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Damian can’t take it anymore.It’s much too loud, but perhaps that’s just the blood rushing in his ears. His voice is stuck. Why can’t he say anything? He bites the inside of his cheek hard and tastes the metallic blood. It doesn’t help. He can’t say anything, why can’t he say something? He stands up, shoving his chair backwards, and storms out of the room. He ignores the calls and idiotic ramblings. He ignores his father’s look. He ignores Pennyworth’s gaze, although he regrets doing that more than he regrets brushing off everyone else.Titus brushes against his hand, whining gently, and Damian can’t bring himself to give him attention. His hands move robotically, unnaturally (he is unnatural). They are tense. He gets the urge to hit something, anything. His breath comes short and forced. He has to get away from Titus. He will hurt him. He’ll hurt them, like he’s hurt so many people. Just like his grandfather. Just like his mother.His mother.
Ummi.
A sudden ache fills his heart, smoothing over the rage. He clenches his hands into fists, purposefully digging his short nails into his palms. His legs move faster, but always silently. He is not a child, he doesn’t stomp. He doesn’t. He can’t. He can’t afford to miss her. It doesn’t matter. He can’t afford to miss the warmth and sun and biryani and fresh dates. He can’t long for Talia’s rare embrace and her smooth voice and his first language. He can’t miss communal prayers and secret conversations about the Quran and his missed opportunity to go on the Hajj.For a moment, he is weak. He indulges. If he prays for home, only God will know. He allows himself to let the memories wash over him and magnify the ache in his bones, longing for home (even though home is a place of misery and death and punishments). Something familiar. Then he shivers and remembers that he is here, in Gotham of the United States of fucking America. It’s cold and wet and smoggy. There are mosques, but it’s not the same. There are various dialects of Arabic and Urdu and many other languages spoken in one building. It’s not Damian’s Arabic, it’s not Damian’s friends (or as close to friends as he was able to have), it’s not Damian’s home . Most importantly, it’s not Talia’s either.He could almost cry.If he was a weaker child, if he was a child at all, he would be sobbing. He’d be crying, Ummi, where are you ummi, I don’t like it here. He might mumble through, Take me home, ummi. He would admit, I want my um'. Alas, he is not a child.And his mother is not his um'. At least according to his adopted brothers (more like adopted nuisances). According to them, Talia al Ghul is a terrorist and a bad person and not worth thinking about.Maybe they are correct. He must believe they are correct. He can’t afford to challenge them, especially not over this subject. He’s only just earned his fragile place in this attempt at a family. His earlier performance must have shaken the glass seat he sits on. Ya Allah, he is such a himar. He flops into his bed, indulging and letting himself be weak for another moment. He coddles himself too much. He can’t afford to snap at these idiots he must call brothers, and yet he did.A spark ignites in his stomach again. They were insulting his um'. He is obligated to fight for her honor. Although, he thinks as the spark dies, did he really? All he did was walk out. It may have shut them up but he did not truly do anything for her.Sanity enters his brain once more, and he is glad he didn’t do anything further. Fighting surely would have earned him a place on the sidewalk, or worse, on the bench.It doesn’t matter how much he longs for her, he is never going to get his mother (his religion, his food, his heritage, his home) back. And that’s okay. It has to be.A knock on his bedroom door snaps him out of his reverie. He groans aloud, not caring for whatever nonsense (or punishment) he is going to be dragged into now.But he can’t disrespect them further. He’d already been so rude to Pennyworth and his father by walking out on dinner. Why do Americans eat dinner so early? It’s so strange, honestly—He shakes his head and answers, “Who is it?”“Jason,” the figure lurking outside his door responds. Damian hums. Todd is… not the worst person to end up with right now. Grayson would have been smothering. God forbid Drake be here, he shudders. And Father would be… disappointed? Probably angry. He’s not sure.If he doesn’t open the door to Todd, they are going to send his father, he realizes. He can deal with Todd, but he can’t handle facing his father. Not when he longs for um', not when he needs the smell of sand and spices to cover up blood.So, he pulls himself together and opens the door.For a moment, they both just stare at each other. Damian watches Todd flail a bit, like a fish, before walking back into his room. He purposefully leaves the door open, letting Todd choose for himself to come in or not.Of course he does, because there is never a moment of peace in this household. Damian tches quietly, any slight hope that he may be left alone fizzling out. He busies himself with shifting some notebooks around on his desk. If he doesn’t, they will be standing awkwardly which will scare Todd even though he pretends to be so very “tough.” At least this way, he might get to his point quicker.And he is correct, because Todd says after not too long, “Are you okay?”“Of course,” Damian rolls his eyes to himself. What a question. “Why wouldn’t I be?”“Oh, I dunno. Maybe because you stormed out of dinner literally five minutes ago?” Todd scoffs. Damian checks his watch to spite him.“It has been six minutes.” Todd seethes, exactly as Damian wanted. So why is he not feeling accomplished? His heart is much too occupied with Nanda Parbat, he realizes. Longing for home still weighs down the stupid organ even though he banished it to the recesses of his mind.What a stupid thing. Homesickness.“Whatever!” Todd bursts out. “You’re avoiding the question, Damian.” He didn’t call Damian a demon child. How… oddly serious. He decides to stop fidgeting uselessly with his books and turns to face Jason, who has seated himself on his bed.“What would you like me to say?”“The truth.”“I cannot.” It is the truth, even if it’s not the one Todd is searching for at the moment. He cannot tell the truth, especially not to Jason of all people. Besides, there is nothing to tell. He does not miss his mother. He does not miss Nanda Parbat. He does not feel anything towards them but hate, just like his father. Just like his brothers.At least, he tries to convince himself so.“Why not?” Todd questions, surprisingly earnest despite his usual demeanor. He pats the bed next to him in an invitation to sit down. Damian takes it, not because he wants to, but because he must. (Maybe he wants to, a little bit.)“Well, I did just tell you the truth,” he explains, a little condescending. “It is true that I cannot tell the truth.”“That’s one hell of a riddle,” he comments, and challenges, “Try me.”Damian scoffs. He does not take the bait.“Fine. I’ll take a guess.” Todd scowls a little. His patience has never been comparable to anything that isn’t an atom. Damian scowls back. “It wasn’t the food. It wasn’t anything from earlier today; you’ve literally been at home all day. Was it… our conversation?”He doesn’t respond. No matter what he answers, something will be given away. He is acutely aware of Todd analyzing his every motion and reaction. Despite Todd’s inadequacy, he is… quite capable.Somehow, Todd sees something that gives it away. “It is. Talia?” Damian’s breath catches a little. Damn it, why must his body betray him so? It’s just… Jason is the only one in the family who can say her name the way it must be said. It must be because of his time with the League.Damian amends his earlier thought internally. Todd might be the best person to end up with right now.“Why, though?” Todd asks, like an ignorant idiot. Annoyance floods his veins. Why, he asks.“You are all idiots,” he spits out venomously without meaning to. His eyes widen instinctively, and he wants to sew his mouth shut. He wishes he could take it back. Please don’t get angry, please do not get angry, please— “That’s not new, kid.”He breathes out a silent sigh of relief.“Do not call me a kid.” He scowls and Todd sticks his tongue out. “You are much more immature.”“Don’t change the subject,” Todd interrupts. Damian sighs.“You will not like it,” he says after a few moments. “The truth.”Jason chuckles, to Damian’s confusion. “It doesn’t matter whether I like it or not. I’d rather have the truth.” He furrows his eyebrows at that. What kind of person would rather have a terrible truth than a comforting lie? Then he realizes he is exactly that kind of person. Apparently they both are.“Are you sure?” he has to check. He has to make sure. “I will not get in trouble, either?”Sadness passes over Jason’s face, but disappears as quickly as it appeared. “No, kid, you won’t. You shouldn’t ever get in trouble for telling the truth. If any of the other fuckers in this house say you are, tell ‘em to take it up with me.”Something settles in Damian. If he tells anyone in his family that, save maybe Pennyworth, they will be quick to surrender. He has the Red Hood’s protection. Although he is not a child, he doesn’t need protection, the thought settles over him like a warm blanket. And so, he carefully unlocks the padlock he’d put on his feelings.Cautiously, quietly, he admits, “I miss my um'.” Todd breathes in softly but still audibly, yet doesn’t say anything. Suddenly, everything comes spilling out through Damian’s iron defenses. Somehow, the… care (it can’t be love, no they aren’t truly brothers ) that Jason showed him was warm enough to melt the wall.“I miss her. You didn’t know her, you only knew Talia al Ghul, daughter of the Demon Head.” He scowls at the title. “I don’t like her, I miss um'. I miss home. I-” A tear threatens to fall from his eye. Jason sits there with an open expression, leaning back on his hands casually. Damian can’t look him in the eye, so he stares at his lap.“You all say she’s a bad person, that she’s… you make jokes.” He bites the inside of his cheek, aggravating the wound and spilling more blood, and debates whether or not to continue. Todd nods, and he decides that he can’t not keep going. “But you don’t know her. I knew her, both good and bad, and I want her back, 'urid aleawdat lilmanzil.” He breathes harshly, not able to reign in the flood of emotions. His eyes squeeze shut.“I get that,” Todd decides to speak. Damian looks up at him. “My mom was an addict, and she really wasn’t a good mom, but I miss her, too.” His voice trembles minutely over the last four words, and Damian understands that this is possibly one of the only times he has admitted that. To him of all people. Damian’s hands unclench, and he brushes his thumb over the red marks.“You understand,” Damian repeats, finally making eye contact. “Have you ever… have you ever felt that Father would be upset that you miss her?”“I did,” he admits. “But we talked about it, and he wasn’t upset. I dunno if he really got it, but he tried to.” Damian nods, and they let the quiet envelope them. He smooths his hands over the blanket. It is soft against his callouses, and it’s almost as if he can feel it cushioning his heart as well.Taking a chance, he whispers, “I miss Nanda Parbat, too.”“What do you miss about it?” He knows that Jason doesn’t mean it as an accusation, but simply as a question. It’s the best question he could’ve ever wanted.“I- I miss the food. I enjoy Pennyworth’s food, of course, but I miss proper tahdig and za’atar and mujaddara.”“We can find a good middle-eastern place somewhere around here,” Jason assures him in a moment of silence. “Maybe tomorrow we can go on a hunt.”And oh isn’t that everything? He is not in trouble for wanting his cuisine. He is not disrespecting Pennyworth and his father. Here Todd is, encouraging him, trying to help him. The lump in his throat grows, but not out of sadness this time. He trembles a little, like the child he never got to be, subconsciously leaning towards Todd.Not unexpectedly, he notices. He opens his arms subtly, but they both know the attention to detail Damian has been trained into (he supposes they both have). They both know he is making space for Damian if he wants to go.He really wants to. But is Todd simply offering out of obligation? He hesitates, and Jason beckons him with an honest expression, dropping the subtlety.So of course, he practically falls into Todd’s embrace. It’s nothing like his mother’s; he’s too large for that, but it’s warm and soft and makes Damian want to cry. Jason lets his hand rest on his back. He’s a solid and steady presence. This must be the most tender touch Damian’s heart has received in a long time.“Thank you.” His voice shakes traitorously.“There’s nothing to thank,” Todd says. “What else was Nanda Parbat like? I can barely remember, you’ll need to tell me everything.”Of course, Damian tells him.