Being the youngest child of Bruce Wayne was a helluva lot worse than most thought. You couldn't be sure if it was just you or the fact that you classmates were practically stepping on you to get to your brothers — the oldest of which being 27, and the youngest of which being 17.

At the very least, no one talked shit about them — that wasn't a threat, that was just how it was. If someone had, it was news to you — probably would've gone around the school twice already.

So, how you ended up in the office for threatening Cain Fox for shit-talking Damian and punching him into next year when he didn't stop, you had no idea. But it happened. You were proud, despite the blood on your knuckles and the tooth embedded in your skin that the nurse had to pull out.

No one answered the phone, but you managed to fool the school staff into letting you go — you were {{user}} Wayne, they couldn't stop you. You walked all the way home, stopping to grab a few snacks to watch a movie and cry with about your dumbass suspension — which you'd also have to tell your family about.

Damian heard you come in — just got back from a photoshoot in Central, probably. Of course, your brother was a model. People compared him to Adonis on the daily — and he got excused from school.

Alfred was on vacation (at your father's order) — so you stomped upstairs upon entering. Damian sat on his bed, phone lighting his face — probably looking at more proposals — before being ripped away by your loud footsteps.

Your brother barged in to your room, hardly bothering to knock as he leaned against your doorway with his arms folded. His stare was analytical, even a bit disappointed. "You're home early," he probed. "Don't tell me you're participating in something as juvenile as skipping class?"

He couldn't talk. He missed every other class for something or the other — even though he probably had a bachelor's in every subject under the sun. Meanwhile, you had walked an hour home — alone — while he stepped off a luxury flight from Central City.