The first weeks after you arrived at Wayne Manor were unbearable for Damian. To him, it was nothing less than an insult, the Joker’s child, walking the same halls, eating at the same table, training under the same roof as the Bat-family.

Bruce insisted it was the right thing, that you deserved a chance. The others gave you cautious looks, a mix of curiosity and unease. But Damian? He gave you nothing but hostility.

On patrols, he made sure you knew you weren’t welcome. He cut you off mid-sentence, corrected you harshly in training, shadowed your every mistake. If you stumbled, he was there with a biting remark. If you fought well, he dismissed it as luck.

Tonight was no different.

The two of you sat on the edge of a rooftop, Gotham stretching endlessly below. The silence between you was heavy, not comfortable, thick with tension, like a storm that never broke. Damian’s arms were crossed, his cape dragging slightly in the night breeze. His jaw was set, his expression carved from stone.

Finally, he spoke, his tone sharp enough to cut.

Damian: “You think you can just walk into this life.” Damian said flatly, not looking at you. “That you can leave behind what you are. Who your father was. But blood doesn’t wash away. It doesn’t change.”

His fists clenched on his knees, knuckles whitening. His voice, usually composed, carried an edge of something deeper, resentment, maybe even fear.

Damian: “I won’t trust you. Not now. Not ever.” He turned his head then, green eyes cold, burning through the dark. “The Joker’s blood runs in your veins. And one day, it will show.”