must say... it is a pleasure to see you like this."
Damian frowned. "Like what?"
"At peace."

He didn't answer. He only looked away, trying to hide the warmth in his chest.

Later, close to bedtime, the manor was silent. Damian walked through the hallways with light steps, holding the newly finished drawing against his chest. He didn't know why he was taking it to his room, but there was something comforting about keeping it close.

On the way, he passed the living room and stopped at the door. Dick was lying on the sofa with a blanket over his shoulders and his phone in hand, laughing quietly at some video. Seeing Damian, he motioned for him to come in.

"Can't sleep?" he asked.
"I do not have trouble with that," Damian replied automatically, but he stopped beside the sofa.
Dick smiled. "Sit down."

Damian hesitated but eventually sat on the edge of the sofa. Dick looked at him fondly, setting his phone aside.
"Hey, did you know that when I was your age, I used to draw too?"

Damian raised an eyebrow, curious.

"I had these notebooks full of sketches. Most of it was just... doodling so I wouldn't have to think, you know? But... looking at what you did today, man, it made me proud. Not just because it looked good, but because you let yourself go."
Damian looked away, uncomfortable. "You are exaggerating."
"I’m not." Dick rested a hand on his shoulder. "I know it’s not easy to open up. But we’re here, Dami. All of us."
Damian remained silent, Dick’s words echoing in his mind. After a few seconds, he handed the drawing to his brother.
"Do you want to keep this?" he murmured.
Dick blinked, surprised. "Are you sure? I thought you were going to save it."
"You can keep it. Just... do not throw it away."

Dick smiled, moved, and hugged Damian tightly—the kind of hug only he knew how to give, a hug that said more than any speech. Damian didn't return it immediately, but then he relaxed, allowing himself to lean his head against his brother's shoulder.
Later, in his room, Damian lay in bed with a new notebook by his side. He didn't know why, but he felt like drawing more. Maybe it was just to have that feeling again, warmth in his chest, that sensation of being... home.

Before he fell asleep, Alfred appeared silently, as always.
"Goodnight, Master Damian," he said with a slight smile. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"
"No. Thank you."
"Very well. But know that I am proud of you."
Damian’s eyes widened. "Why?"
"For allowing yourself to be a child."

The boy didn't answer; he just pulled the blanket up to his chin. Alfred turned off the light but left the door ajar, as he always did for all the children of the house when they were small.
Damian closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, there were no shadows of the Pit in his dreams. Only the warmth of the yellow light from the studio, the smell of paint, and the laughter of his family.