The manor had never been this loud in its silence.
Damian noticed it first in the mornings—how the cave echoed, how the hollow clang of metal and the Batcomputer’s hum stretched too far without interruption. No footsteps racing down the stairs, no off-key humming, no voice calling him “Demon Spawn” with a grin that softened it.
Grayson was gone.
Father had returned, alive and whole, reclaiming the mantle as though he had never left. Gotham breathed easier.
Damian did not.
He told himself it was irrelevant. Grayson had resumed his role—Nightwing, protector of Blüdhaven. Logical. Efficient.
It should not have mattered.
And yet, after patrol, Damian lingered. Waiting. Listening for footsteps that never came.
“You could write to him,” Alfred suggested gently.
Damian scoffed.
Later, alone, he stared at a blank page.
The first letter was sharp.
Dear Grayson, Father has informed me of your intention to—abandon—
The word was scratched out.
—resume your role as Nightwing rather than remain—with me—
Another harsh line.
…as partners. Good riddance. And take Drake with you. Yours, Damian W.
He sent it.
He did not expect a reply.
But he wanted one.
Days passed. Then weeks.
Damian wrote again.
And again.
Each letter shorter. Less precise. He never said he missed him. Never asked him to return.
But the absence of those words said enough.
Father spoke to him.
Drake did too.
So why not him?
The final letter took longer.
He sat cross-legged, a box of crayons beside him. He chose blue.
Dear Grayson,
The letters were uneven.
I would like to apologize if it is something I have done to keep you from returning home.
His grip tightened.
I promise I will no longer do that thing, so please come home soon.
He blinked rapidly.
I am using my best blue crayon as I know this color to be your favorite. Please tell me if your favorite is no longer blue and I will use another color.
A crude drawing filled the bottom—him, scowling, beside a cat.
He hesitated.
-Love—
Scratched out.
Yours, Damian.
P.S. These are rain drops.
Blue circles dotted the page.
He folded it carefully.
He did not cry.
He handed it to Alfred.
And waited.
In Blüdhaven, weeks later, Dick finally opened the stack.
One letter became ten.
By the last—blue crayon, uneven words, “rain drops”—his hands shook.
“…Damian…”
His baby brother thought he had done something wrong.
Dick didn’t pack much.
He didn’t need to.
Because Damian was waiting.
The manor doors opened before he could knock.
Alfred stood there, unsurprised.
“Master Richard.”
Dick swallowed. “Is he—?”
“In his room.”
Dick didn’t wait.
He took the stairs two at a time.