random shit

But here's the thing: Danny is making absolutely no effort to stop him, he just takes the attempts. The first time, Damian successfully stabs Danny, and goes to announce his victory over Danny to his father. Bruce rushes to Danny, worried for his safety, and finds him just chilling there, not a single drop of blood or injury. Damian is gapping.

“Oh yeah, the kid beat me in a round of hide and seek. He’s pretty good.”

Bruce is relieved and pats Damian’s head, not noticing his utter confusion. And so a cartoon-like montage starts: Damian attacks Danny and claims victory, but Danny is completely fine, and says Damian won at some random game. Everyone thinks the two are super close, and that Damian’s excitement about winning is super cute. 

Eventually, positive enforcement wears Damian down, because everyone congratulates him and gives him affection for winning the “stupid things” Danny comes up with. He gradually calms down and integrates pretty well. Danny does end up being his closest sibling because he’s the only one that actually knows all of Damian. The only one Damian could attack with zero restraint and still be treated the same. 

But the important thing here is: Danny becomes an invincible figure in Damians mind. He could be stabbed, decapitated, poisoned, and still come back like nothing happened.

So surely, when Phantom is shot out of the sky by a Blood Blossom, surely he’ll just stand back up in a minute like always. Surely, he’s just waiting to get back to the cave to pretend like he always did for Damian. Surely, he’s just putting on a show on the medbay. 

But hours go by, and he’s still pretending. Still looking pale. Still keeping his eyes closed.

Damian doesn’t understand why he hasn’t bounced back yet. He should be okay by now. Alfred is moving around, changing the IV,dabbing Danny’s head with a damp cloth. There’s commotion outside as everyone is trying to get an antidote.

But this shouldn’t be happening. 

Danny is invincible.

Danny should be back to normal already.

So Damian starts shaking Danny. Screaming to stop pretending and tell them he was beaten in some stupid game again. To open his eyes already. 

Father is pulling him away, trying to calm him down, but he keeps struggling in his arms, because he’s getting Danny to wake up. 

And he doesn’t notice the tears falling down his face until he runs out of energy, and all that’s left is hiccuping in his father’s arms.

...

So… yeah, that’s what my mind supplied today while on the bus :)

Fenton wasn't even a vigilante, like Father or the others. He had managed to stop him from striking Drake with surprising swiftness and ease - embarrassing him by scruffing him like a cat, no less - but it's not like he was a Robin or even a Bat of some kind.

It should be simple. He knew his schedule after studying him, knew his favoured hobbies and haunts. He was trained since birth to be the Heir to the Demon's Head.

So whilst Fenton was setting up his game console to waste his time playing video games, Damian demonstrated why he should've been studying the blade by piercing him right through the heart with a knife. No sense using his blade when he'd have to remove it and get blood everywhere and cause a greater mess that Pennyworth would have to clean up.

"I win," he whispered into Fenton's ear as he twitched and struggled, his death throes. Wide blue eyes met his gaze for a moment but Damian melted away, triumphant and proud. One pretender dealt with. It was time to announce his success to Father.

------------------------------

Father… did not take his triumph like he had expected. If it had been Grandfather, he would've simply nodded, because success was expected, and Damian had always excelled.

But rather than be satisfied - or, as he dared to hope, proud - he had been horrified. Furious. Desperate to save Fenton, tearing through the hallways to the gaming room, with Damian trailing behind, confused as to where he had mis-stepped. Had he gone about it wrong? Should he have instead challenged Fenton to a duel? Announced his intentions prior?

"Danny! Danny just-Danny…?" Father shouted, fear and panic and then confusion on his face as his voice petered out.

"Oh hey Bruce," Fenton replied, looking away from the screen. The fact that he still did not call Father by an appropriate title burned at him, but the indignation was swallowed by the shock of seeing him… perfectly fine. Healthy.

Damian had stabbed him in the heart. He was certain of it. There should be blood. He should've died in seconds. He absolutely should not be sitting there, calm, relaxed and playing whatever vapid game he had loaded!

"... Damian said he had… attacked you," Father asked, voice tight and brow furrowed.

He hadn't phrased it like that, of course, but he hadn't been shy of describing his triumph over Fenton. Prematurely, apparently, given he was… somehow unharmed. No blood. No stab wound. No knife, even. He was definitely missing one, however, so he hadn't just… hallucinated it somehow.

Fenton just blinked and laughed. "Oh, that? Yeah, we were playing hide and seek, and he got a little enthusiastic. But hey, he won, so, congratulations buddy."

… Hide and seek? As if he would indulge something so… puerile!

Father studied them both, clearly confused and thrown, but… considering. "I… see," he said slowly, and although he certainly sounded assured, Damian was willing to bet he did not see. "I'm glad you're both getting along then. It's nice to see you're making an effort, Damian."

He was making an effort, but not to get along! He was still too shocked to react to Father ruffling his hair like a child, moving to leave both of them in the ensuing silence with only a parting request that they don't 'rough house too much in the manor'.

He wasn't sure whether that was a coded request not to assassinate within the manor or not, but with Father gone… "I killed you." It was a factual statement, even if he did sound almost accusatory.

"Did you?" Fenton drawled, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. Mocking. "I must've missed it."

Grinding his teeth was not a healthy response, although it was nigh on impossible to stop. "I do not know what tricks you used, Fenton… but I will triumph."

"Mmhm." Without any of the appropriate level of fear and wariness, Fenton turned back to his game. 

He was tempted to try and strike him again, but he would do this properly, not impulsively. He would try again after.

"Oh, before I forget." He reached beside him, pulling out the knife he'd been stabbed with. "Here. You forgot this."

"You will live to regret this, Fenton," he seethed, cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame, "But no longer."

"Sure, sure. Better luck next time, buddy."

------------------------------

Stabbing had failed, so his next attempt was something grander. He waited until Fenton was in the manor gardens late one night, with his telescope. The perfect situation.

His steps were silent, his sword was drawn. He brought it down and he felt the resistance of flesh and bone as he carved straight through Fenton's spine. "I win," he hissed, watching the pretender let out a cry of pain and fall to the ground.

He wasn't taking chances this time either, and buried his blade through the back of Fenton's skull. And then he watched for a few minutes to confirm there was no trick. He checked for a pulse and found nothing.

Fenton was dead.

This time, when he declared his triumph the next morning to Father over breakfast, he didn't seem as concerned as before. Perhaps he was right to do so outside the manor itself? Grayson seemed more concerned, but he didn't seem eager to do anything given Father's calm reaction.

"I am sure Pennyworth will be able to confirm my victory, for Fenton should still be-" he continued, but found he couldn't finish his sentence as his eyes registered something impossible.

Fenton. Walking into the kitchen with a yawn. Unharmed. Again. No sign of the grievous wounds he should've received, no sign of anything except perhaps staying up a little too late. "Morning Bruce, morning Dick, morning Damian," he greeted, blinking sleepily, "Is there coffee? I'm dead tired this morning." His gaze flicked to Damian for just a moment, and there was a quirk to his lips that suggested he was making a joke.

He didn't see the humour in it, personally.

"Morning Danny," Grayson returned cheerfully, looking about far more awake than Fenton, but his gaze was nonetheless alert and assessing. "Damian said he 'triumphed' over you last night?"

"Oh yeah. We were playing tag. He's pretty fast and nimble, you know?" he lied, as easy as breathing. An infuriating thing to notice, given he shouldn't be breathing at all. "Good way to burn some energy."

Father sipped his coffee with a pensive grunt, but just nodded. "So long as you're not staying up too late, boys. I know it's the weekend, but do try to think about your routines."

There was a muffled snort from Grayson and even Fenton looked like he was about to call Father out on the hypocrisy there in a light, joking way.

"Tt." Vexing. Back to planning, it seemed.

"Let me know if you want to play again, Damian," Fenton said cheerfully, sipping his coffee as he passed him, "I'm always down to hang."

He dared to go to ruffle his hair like Father had, and if Damian had his sword on him, Fenton would be sans a hand.

------------------------------

He watched, careful, as Fenton drank the coffee he'd prepared for him - laced with fast acting poison, of course. The lout burped, pat his stomach, and made eye contact with him.

"Hey, thanks for the coffee, Dami. That was really thoughtful of you."

Thoughtful? That should've-"Tt!"

"Why don't you ever bring me coffee?" Drake whined, like the idiot he was. "I'm jealous now."

"It's because I play with him - maybe if you weren't so busy?"

Ugh. That's the last thing he needs, Drake occupying his time-

------------------------------

He garroted Fenton, holding the wire so tight it cut into his neck, and watched the corpse for a full hour, until the flesh had gone cold. Father just nodded along when he announced this time, he was surely victorious.

And then Fenton had been sitting at the table for dinner like nothing had happened, and cheerfully congratulated him at winning their game of chess by getting him in a chokehold.

He bashed his brains out with a rock in the barn - brutal and barbaric - and Pennyworth had thanked him for 'assisting Master Danny with his chores'. Fenton claimed he was going to sleep like a rock that night, and if he thought it would actually work, he would've smothered him with his pillow.

He decided he must be overthinking it, and went back to using swords and knives, ambushing Fenton wherever he could. He stabbed him in various places, striking vital organs and at least one time severing Fenton into multiple pieces. He had even considered claiming the pretender's head for certain proof of his demise to present to Father.

He'd held up a pumpkin instead. He has no idea when Fenton made the switch, but he'd come up with some ridiculous story about practicing for Halloween.

In July.

Despite the obvious ridiculousness, Father had ruffled his hair, praised him for getting along with Fenton so well and he couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed by it anymore.

"... I will triumph, Fenton," he hissed, glaring at the smugly grinning face of his greatest nemesis.

Fenton reached out to ruffle his hair again, pulling back with a light laugh as he went to impale the hand for his temerity. "Of course you will," he agreed, without even bothering to sound like he believed the words, "Better luck next time?"

"Tt."

------------------------------

At some point, he stopped bothering to announce his triumphs over Fenton, if only because none of them were triumphs. Inevitably, Fenton would be fine, like nothing had happened, and he would make some playful knowing comment hinting about what Damian had actually done, but nobody would ever notice or call him on it.

Damian refused to admit defeat, however, so he kept trying, but it was growing increasingly difficult to become convinced anything would actually succeed. Even burying the corpse didn't seem to change anything - there wasn't even any evidence that Fenton had climbed out of his grave, which just left him wondering what he had buried, if anything.

Fenton was sitting in the gardens, on one of the old, worn stone benches, enjoying a small lunch of Pennyworth's cucumber sandwiches.

"Not going to try and kill me again?" he quipped, voice just loud enough to reach Damian clearly from where he was observing him from behind some bushes.

Observing. Not stalking, as Brown had derisively suggested, and he was not just trying to spend more time with Fenton as Grayson cooed. It was observing. Reconnaissance!

… Although he did emerge, grumbling silently now that it was clear stealth had failed. "I am still attempting to draft a plan with a greater chance of success." Simply attempting to stab Fenton was simple enough. He rarely fought back, but it never stuck. He'd tried everything he could conceive of, short of electrocution and shooting him.

"Well, you'll think of something," Fenton said simply, offering him a sandwich.

He narrowed his eyes, but he grudgingly joined him on the bench and took one. It was, of course, superlative. He'd briefly considered whether it might've been poisoned, but Fenton had never attempted to retaliate. He found it doubtful he'd suddenly decide now.

He could, of course, have planned to get him to lower his guard… but then, Damian had watched Pennyworth hand him the lunch earlier. The benefits of reconnaissance, of course.

"You are clearly more skilled than the others believe," Damian said after a long silence, broken only by the sound of sandwich consumption, "Why have you not usurped the others, or at least demonstrated this competence?"

Fenton grinned at him, infuriatingly friendly and unbothered even now. "Wow, I'm competent now? I can't wait to rub that in Tim's face."

He scowled. "Tt. You are… surprisingly incapable of dying."

There was a snort at that, and Damian's eyes narrowed. The humour seemed… genuine, but he failed to find the joke. "And for the record, Dami, I'm not really all that eager to put on the spandex and gallivant about at night. I get why Bruce is doing it, and I fully support him - and Dick, Tim, and Steph - but I mean. Can you imagine me in a Robin outfit?" He shook his head with a laugh.

Fenton doesn't look that different from Grayson… and Drake. And himself. And Father. So yes, it is quite easy to imagine him in the costume although it is one that rightly belongs to Damian.

"... If you relinquish your claim, I will accept your surrender."

That merely got him a raised eyebrow. "Nuh-uh. You want my place, you've got to pry it from my cold dead fingers like God intended."

He's pretty certain no God had a hand in this, but he'll concede the point. "Very well. But I must ask - are you at all capable of fighting back, or do your talents simply lay with refusing to die?"

"Oh, you want to actually throw down with me? Sure, we can do that. I don't have to tell you not to hold back do I?"

"Tt. Of course not."

------------------------------

Fenton fought well, unsurprisingly. It hadn't stopped Damian from pinning him and snapping his neck, but all it takes is turning his back on him for a moment for Fenton to be standing up like nothing happened - save for perhaps the way he gingerly stretches his neck.

"You really don't pull your punches, huh?" he said, and a part of Damian notes this is the first time Fenton actually acknowledged being affected by what Damian had done. He'd always playfully hinted at it, obviously, but he never seemed sore after being stabbed or beaten, his voice wasn't hoarse when he strangled him, and there was never any sign of distress when he tried poisoning him.

"And I see you are not even pretending to care now," he shot back, although he was surprised to realise he didn't feel any animosity. Barely even any annoyance.

Fenton just shrugged. "Don't really see the point. You already know it's not going to stick."

He narrowed his eyes briefly, studying Fenton for a moment. "Does Father know you are a Meta?" There is a persistent rumour that Batman does not like Meta's in Gotham. It is a lie - Father has nothing against them, provided they follow the rules and don't disrupt the system. But powerful figures invite powerful opponents. There are those who attack Metropolis purely because Superman is there.

Father does not want the same happening in Gotham if it can be helped.

"He does," Fenton admitted freely, "It's actually part of why he's taking care of me. My situation is… complicated." His expression turns darker there, seeming serious for perhaps the first time Damian has ever seen him. Somber, even.

"Tt. I do not think he knows that well. He seemed… distraught when I first hold him I killed you."

There was a bark of laughter at that, filled with something sardonic. "Bruce worries. He's already lost one son, so he doesn't want to lose another. Fortunately for him, you can't get rid of me that easily."

"Tt. I'll figure it out eventually."

Another laugh. "I'm sure you will. How about round two?"

------------------------------

He never really stopped trying to kill Fenton - when they sparred, he gave it his all, confident that there was no need to hold back. He just… stopped trying to ambush him, or surprise him. Stopped trying to assassinate him. His time with Father and his… rival claimants made it clear that such things weren't tolerated. Wouldn't be looked well upon. Father's fear and concern had been genuinely fear that he had killed Fenton - as though Fenton could die.

If he had gone through with his attack on Drake… he doubted they would be so kind and welcoming to him now, not the way Fenton was. Fenton, who didn't seem to mind whenever he had tried to kill him, because he was, for all intents and purposes, immortal.

("I figured it was enrichment," he'd said, as though Damian were a zoo animal. He'd stabbed him for that comment, but he hadn't expected it to stick. It hadn't.)

And slowly, Fenton revealed more of his own abilities. The transformation, the ice, the phasing. The flying. He called it 'going ghost' because despite being Damian's senior by age, he was by far his junior by maturity. He learned about the Federal Anti-Ecto Acts, the situation that had led to him being adopted by Father, a situation that Father - and the Justice League - were working to unravel so he could return to being himself, safe and true.

He didn't quite understand why it was necessary for Fenton - he was, after all, immortal.

"You know I still feel pain, Dami," he'd said, light and conversational, and he didn't want to acknowledge the twisting feeling.

"You never complained," he'd replied, and it wasn't an accusation but it was in some ways.

Fenton had just shrugged and said "I've had worse." and ruffled his hair and Damian had let him, as his mind replayed the countless deaths he'd inflicted on his immortal brother.

Immortal, but not unfeeling.

He would not apologise for it, however. It wasn't his fault Fenton hadn't done the sensible thing and died. Everyone else did it when you stabbed them in the heart.

------------------------------

"Are you coming out on patrol with us now, Fenton?" Damian asked, already suited up as Robin. Father had finally acquiesced to allowing him to take his place at his side, donning the mantle that was rightfully his after Drake 'graciously' allowed it to pass as he became 'Red Robin'.

With the Anti-Ecto Acts rightfully repealed, Fenton was now free to resume his own mantle as 'Phantom' once again, and Damian would grudgingly admit that having his assistance was… not insubstantial. He was a powerful Meta, even if he restricted himself greatly.

And he was the only one who consistently returned to the manor without injuries, by virtue of fact that nothing done to him stuck and so was Alfred's favorite. Which was just unfair, in Damian's opinion.

"Yup," he said cheerfully, stretching a little, "Bruce's assigned me with you tonight - we're heading along the Boulevard, near the docks. Supposed to be some activity by Penguin."

Smuggling of some kind, doubtless. "Take to the skies then. We will scout the area and keep an eye out for his men."

"Aye aye, cap'n!"

He rolled his eyes, but he always appreciated that Fenton never pushed back, or accused Robin of being too young, too junior to take lead. Phantom had been active for a few years, but Damian had been taking missions for longer.

There was a bright flash, and Daniel Fenton-Wayne was replaced with Phantom, legs trailing off into that ghostly tail. "After you, boss."

"Tt."

A routine scout and patrol. Standard operating procedure was only engage if lives were being threatened - even if a crime was being committed, so long as nobody was actively in danger, Father preferred they avoided active engagements. He could, grudgingly, see the logic that was present even beyond Father's desire to coddle and protect them.

Stop a drug shipment, and you got all those drugs certainly, and put away the criminals who were smuggling it. Follow that shipment, and you learned more about the logistics chain, the transportation, the storage.

So they would watch, Robin carefully hidden in the shadows on a roof, and Phantom above, invisible.

"Robin, Phantom, I've got some kind of activity heading your way. White vans, no plates."

Damian narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask. Another gang? "Which direction?"

"Coming in from the north."

"Too much to hope for a quiet night, eh?" Phantom said breezily, "I think I see them. Is that-do they have a radar? Wait." There was an element of… something in his voice then. A quiver. A note of… fear? Concern?

"Phantom?" he muttered. Did he turn his attention to the vans? Phantom had a visual, but if he was concerned, then something could be happening, but if he turned, then he would abandon the vigil on Penguin's men.

No, Phantom could handle himself fine. He was functionally invincible.

"They're still around?!" he squawked, and there was anger there as well.

A voice, shouted distantly, too far for Robin to hear the words intelligibly. He glanced up to where he knew Phantom was hovering - or the rough area - just in time to hear his panicked shout… as a rocket rushed up and exploded into a cloud of dark, crimson red.

There was a scream of pain, and Damian was moving before he had the wherewithal to recognise, consciously, that it was Daniel screaming. He'd never screamed no matter what Damian put him through.

"Oracle! Reinforcements! Phantom's down, they hit him with something, I'm engaging-" There was a flurry of responses over the comms, alarmed replies from his other siblings, Father himself, but none of it mattered because Phantom was falling out of the sky, streaking through the lingering cloud like a falling star.

He'll survive impact his mind supplied, and so he swept down to engage his brother's attackers.

"Stand down Robin," one of them snarled, tall and dressed in a ridiculous white suit. How it stayed clean was beyond Damian, but also, not important. "Don't fall for the ghost boy's ridiculous-oof!"

Damian was already moving. It was only Father's abhorrence of killing that prevented him from drawing his blades on them, but he had no time for anything even resembling banter. They'd dared to shoot his brother.

His favourite brother even.

"He's overshadowed! Shoot!" one of them shouted, and suddenly there were blasts of green scorching the ground and walls, but their aim was mediocre at best. He had learned to dodge live fire years ago by better marksmen.

But if he hit them harder now that they were fighting back, he's certain nobody would bring it up.

Once Drake and Father arrived, what had started as a relatively one-sided fight turned into the bloodless and nonlethal equivalent of a slaughter. "Robin. Phantom?" Father asked, brusque and to the point as always.

He nodded immediately, grappling to the nearest roof. Fenton had fallen not far from here, although why he hadn't simply gotten back up was beyond Damian. A test? Another game? A poor time for it, certainly, but he had shrugged off worse than a little poison.

"Phantom!" he called, swinging onto the roof he had landed on. "This is no time to be fooling around!"

Fenton didn't respond, unless one counted the pained cry as a response - it didn't seem directed at Damian, however, merely at his situation

"Fine then," he snapped, arms folded over his chest, annoyance clear in his tone, "Play it like that. If you wanted to ride back to the manor, you just had to say so."

"What happened?" Father growled, rushing over, already protective and concerned in his own way, checking over Fenton as he writhed.

His annoyance bled out as he snapped into a more serious demeanour. "Those men down there fired some kind of missile at Phantom; it burst into some kind of gas, and he fell." Then his face scrunched up in annoyance. "I do not see why we are indulging him like this."

"Robin." There was a furious warning to Father's tone, and Damian couldn't help flinching.

"What?" he blustered, defensive, "It's not as though he won't recover! This is nothing-"

"Enough. We're returning. Oracle, inform Agent A to prep the medbay for potential poisoning."

Poisoning?! Ridiculous! Damian had tried several varieties, including both batrachotoxin and tetrodotoxin and the only thing Fenton had said about them was that they gave the sauce a nice kick!

"Fine," he muttered, annoyed, glaring at his brother. "Waste of time. He's fine. He always is."

------------------------------

He glared at Fenton the entire way home, and didn't shy away from proclaiming the fact that Fenton was just pretending for some ridiculous reason. He expected him to get up in the medbay, laugh it off and ruffle his hair again, make a joke about no longer being the only one who returned uninjured.

Damian had returned uninjured, but he didn't get a plate of cookies as a reward from Alfred because he was busy fussing over Fenton. Who, again, was pretending.

"... Have I annoyed you in some way?" he asked, scowling at where Fenton was still groaning and whimpering in bed - he hadn't stopped the entire way, presumably because he did not actually need to breathe. "Is there a reason you're insisting on this… farce?"

Outside, he could hear his siblings rushing around, Drake furiously analysing the files and research, Grayson and Father arguing over whether to contact the League. Even Alfred was panicking, although in a quiet, controlled way, given how swiftly he'd prepared tea and quickly dabbed at Fenton's forehead when he came in, but they seemed content to leave Damian to watch over him, even if they had scolded him for proclaiming the truth.

"I'm sorry for attacking you so often. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Fenton just whimpered. Not a real response. "... And I'm sorry I stole the last cookie. You were too slow, but… it was unfair of me to deny you it. I am not sorry about eating it in front of you. It was motivation to get better. And I'm sorry I told Grayson where you kept the last of your froot loops. I didn't eat them, he did, but it was my fault he did. Go ahead and tell me I won whatever stupid game you came up with this time."

He frowned a little, still staring right at Fenton's pained grimace. "Fine. You win, instead. You won weeks ago. I gave up trying to take your place, it was clear I wasn't going to succeed. I admit defeat. You bested me! So you can stop now!" His voice was raising despite himself, a sense of desperation he wouldn't admit bubbling up inside of him.

"Fenton! This isn't funny! It's over, the game's over, open your eyes and stop-" His hands reached out to seize him by the shoulders and Fenton had always been cold to the touch, but never clammy like this, and his skin was bordering on translucent to the point he could see the veins, pulsing sluggishly, and he was shaking him now, furious and desperate. "Stop pretending already! You're not-you can't-"

"Damian!" Father shouted, broad hands seizing him by his own arms, trying to pry him away, but he refused to be separated now, struggling and kicking.

"Wake up you idiot!" he howled, furious as something hot begin to sting at his eyes, "Stop playing dead! You can't die! You can't!"

"Damian, sport, it's okay, we're working on a cure," Father soothed, pulling him away with his infuriating gentle strength, still insisting on this childish charade.

"He doesn't need a cure!" he screamed, "He's fine! He's always fine! I cut off your head, Daniel, this is nothing so stop pretending-!"

Father's arms bound him tighter, turning him around to bury his face against his bulk, and his struggling, flailing hands seized the fabric of his batsuit. "It's okay," Father murmured, "He'll recover, we can fix this."

"He's fine," Damian whispered, voice hoarse from screaming, trembling with emotions he refused to acknowledge, "He's fine, he's always fine…"

Daniel's continued pained whimpers said otherwise, but he had to be fine.