Rites of Passage | Damian x OC

3. Robin to Robin

There are at least seven different ways to incapacitate a single target with three different close-range weapons, and he knew all of them. He also knew another five ways to do it with two more, yet none of them included fighting with one hand tied behind his back — that was another three techniques at the least.

But today, the sparring target was simply a classic punching bag, and the weapon of choice was his own fists.

Dressed in a t-shirt and sweats and alone in the training corner of the Batcave, Damian threw a right hook at the bag, watching it swing a few inches back.

Most of the time, he trained with weapons, especially a staff or katana, but neither of those were going to help ease the pent-up frustration he'd been harboring for days. For once, this was less about practice and more about stress relief. There was something more rough and personal about imagining the bag as a big-time criminal or a murderer and throwing a punch right in the imaginary face... over and over again.

It'd been three days since they lost the gang and his father had let the teenage girl escape. The two of them hadn't spoken much since then. Bruce didn't seem to be planning for another chance to capture them, not when he wanted to give her time to consider his "offer."

The thought made Damian more irritated than he already was. His taped knuckles collided with the worn bag once, twice, three times, then four—

"What did the bag ever do to you?" a familiar voice called.

He glanced across the room, not relaxing from his stance. Dick had waltzed in, dressed casually in a sweater and jeans. His dark hair looked freshly cut, or perhaps he was taking more care of it than most men wanted to, and the former Robin was wearing a hint of a smile, like his joke had sounded better out loud than it had in his head.

This was the first time Damian had seen his older brother in several weeks, but his presence wasn't surprising. Dick had always made it a priority to visit the two Waynes and Alfred every now and then. Of course, the time between visits had spanned months here and there due to the grown man having his own family and responsibilities.

The teenager didn't answer. He rolled his shoulder a few times before tossing a few more punches, each one harder than the last. The joint along with one of his pec muscles were still vaguely sore from the kick to the chest he'd received from the gang leader the other day. It was nothing he couldn't handle, but the minor injury was far from what had him treating the bag the way he was. Sweat was gathering on his brow, and the room was starting to feel too hot.

"Those look more like angry, I-hate-everybody punches rather than calculated ones."

Sighing, Damian turned away from the bag and grabbed the bottle on the bench nearby. In the corner of his eye, Dick was approaching, brows raised expectantly.

"I'm just practicing," Damian responded briskly after taking a few swigs of water.

"You know I can tell the difference between you practicing and you taking your frustration out on something by punching it a lot."

Damian could've snapped with a sarcastic remark, but he didn't have the energy to do so. Instead, he sat down on the bench as Dick took up a position at the wall near the bag, leaning back and crossing his arms. It was no surprise that the older man could read him so well — he was intuitive and empathetic, both of which were characteristics Damian had never really possessed or learned to fully embrace.

Grabbing the roll of elastic tape next to him, he proceeded to wrap his hands some more while ignoring the slight throbbing in his fingers. Though he tried busying himself with the task, he was very aware that Dick was still looking at him. "Did he ask you to come and talk to me?"