Takes place in November, Month Six of Dd Dynamic Duo.

Guest Appearance(s): Talia al Ghul, Stephanie Brown

III. Thicker Than Blood

He felt impossibly numb. It was akin to the sensation of being doused in freezing water for so long that eventually the body gave up on trying to feel warm and instead gave into the hopelessness of being cold. His blood had dropped to the temperature of ice, his veins moving the slushy liquid about sluggishly, until he was fairly certain he would simply keel over from lack of blood flow. Spots of black danced at the corners of his eyesight, threatening to overwhelm and swallow him whole. It felt as though his lungs had since seized up, refusing to provide him with the oxygen that he needed in order to live.

All of this happened in a split-second, and mere moments later he was taking a steadying breath in and facing down the woman – the stranger – that stood across from him. He clenched his hands into tightly balled fists, and had it not been for the thick layers of his gloves, his nails would've broken through the skin of his palms. His teeth ground against one another in a painful fashion, and his eyes narrowed in hatred and distaste.

Forcing his tensed back muscles to relax ever so slightly, he lifted his chin in defiance, meeting the piercing stare of his enemy with an equally dangerous one of his own. He would not back down, not after everything he had been put through, after everything he had suffered. He was not a failure. Not even if she thought so (especially if she thought so). She didn't know how much he worked. She never had. She never would.

She didn't care.

The realization shouldn't have been as shocking as it was. It shouldn't have driven the air from his lungs, the energy from his muscles, the thoughts from his mind. He should have known better. To assume such things about her was a fool's decision, and for him to blindly accept her theatrics had been a grave error in his calculations. He should have known better. She had never been a particularly good actress, and he should have been able to see through her lies.

"You put machinery into my spine, Mother," he just barely refrained from snapping, his anger towards her causing him to ball his hands into tight fists at his side. "You used me as your weapon against my allies."

"I tried to save you, Damian," she continued, her tone now so achingly false to his ears that it rattled emptily in his mind.

"Save me from what?" he retorted, narrowing his eyes. "From being Robin? From making my own decisions?"

"You honestly believe those heroes trust you? They are using you, brainwashing you. Sooner or later, you will be stripped of all your potential and be reduced to nothing more than a worthless pet."

"The only one that has ever brainwashed me is you," the boy soldier regarded her with ice in his tone and in his heart. "You have used me as nothing more than a living weapon, and you will no longer continue to do so. I have made my choice, Mother. And my loyalties have become clear."

"You truly believe that?" she wondered stoically, her face giving away none of her thoughts.

"Being Robin is the best thing I've ever done," Damian stated boldly, holding his chin up and unconsciously puffing out his chest slightly in a childish way to show her his personal pride. "I have done more as Robin than I ever have as Damian al Ghul. I don't need you to save me."

"Is this your final decision?" the international villainess wondered idly, no longer sounding as if she even cared of the matter of losing her son. The very thought made his blood boil and freeze all at once, as if his mind could not effectively process the emotions such a notion caused in him.

She turned her back towards him, facing the door at the end of the hall they had been wandering down, entering the necessary code. The metallic door slid open silently, disappearing into the adjacent wall and revealing a decidedly high-tech laboratory. His mother led him inside and he followed her until they were bathed in an eerie red glow. Computers and various other pieces of technology far beyond the average person's comprehension lined the room, but it was the red glowing sphere that dominated the available space. Even though Damian had never personally encountered one, he was positive that the contraption before him was an artificial womb, if the still-developing infant was anything to go by.

Abruptly, the apprehension which had been swirling around his heart grew, and he had a distinct urge to expel the contents of his stomach. The feeling worsened as his mother gazed at the unfortunate child incubating in the womb and rested her hand on the outer edge of the sphere. Her eyes held a deceptive look that was all too familiar to Damian, one that he had often times been the recipient of after their formal introduction on his eighth birthday. At one point in his life, he had tricked himself into believing it was a motherly glance, a look of caring and fierce devotion to one's offspring. Now, however, Damian saw through the lies, and saw Talia's gaze for what it was.

Cold. Cruel. Predatory.

A shiver ran unbidden up his spine. Against all his better judgment, he couldn't help but feel a well-warranted wave of pity for the unborn child, who was not yet aware of the danger it was in. Damian found that he didn't much want the unnamed child to be aware.

"He's you," his mother broke the silence between them, still caressing the artificial womb with a lingering gleam of malicious intent in her hardened eyes. "Created from the same DNA combination as you. He'll be ten years younger."

"A clone," Damian iterated, the words, to his amazement, not coming out strangled or broken like he felt. He wasn't wanted. He wasn't good enough. He was being replaced. The revelation brought a whole new wave of unease to his stomach, and he found himself forcing a swallow past the lump that was forming at the back of his throat.

"This is your last chance, Damian," she spoke, tone attempting a visage of warmth, but falling flat against the blood pounding in his ears. "You could still accept your destiny, my son."

Damian took a steadying breath, feeling as if the floor was dropping out from under his feet and he was plummeting in all consuming darkness. "Can't you just love me for who I am?" he wondered, desperation threatening to break his outward resolve.

Instantly, all attempts at motherly affection slipped from Talia's face, and was replaced with the intelligent, deadly look that she assumed whenever dealing business. "No. That would never do, Damian," she regarded him with ice in her tone. "I'm a perfectionist. And my affections are reserved only for the best. Unfortunately, you have decided to fall from such favor. However," his mother continued as if it were a business transaction, "I shall permit you to leave with your circus filth in tow. That is the limit of my generosity, and, the next time we meet, you will not be granted the leniency of blood ties. We are no longer family," her voice was professional, void of emotion.

Her voice was as it always had been.

He narrowed his eyes, the mask covering a portion of his face wrinkling slightly from the motion. "We never were," he proclaimed coldly, tone deceptively calm and even, although he felt anything but.

She may have supplied him with half of his genetic code, but she had never been his mom. Such a title was not handed out to cruel visages of emotionless capacity such as herself. His life had been one of lies. And she had been the liar.

But, no more. He was not a naïve little child. He was Damian Wayne, Robin, the Boy Wonder, the Dark Squire, one of Gotham's vigilantes. He would not be a useless pawn for his moth-…for his enemy. He would stop her, and he would protect Gotham. Because he was a hero now, and his worth was no longer determined by the monster before him, no longer determined by how many opponents he could slaughter.

Dick was at a loss of what to do. It was a sentiment he had faced countless times throughout his life, but one that seemed to be growing rapidly abundant in the latest stage of his maturity. Who knew being the mentor/big brother/main caregiver/…other such things to an assassin-trained ten-year-old could cause one to question themselves so much? He certainly had not expected an easy task (the boy having inherited his father's attitude and moodiness would've made him a big enough challenge alone), but Dick had not quite been prepared for the enormity of his task.

How did one deal with a moping child assassin?

It wasn't that Dick was inexperienced in terms of handling children, or assassins, for that matter. But with his various 'honorary' nieces and nephews, a trip to the ice cream shop, or an extra-long story time, or even a game of 'Uncle Dick is Attacking the City' had always been enough to cheer them up. And, certainly, most other assassins he had met were either far too old for such antics or, well, trying to kill him (so, of course, those methods wouldn't have worked in such instances). The closest he had gotten was in the form of his adopted sister. Even then, while Dick considered himself relatively close to Cass, she had always been closer to Steph and Babs in those regards. Not to mention Cass had always been rather rational and thoughtful in her actions and emotions.

Damian, on the other hand, was not.

And that was where the problem lay. Dick had no clue how to restore his kid's foul mood to his slightly less-foul normal temperament. It had been nearly a week since their latest lovely chat with the Wicked Witch of the Middle East, Miss Talia al Ghul, and Dick was no closer to finding out what they had spoken about. Whatever had happened between Damian and his mother, it had certainly affected the boy far more than he cared to admit. Dick had been trying tirelessly the past few days to get his baby brother to open up to him, going so far as to letting Damian decide what they would have for dinner, taking him to his favorite (though he would never admit it) ice cream place, and even returning two of his prized swords. Nothing, unfortunately, had resulted in the heart-felt brotherly bonding Dick had been hoping for.

He shouldn't really be surprised at his lack of success, but it still stung a bit more than he had expected. After all, he and Damian had been working together for the past six months, and, while their teamwork was still spotty at best and catastrophic at worst, they had certainly come a long way. However, theirs was a game of two steps forward, and one step back, and nights such as the one they were having did nothing more than prove that.

"Go back to the bunker and have A patch you up," he ordered his glowering apprentice. "Batgirl and I can handle the rest tonight."

It was no surprise that the boy in front of him bristled immediately, masked eyes narrowing and expression settling into a scowl of anger and distaste. "Fatgirl is hardly qualified to handle this case!" he spat viciously, jabbing an accusing finger in the teen's direction.

"Quit calling me that!" Stephanie reacted by shooting her own glare in the kid's direction.

She opened her mouth to add another piece of her mind, no doubt a scathing retort that would send both of them into a verbal frenzy, when Batman smoothly stepped between the two hot-headed junior crime-fighters and tried to douse the tempers that had run a little too hot for his peace of mind. Their constant squabbling reminded Dick of a comment Babs had said not too long ago, about how the two youngest members of the family were like their bickering step-kids.

The idea had been funny at the time. Now it was just aggravating.

"Batgirl is perfectly capable of completing the mission," the Dark Knight informed his volatile partner, trying valiantly to retain his own temper, even though every second he spent arguing was another second the Penguin could use to escape.

"I'm your partner!" Robin argued, practically screeching in his heated anger, flinging out his one good arm and taking a defiant, a desperate, step in Dick's direction.

"So is Batgirl!" Dick snapped back, fed up with Damian's insubordination. "You happen to have a broken hand. You will only get in the way if you come!" he all but loomed over his young protégé, testiness and frustration and utter exhaustion limiting the constraint of his temper. He was running on three hours of sleep, the Penguin's gang was going on a crime and killing spree, and he was completely sick of butting heads with Damian at every turn. Couldn't the brat just take an order for once?

He noticed Robin shrink into himself ever so slightly, and took it as a sign of Damian's defeat, and his own victory. Stephanie had since fallen quiet, not wanting to get in the way of an angry Batman, leaving Dick to berate his youngest brother on his own.

"Go to the car and go home, Robin," Dick ground out, pointing out a solitary finger in the direction of the Batmobile. "Agent A will fix up your arm, and I'll deal with you later," he added, barely managing to not shout, referring to the way the boy had so nearly gotten himself, and his partners, killed. "If I find out you disobeyed me, no patrol for a month. Understood?"

He waited for an answer, but only got Damian's bowed head in response.

"Damian," he snapped, effectively gaining the boy's attention. "Understood?" the Batman sternly reiterated, his teeth feeling as if he would grind them into nubs from the pressure of his tensed jaw.

The Boy Wonder gave a curt nod, avoiding eye contact with his mentor, and clenched his one good hand into a tight fist. At that, he turned on his heel and marched stiffly back to the alleyway where the Batmobile was hidden. He studiously ignored the feeling of eyes on his back, even as he kicked irritably at a few loose pebbles, and he felt a wave of relief as he hopped onto the fire escape and made his way out of their sight.

Without another word, Batman and Batgirl vanished into the night, swinging from rooftop to rooftop in an attempt to follow a now thoroughly disappeared Penguin. Dick pushed all thoughts of Damian from his mind, ranging anywhere from guilt for having yelled at him to concern for his kid's health, and instead focused on the task at hand.

"Don't you think you were a little harsh back there, Pointy Ears?" Batgirl commented lightly, landing silently as the two masked vigilantes perched on the roof of a building. "You kinda snapped."

"Not now, Batgirl."

"Wow. Moody much," Stephanie grumbled to herself. "What got your Kevlar tights in a twist?"

"He could've gotten us killed. He could've gotten himself killed!" Dick cried, throwing one of his hands up distractedly, while the other held a pair of binoculars to his eyes. "He's been even more reckless than usual these past few days, and I still don't know exactly why!" At that moment, his eyes narrowed in on a familiar nondescript car, the chosen getaway vehicle of a certain flightless bird. "Ten o'clock, North Main Street," he informed his young partner quickly, before diving off the roof and firing his grapple in one smooth move.

Stephanie sighed. "So, it's going to be one of those nights," she muttered, before following her kinda-almost adopted brother. However, she left it at that. After all, an angry Dick was a quite terrifying Dick.

A part of her really wished she had stayed home. Getting caught up in 'Dynamic Duo Drama' was never on her to-do list.

He didn't say a single word to Pennyworth. They sat in a not unfriendly silence, Damian stoically avoiding any form of communication or what could be perceived as defeat, and Pennyworth studiously setting his charge's broken bones and splinting them. The Bat-bunker was nearly silent, aside from the faint hum of the Batcomputer and the quiet efficiency of Pennyworth's work. Damian's eyes strayed from location to location, trying in vain to find something safe to look at. Nothing did the trick. Everything was wrong.

He was wrong.

His jaw clenched and his still good hand fisted, and if Pennyworth noticed, he paid Damian no mind. The young boy was left to stew in his personal thoughts, and he found that no stray concepts or ideas in his head were safe. Nothing was right. It was all going to pieces. He had failed, and there was nothing he could do to fix what he had done wrong (the worst of it all was that he had no clue what needed fixing). He had thought that…

But, no. He had thought wrong.

A naïve idiot. That's all he was. It had happened with Talia. And now it was happening with Grayson.

Everything was ruined. Damian's entire life was crumbling right in front of him. And there was nothing with which he could stop the destruction, nor even prolong it. Such an outcome had been inevitable from the beginning. How had he ever fooled himself into thinking that Grayson…no. Of course he didn't. Grayson merely accepted his continued existence because of his loyalty to Damian's father. But their partnership had been on the rocks since its conception, and surely their eventual disbanding had been unavoidable.

Damian ignored the traitorous stinging that grew in his eyes, and he sincerely hoped that Pennyworth was too distracted to notice. He blinked rapidly a few times, dispelling the prickling sensation, but was still plagued by the despicable lump in his throat and clench in his stomach. His body refused to answer to his attempts to calm his reactions, and he felt a surge of frustration so hot that it reignited the prickling in his eyes.

Pennyworth had finished splinting Damian's arm, and the boy roughly pulled away from the elderly man and hopped down from the medical cot, stomping off towards the elevator that would take him up to the penthouse. He received no well-wishes from the butler, nor any trace of some formal 'goodnight, young sir' that he had grown so accustomed to. Damian was left alone to his thoughts, and the very fact that would have once brought him satisfaction now did nothing but plummet into his stomach and disturb the food still digesting there.

Pathetic. That's what part of his brain tried to convince him. Overreaction. That was what the rational side of his brain was trying to say. But the rest of him would have none of it. Logic and reasoning was insubstantial in the face of feelings and emotions, a lesson that Damian had learned the hard way the past few days. He wanted nothing to do with it, but it persistently clung to him anyway.

He hated it. He hated himself. He hated the world.

Perhaps someone, in a far different situation as he, would call him petty and selfish for his blatant disregard of the blessings in his life. Damian would promptly deck them in the face and shatter their nose into a few hundred pieces. But, no. Not at that moment. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than to escape Pennyworth's far too knowledgeable eyes and retreat to his own privacy. At the moment, Damian just wanted to hide.

A disgrace. That's what he was. His mother had informed him of such bluntly, and even Grayson had given up on Damian's worthlessness. The thought stung more than the boy cared to admit, and he bit down on his lip viciously, drawing a few beads of blood from the tender flesh. Behind him, the elevator door slid closed, bringing him a sense of reprieve from the observant butler. Upstairs, he knew, there were cameras strategically placed in all the main rooms, expertly maneuvered so that there were no blind spots. But once he reached his own sleeping quarters, Damian would be safe from any and all prying eyes.

He realized with a blunt sort of self-deprecation that he could very much use that at the moment, if the silent watery trails trekking down his cheeks were anything to go by. Furiously rubbing at the traitorous drops, Damian ducked past the doors as soon as there was a gap wide enough for him to escape. The boy dashed past the kitchen and the living room, heading down the hall and eventually all but diving into his room. He slammed the door behind him, harder than was strictly necessary, and leaned back against it, his heart beating faster than it should've been after such a short sprint.

Not the most stealthy of plans, a part of Damian realized, but was subsequently drowned out by the suddenly unbearable welling of sobs at the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly and stumbled further into his room towards the closet, vaguely noticing that he was only clad in his combat trousers. It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered anymore. Damian had failed. He hadn't been good enough. He was no longer Damian al Ghul, and now Grayson had replaced Robin with Batgirl. And, without Robin, then Damian Wayne was nothing more than a shade.

He was nothing more than a shade.

Damian (just Damian; he was neither al Ghul nor Wayne) was a failure. And failures had no place in any pedestal of favor. His mother and his mentor had both taught him that, in a rather hard way. He shouldn't have been surprised. He had grown complacent. It was his own goddamn fault. And now he had nothing.

Nothing but an empty suitcase and a closet of clothes he could pack.

After all, Damian was not a fool. Not in any form of the word. He knew a hint when he saw one, and he could tell when he was unwanted.

Not that knowing made it any easier, of course. In fact, knowing made it quite difficult indeed. Before he could acknowledge the act, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground, his sight blurred and distorted from his held back tears and his throat sore from the effort of containing any verbal evidence.

He was acting childish. Horribly so. And if Mother, or any one of his old tutors, were present, he would've received just punishment for such unfavorable emotions. However, they weren't there. No one was there. And maybe, Damian thought to himself, his suffering finally breaking past the point of silent mourning, that was what made it worse.

Damian didn't know how long he stayed there, muffling intermittent sobs with the encasing of his arms, and clenching his broken hand tight in the hopes that the pain would turn his despair into anger. It had no such effect, and the boy was left alone in the darkness of his misery. Unwanted. Unloved.

It was only when someone kneeled beside him that Damian became aware of another presence in his rapidly decreasing world. He immediately sucked in a breath, holding back the onslaught of infantile cries and tensing his muscles subconsciously in preparation for his punishment. No such reaction came, and he nearly cursed himself for his stupidity. Of course no punishment would come. Those only came from Moth – Talia – and her assassins. Grayson would give no treatment like that. He would merely kick Damian out for not being good enough. Not that the boy could blame him.

"Damian," Grayson's voice sounded from right beside him, and it took quite a bit of Damian's will not to instantly turn towards the deceptively gentle tone. Instead, the boy twisted his head away from his mentor, discretely attempting to wipe his eyes against his arm. "Dami. Look at me."

The command was soft, but with enough authority for Damian to reluctantly drag his head in Grayson's direction. Still, his head remained resolutely bowed, and their eyes did not meet. Damian didn't think he could manage to, whether from his pride or his dread. It occurred to him that he must look terribly pathetic, curled up on his bedroom floor wearing only a pair of pants and still unwashed from the patrol he had ran.

"Damian," Grayson tried again in that achingly gentle tone, and it startled Damian when he realized how unnaturally his mentor was refraining from any form of physical contact. A pang ran deep through his heart, causing the boy to understand why Grayson was using the tone usually reserved for abused/victimized children. Obviously, this was Grayson's way of releasing him from his Robin duties in the nicest way possible.

"Why are you crying?"

The question surprised him, enough so that he dared a quick glance up at his surrogate brother's eyes, before immediately looking away once more. He had seen Grayson's eyes, and the concerned expression they held that was nothing like anything Damian had faced before. Not like the cold, calculating stares his mother had given him, nor the untrusting glances his father once had in their brief acquaintance, or even the polite looks Pennyworth offered. It held some form of unidentified emotion, one that Damian had never quite found a name for. The thought unsettled him, and the lump in his throat seemed to expand.

Grayson demanded nothing from him, content to sit next to the distraught boy just out of reach, waiting to see if Damian would answer the proposed question. He watched with intent blue eyes, focused on nothing but the child before him, with nothing but worry and concern (and quite a bit of guilt) worming its way through his heart and mind.

"I-" Damian started, self-consciously clearing his throat at how distraught his voice sounded. "I am not Damian al Ghul," he managed to choke out.

"No. You are not," Grayson agreed without hesitation, confusion evident in his reply.

"My moth-" here Damian cut himself off, before he could make the same fatal mistake that had tormented the first ten years of his life. "Talia disowned me," he corrected, spitting out the name as if it were a curse. "I wasn't good enough."

Grayson was silent for several stretched out moments, and Damian's heart pounded in his ears at the thought that his mentor shared the sentiment.

"And you believe that I was thinking the same thing when I told you to go home," he commented seriously. "When I took Batgirl with me instead," the older of the Dynamic Duo continued, and Damian could see him nod his head emphatically from the corner of his eye. "You think that I replaced you, that I don't consider you good enough to be Robin."

Damian turned his head away once more, glaring teary-eyed at some random pattern in the carpet.

"Well, I don't."

The statement slammed into Damian full force, and his breathing hitched painfully in his throat. Mother had been right. Grayson didn't trust him, never had. Grayson didn't see his potential, didn't appreciate all his hard work, none of what his mentor had once assured him.

"I think you're better."

Damian's world pulled to a standstill. He painstakingly turned to meet the, as always, utterly sincere gaze of his Batman. Even through the tears clogging Damian's usually sharp gaze, he could see the comforting, unnamed expression in the cyan blue eyes that he had grown so familiar with.

"And you are, Damian," the older vigilante continued. "For such an apparently sharp mind, Talia has always been a fool, and nothing proves it more than her poor assessment of you."

He wanted to argue that Grayson was merely lying, that the vigilante was leading him on. Damian wanted to make a scathing retort, maybe about Grayson's inferior breeding or something that insulted Drake's virtue. Enough that Grayson would grow angry and yell at him before storming out and leaving the conversation at that.

But he didn't. Because, maybe, he didn't really want to.

"I'm sorry that she thinks of you like that, Damian," Grayson went on gravely, "because that is not fair to you. But life isn't fair. In your life, you'll find that there are many things that are thicker than blood, and that those who you are related to do not determine your worth."

The tears had since refused to be stemmed, and Damian could distinctly feel the salty tracks running down his face and occasionally dripping to his bare chest. Although shame aggravated the back of his mind, he found that he could not tear his gaze from that of his guardian's, even though the prideful part of him very much wanted to. Something small, and significant, inside of him yearned to bridge that undefined distance that Grayson had established between them.

"I'm going to hug you, Dami," the man broke through Damian's thoughts, spreading his arms out in the boy's direction and offering him an open look. "And if that's not okay with you, just say so."

Damian didn't say anything.

Warm, familiar arms wrapped around him, embracing him, curling around him until he felt no more powerful than an infant. Usually, such feeling incited aggravation and irritation in him. Currently, however, Damian found that the comforting support was what that unnurtured, childish part of his soul had for so long yearned for. This was not one of Grayson's typical hugs, not the silly, slightly clumsy, balance-threatening attacks that lasted for split seconds, before Grayson was bounding off out of Damian's retaliation range. This was something else entirely, something protective and empowering that was filled with that unnamed emotion.

And, as Damian was pulled into Grayson's lap, a soothing hand rubbing circles against his back, and his renewed sobs muffled by his possibly-more-than-mentor's shoulder, Damian found that maybe he finally understood that feeling.

Family.

A/N: I'll admit, I was totally tearing up at the end there (although, it could've just been because it's midnight and I still have homework to do…)

In other news…I'M BACK! Sorry I took forever to update (hehe…whoops). Marching band leaves me with no free time, school started up, and it's my first year taking AP classes (…yay), so things are a bit hectic. As payment for your wonderful and continued support, I made this chapter a full extra thousand words!

Sorry if Damian seems a bit OOC, but, in my defense, he is only ten. And I don't care how much training he's endured, ten year olds cry. Rather often, actually. Besides, Damian has cried in canon. And if he can cry in front of Bruce, then, logically, of course he could cry in front of Dick.

Thank you all so very much for supporting this story! You are all so amazing, and you have been a constant inspiration when I had horrible writer's block for this stupid chapter!

I'll try to get the next update out quicker (has it really almost been two months?), but, apologetically, I can make no promises.

Thank you for reading! Please review/comment/favorite/add/whatever!

Love you all!

~PNGuin

P.S. Time for me to go study for a test over a book I never read! (Whoo…reading…)