It was dark— not entirely pitch-black, but enough to obscure the areas surrounding him. It was cold too, almost as if he was stood outside in the dead of winter wearing only light clothing. There was a single flicker of light at the end of the long, narrow passageway, it's presence seemed to instill some form of comfort inside him as he made his way toward it.
The wooden floor creaked beneath him with every step, and the closer he grew towards the soft glow of light, the colder it seemed.
He eventually reached the end of the narrowing passage, only to find himself stood underneath a dimming streetlamp behind an alley. He looked back but the passageway was already gone-- as though it hadn't been there at all-- replaced by the empty, damp streets of Gotham. Every instinct inside him told him not to walk down that alley, to forget about it and simply walk away. But his feet moved forward and before he could blink he was cautiously walking down the seemingly empty, cobblestone road.
He knew it was a dream, how could it not be? He wasn't the type to willingly walk down dark alleys anymore, not unless he was the only thing to be feared that was in there.
Two figures were stood underneath an unlit streetlamp at the other end of the alley. They stood with their backs toward him so he couldn't see their faces. He didn't feel afraid, in fact, he felt at ease almost, a sense of familiarity emitting from the two strangers.
He didn't say anything as he slowly reached his hand up to the more slender shoulder of the figure standing to the left. He didn't want them to turn around and acknowledge his presence but he couldn't seem to help himself; he needed to know who these people were.
Slowly his outstretched hand reached it's intended position, and he froze before making contact, his hand hovering just above the shoulder that was partly covered in darkness.
Suddenly a cry of laughter broke out amongst the silence before being muffled by a sudden gunshot. His hand dropped away as the man and woman fell to the ground, the harsh intensity of the freshly lit streetlamp beaming upon their faces.
The sound of a gun cocking forced him to look away. A silhouette half-covered by shadow stood before him with the weapon raised and pointed at his chest.
He felt it before he heard it. The sharp, white-hot agony as the bullet hit him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his abdomen as the crimson liquid seeped out of the wound. His vision began to blur as he desperately tried to steady his breathing.
The world around him began to slowly darken. A tear slipped from his eye as he watched the white pearls-- now covered in blood-- that had fallen from the woman's neck as she fell, roll passed his face, and into the drain next to him.
***
Bruce woke with a start, looking frantically around his room, and trying to untangle himself from the bedsheets in desperation.
Just a dream.
Once he got his bearings and calmed his breathing down to normal, he let himself slip back into bed but he didn't dare go back to sleep; the dream startled him too much. It was too vivid and felt too real. It was like being back in that alley when he was a boy, watching his parents die in front of him.
He remembered the nightmares he would have for months after their deaths, almost like his subconscious was playing a sick game with him, forcing him to relive the moment over and over again.
But they stopped after a while, and they didn't come back, that is, until this very moment.
He felt wetness on his cheeks and immediately he knew he'd been crying silent tears in his sleep. Bruce scowled in annoyance; night-terrors were for children, not him. Not Batman.
Throughout the day, Bruce tried his hardest to forget about the dream, but he found himself re-thinking about it every time he was alone. He couldn't deny that it shook him; it felt too real, as though it were more than just a dream.
He didn't tell anybody about it though, not even Alfred; he didn't understand it enough to explain it, and he didn't want to worry anyone about it. After all, they had more important things to worry about-- Damian being the prime subject.
For the most part, the boy seemed to be okay, back to his normal self— if sitting on the roof and drawing all day was what could be categorized as normal behavior for a ten-year-old.
But Bruce found it extremely odd that Damian had dropped off the face of the earth for two days, and then returned without a word, acting as though nothing had happened. Not to mention the smashed mirror Alfred had discovered in the bathroom when he went in to clean it the next day.
Nobody had said anything about it though; they figured he probably just slipped and fell against it. But Bruce— and perhaps everyone else knew— that wasn't the truth, and Damian clearly didn't want to talk about it.
For once it wasn't raining, so Bruce decided to take a leisurely stroll around the manor's gardens to pass the time. He found Damian in the garden, sat in front of his father's and mother's graves. He was drawing them in intricate detail, even including the small robin perched upon one of the headstones.
"Hey," Bruce greeted as he approached the boy, "what are you drawing?"
Damian shook his head absentmindedly, "just sketching, really," he explained, frowning at his drawings and hiding them away from Bruce's view. "They're not very good."
From what Bruce could see, they were very good, amazing, in fact.
"It's just something I do to pass the time when I'm bored."
Bruce hummed in agreement, taking the time to think for a moment. A slight breeze rippled through the air, tousling his hair, and chilling his skin a little.
"So, I was planning on going on patrol tonight," Bruce began, suddenly grasping Damian's attention.
He quickly snapped the sketchbook shut, "you were?" Damian exclaimed as he sprang to his feet.
Bruce chuckled at the boy's eagerness; No one had gone on patrol in so long, and Bruce suspected Damian wanted to go more than anyone. "I was going to ask you to join me— watch my back."
"Really?" Damian asked, hardly believing that Bruce would let him leave the manor again after the stunt he'd pulled, "you'd let me go with you? You'd let me be Robin, again?"
It was clear to Bruce, that the mantle of Robin meant something to Damian. He'd only donned the cape and mask once, but he understood how freeing it was, and that was the thing Damian needed to feel the most-- it was the thing he'd lacked his whole life.
The pair walked in a comfortable silence back towards the manor's main doors, taking their time, and enjoying one another's company.
Bruce couldn't help but think back to his dream, and the all too real memory that it represented. The memory he'd tried his hardest to forget. He remembered what it was like to grow up without parents— to carry on living his life without them in it. He had Alfred, of course-- and he loved Alfred-- but it wasn't the same.
Damian had told him that he didn't have parents or a family he could go back to, and Bruce knew exactly what it felt like to be an orphan. He didn't want that for Damian; he wanted him to have his best chance in life.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," Bruce began, stopping the pair in their tracks.
Damian took a breath, quietly wishing that Bruce's question didn't involve anything about why he ran away; he didn't have an answer, and he was tired of the never-ending grilling from the whole family.
"When I first found you in that alley, you told me you didn't have a family," Bruce said, almost unsure what to say next. He took a breath, "and after I took you in, I told you, you were welcome to stay as long as you wanted-- Do you remember?"
Damian did remember. When Bruce first found him, Damian had thought that his stay would only be short, but Bruce had welcomed him into his home and offered him a lifetime with his family. An offer that Damian thought had expired since he up and left.
He hesitated slightly, uncertain where this conversation was going, and whether or not Bruce had decided to kick him out once and for all. He wouldn't blame Bruce at all should it come to that, after all, Damian was still a perfect stranger, and not exactly a trustworthy one.
"Yes, I remember," he replied with a nod.
"Well, you see... The thing is-"
Damian prepared himself for it-- for the loss of another family who didn't want him. His mother and grandfather didn't truly love him, they only wanted an heir— a perfect creation void of flaws, willing to torture and kill, and lead the world to damnation. That wasn't him.
He didn't belong with his mother, and now he was certain he didn't belong here in Gotham, it was only a matter of time before everyone else realized it.
But the more Damian thought about it, the more it didn't make sense. Bruce wouldn't ask him to join him on patrol as Robin if he were going to get rid of him, and the family— especially Dick, who now only decided that he'd address him with one of the many pet names he has for him— seemed to genuinely care for him. He was even certain he had heard Dick call him 'brother' once, but he could have been imagining it, he was half asleep, after all.
"The thing is-- and you don't have to decide right now-- but, over the past few weeks we've gotten to know you, and you fit right into this family; Even Alfred agrees with me."
Damian couldn't believe what he was hearing. Even after he'd run away, even after all the things he'd done.
Bruce took a breath, his nerves showing through his smile that he could hardly contain.
"I want to adopt you, Damian."
A/N:
Hey Guys!
Sorry for being awol for a while, I hope you enjoy this chapter, apologies that it's quite a short chapter; it's more of a filler chapter really in preparation for the next one.
Do you guys prefer longer chapters or shorter-average length chapters?
I'll try my best to be quick with the next update,
Until next time...
-Sunset536