Grayson’s here, but why? He isn’t ready.

Not yet, not in this version of his older brother, he can momentarily glimpse an old, weary face, shocked, with curly dark hair, blue eyes, and a lean physique.

And Grayson was speaking with a woman, but when he looked at him, he was overwhelmed by the grief in his eyes, like gazing upon a dead brother he had lost. For the life of him, his chest hurts, his breath momentarily stops. Looking at Alfred who had already made a step to greet Grayson, with no choice.

He slammed the door and turned the lock to make sure it was secured tightly. The hotel’s deafening silence unnerved him.

He had a mission to complete, and with his emotions threatening to consume him, he couldn’t afford to lose control. As he slowly entered the room, hyperventilating, the hotel window glistened with the afterglow of Paris, and he realized he needed air. He walked quickly, not looking at the banging door. Alfred will definitely make an excuse; he is sure he can handle Grayson, but not him. He’s having trouble processing his feelings at the moment.

His stomach clenched, a cold sweat prickling his skin as the possibility of Grayson’s rejection loomed. Perhaps he’ll believe he’s merely a fraud, wearing his deceased brother’s face like a mask.

That outcome loomed like a dark cloud, threatening to suffocate him; he was already teetering on the edge, and Grayson’s involvement in this crisis would be the final blow.

He throws the window open, and the icy Parisian wind stings his eyes, making him squint. And with a burst of energy, he launched himself out the window.

He scaled the ivy-covered wall of the hotel and found himself on the zinc rooftops of Paris.

He wore plain clothes, a white shirt borrowed from the Dupain-Chengs, his thoughts briefly drifting from Marinette; despite the trousers and everyday appearance, his body was still a weapon, his mind as sharp as ever. He didn’t look back. He just ran.

​The cold Parisian night was a blur. He leaped from one rooftop to another, a dark shape against the paler city. The chase became a silent ballet of his own design. This city was known to him; he had studied its layout from afar. He memorized every inch of it, embedding the maze into his mindscape while using the exhilaration he felt as a distraction, a way not to think about them, not now. He needed to escape, putting as many miles as possible between himself and his brother.

Despite utilizing every aspect of his training to create separation, he was unable to shake off a disconcerting feeling of unease that grew within him. Running wasn’t the only thing he was doing;he was being herded, the distance not getting close but seeing in his periphery the shadow of his brother.

He remembered their rooftop chase in Gotham and when Grayson had taken over as the Bat; Grayson had chosen him to be Robin, not Drake. He hated being treated like a chess piece. But Grayson chose him to be Robin, unlike his father. Its Grayson had welcomed him with open arms, along with Alfred.

He darted through a narrow alley, a shortcut to the Seine, but as he emerged, he saw him. Grayson, standing on a bridge, his back to him, his silhouette a familiar, agonizing sight.

Bathed in the light of the post, his dark facade was softened, but grief and questions still danced in the shadows.

Damian stopped, his shoulders hunched with tension, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. The chase was over. He was trapped.

​Grayson moves forward. His face was a mask of pain, his eyes a reflection of a trauma that Damian, in his new life, had yet to fully comprehend.

Grayson’s voice, a low, broken whisper, called out, “Damian.”

​He didn’t move. He felt a wave of nausea. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to go back to his mission. Back to the solitude of his investigation.

The Miraculous affair would be simple, take down Hawkmoth in a resounding victory, get the butterfly Miraculous with a triumphant grab, uncover the secret organization with careful investigation, take out the spies with swift precision, and let Marinette and Adrien have a happily ever after, without the looming threat of the Void Kwami. He didn’t want his estranged family involved in this situation.

Bat-Mite had outdone himself. Putting a Robin here at the center of it all.

​"Damian, turn around. Please," Grayson took a step forward, his voice cracking. “We... we buried you. We were at your grave. I was there. I was there, Damian. I put my hand on your headstone. We... we tried to bring you back. We tried.”

​He looked at his brother, at the raw, unmasked grief in his face. It was the face of a man who had been dragged back through hell. His face showed it all, not with mere words, he cannot unsee. The grief, the denial on his face.

“I’m not that boy anymore, Grayson,” he said, his voice flat. Years of controlling his emotions had taught him not to show his trembling weakness, even as his knuckles turned white. He felt a flicker of pain in his own chest.

​"I know," Grayson said, tears streaming down his face. “I know.” He took another step, closing the distance between them. “But you’re here. You’re alive. I'm so sorry , I did not make it in time. I'm sorry Damian.” He reached out a hand, a gesture of peace and a silent plea.

​He looked at the outstretched hand, then back at his brother’s face. He wanted to take it, to be comforted, but the distance between them felt like an ocean, no not just abyss, but their worlds apart, he was sent here for a reason.

Grayson’s little brother was already dead and buried, but he stole the body anyway for the mission: saving the world from an existential threat that only he knew about.

He refused to take the hand, but he didn’t run away.

Damian’s hand twitched, a command he had silently given himself countless times. He refused to hold Grayson’s hand. No one could console him. His mission was paramount. His League of Assassins-honed instincts screamed at him to overcome this emotional threat. Before he could think clearly, Grayson’s hand was no longer pleading. It was a trick.

Damian’s back was the unfortunate recipient of the movement, which was a blur of a graceful pirouette ending with a heel kick. Despite the situation, he wasn’t even angry. It was a familiar move, something they had done so often in the Batcave during warm-ups before their training sessions. Without conscious thought, Damian’s body reacted swiftly, dropping into a roll before springing back to his feet, while a low growl escaped his throat.

Having been something that they had choreographed years ago, this was a dance, a fight, but it felt different now. It was real. He lunged, a series of quick, brutal jabs aimed at Grayson’s weak points—the throat, the solar plexus, the knee.

He went all out. His mind was a whirlwind of calculated violence, deploying every dirty trick his mother taught him. He aimed for a groin kick, a knee to the thigh, anything to take Grayson down. Yet the man existed as a ghost.

Grayson’s movements were like a circus performer’s, a swift display of agility and grace. He neither blocked nor countered with force. Bending backward, he avoided the kick, which flew harmlessly over his head.

Grayson spun, using his momentum to throw him off balance. He fought like an acrobat, dodging his’s deadly blows with flips and twists. Grayson wasn’t fighting to win. His flexible muscles housed an unbreakable will.

Damian’s vision blurred, a red haze creeping around the edges. He was accustomed to overpowering his opponents, dominating them with brutal, efficient force. But with Grayson, it was like trying to punch smoke. Each strike was met by a practiced dodge, and each attack by a fluid redirection. The air hung thick with the sounds of their ragged breathing, a frustrated and desperate rhythm.

He finally managed to capture him. The wild, desperate haymaker connected because Grayson was too slow to dodge it completely. The blow landed on his shoulder, and Damian instinctively craved a follow-up: a bone-shattering kick, a brutal elbow. However, an instant later, he fell to the ground when his legs were suddenly swept out from under him. With a sudden burst of nimble grace, Grayson skillfully used the force generated by Damian’s own kick to send him sprawling backward.

He was lying there, dazed. It’s not the fall itself, but the pointlessness of it. He’d exhausted his repertoire—every underhanded tactic, every deadly move—but it was all in vain. He found himself back where he began, sprawled on the chilly asphalt, gazing up at his older brother’s outline, who loomed over him, not with triumph, but with deep sorrow.

Then, a hand appeared in his line of sight. Not the open, pleading hand from before, but a firm, steady one. “Damian, get up.”

He stared at it, unblinking. A Robin was what he was. He didn’t require assistance. He was meant to be dominant, the one with authority. However, seeing the raw pain and grief etched on Grayson’s face, his knees buckled; he didn’t desire control. All he wanted was to be home.

​He reached out, his hand shaking slightly, and took Grayson's. The contact was solid, warm, and real. It was nothing like the lifeless, frozen body he’d been in his grave, nor the ethereal sensation of being in an alternate universe. This was the touch of his brother, a tangible link to a world he thought he’d lost forever.

​With a gentle but firm pull, Dick lifted him to his feet. Damian didn’t let go. He held on, his fists clenched around Dick’s hand like a lifeline. He looked at his brother, at the tears that finally broke free and streamed down Dick’s face. The sight was too much. The carefully constructed wall he had built around his emotions shattered into a million pieces.

​He didn’t fight it. He just let go. He let go of his pride, his mission, and his need for control. He leaned into brother's, burying his face in his shoulder, and for the second time after transporting into this world, he cried.

​Grayson held him, his arms wrapping around his brother in a tight, protective embrace. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. He just held on, his own body shaking with a profound, soul-deep relief. The years of grief, the anger, the guilt—it all came pouring out, mingling with his own tears.

The city lights blurred into a soft, muted canvas, mirroring the tears welling in their eyes. The Seine River shimmered like liquid silver, gently illuminated by the moonlight. However, beneath the immense, dark sky, only two brothers, a lost son, and a grieving brother stood on that bridge, embraced in a long-awaited hug.