I hurriedly wrapped the towel around me and cursed at myself in the mirror. What kind of dumbass forgets to bring a new pair of clothes to shower?

Me. I'm that kind of dumbass.

I peered out of the en suite and into Damian's room. He was just sitting there on his bed, staring blankly out of the huge window that took up the whole wall. I saw him run his hands through his hair; he was clearly still distressed about Summer.

"Damian," I mumbled quietly.

He glanced at me. "What?"

Fuck, this is so embarrassing.

"Can I borrow some... clothes," I internally cringed at my words and felt like slapping myself ten-thousand times in the face.

He stared at me for a moment, frowning. I gripped the towel tightly around my chest and sighed.

"Look, I didn't bring anything to change into, and I'm not putting on my uniform covered in a fucking rapist's blood."

I didn't realize how angry I'd sounded when I said that. Damian looked slightly surprised, his eyes blinking rapidly at the venom in my words.

But the expression disappeared quickly. He stood up and walked to his walk-in-robe, than emerged with a handful of fabric.

He tossed it at me, causing me to nearly drop my towel as I let one hand go to catch it.

"Thanks," I muttered.

He didn't respond, but I swear I saw his cheeks turning pink.

I didn't know why I'd expected his clothes to fit me. He was obviously taller and wider than me, so I shouldn't have been surprised that the t-shirt was baggy and his sweatpants needed to be rolled up at the waist.

I toweled my hair and gathered my disgusting uniform. I felt super self-conscious as Damian's eyes followed me out of his room.

"I'm just going to check on Summer," I informed him. He stared at the loosely fitting clothes, that blank face of his never changing. It made me blush and clutch my uniform closer to my body.

When I entered my room and headed to the bathroom, I froze at what I saw. Summer was sitting under the water, her knees drawn to her chest and a numb, emotionless expression on her face.

"Shit," I cursed and grabbed a fresh towel from the rack. I squatted beside her as she gazed right past me. It was like I wasn't even there, she was in her own world.

I tried to lift her away from the water beating down on her head. She let me walk her out of the shower, and I threw a towel around her shoulders.

"Summer," I coaxed.

Still no response. She wouldn't even look at me, it was almost like talking to a zombie. I noticed red and purple bruises around her neck and arms. Strangulation bruises, I knew. And the ones on her wrists were clearly from being yanked so hard.

The ugly bruise on her cheek had swollen. It stood out against her perfectly even skin. I felt myself growing angrier and angrier just looking at what Coach had done to her. I wanted to break something badly.

I left Summer to change for ten minutes. My head was still pounding and I felt nauseous. Damian was in my room again, watching me as I massaged my temples. He had been examining the few photos I had stuck on my wall of Rebecca, Summer and I.

His piercing green eyes met mine. "Is she..."

I cut him off midway. "No, Damian, she's not okay. She's not fucking okay."

Tears were prickling at my eyes but I willed myself not to cry. Think about what Summer has been through.

He made his way to my bathroom too quickly for me to stop him. He paused at the entrance, his jaw clenched in an undeniably attractive way. I rushed over to see what he was staring at. Surely he wouldn't be looking at her naked, something must have happened.

Summer was standing deathly still in front of my full length mirror. She was fully dressed, staring at herself, not even moving a muscle. Just staring blankly at the misty surface.

Damian took a couple steps forward. I followed him uneasily. What exactly was he doing?

"Summer," he spoke calmly.

She didn't hear him, so he walked closer.

"Summer."

Now she was lifting one, trembling hand to the surface of the mirror. I glanced at Damian in shock, and noticed a flicker of surprise cross his features. What was she doing now? It was worrying me.

The golden-haired girl began to slide her finger against the surface of the mirror. The steam from the shower had caused it to fog up. Her finger formed an "S" shape right above her head.

"What is she doing?" I hissed.

Damian seemed too confused to reply.

Now she was drawing an L. I noticed tears were beginning to fall down her cheeks. Her whole body was shaking, her eyes were glued to her reflection as she added a U.

With one final movement of her finger, Summer drew a shaky T. She dropped her hand to her side limply, as if it was broken. She stared right into the eyes of her reflection and began to cry.

"SLUT" she had spelled.

She had called herself a slut.

But in an instant, Damian was by her side, wiping aggressively at the mirror with his hand.

"No," he growled, the writing vanishing with one swipe. "No, Summer, no."

He turned to look at her, his eyes finally showing some kind of concern. "How could you think that? How the fuck could you think that?"

Summer looked as if she might drop to the floor again; her body appeared so small and fragile in that moment. But Damian held onto her tightly, wiping at the tears that slid down her face.

"It's not your fault. It was never your fault."

I found myself frozen at the sight before me. Damian was being so kind, I almost wanted to start crying. He truly did care about people, I saw. He cared much more then he ever let on. And it was shocking.

I watched as Summer sunk to the floor, still in Damian's arms. She was clutching on to him so tightly, her face buried into his chest. I found myself nearing them, lowering myself to their level and placing a gentle hand on Summer's shoulder.

She threw an arm around me very suddenly, pulling me into the hug. The three of us sat there on the cold bathroom floor, holding onto each other as Summer cried and cried and let out all her pain.

I exchanged a short glance with Damian. Leaning in closely, I whispered into his ear, "See, I knew you were a softy."

He rolled his eyes at me, but I knew that deep down he was somewhat smiling.

"Shut up."

---------------------------------
That night
The Narrows, downtown Gotham
Damian's POV

(quick authors note, the man robin is trying to kill is not coach donovan lol)

Blood sprayed against the side of my face. Bruce gripped me tightly by the shoulder and yanked me back. "Enough, Robin."

His voice might have been scary to others, but not me. I grew up with the LOA, I had been trained to perfection by ruthless, sinful villains with no morals in the slightest. I wasn't scared of Batman. I wasn't scared of anyone anymore.

I fought against his hold and ripped myself free. Those white slits pierced through his cowl, glaring at me in that way that made most criminals run screaming.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I roared.

I spun around, the battered man before me pleading desperately at my feet. Begging, like a dog. Like the rapist scum that he was.

He deserved to die.

I lifted my arms high, my sword glinting in the moonlight. He would pay for his actions. He would pay for the innocent people he hurt. He would wish he had never walked the earth in the first place. He would wish he was dead.

Bruce's hand grasped my wrist, hard. He pulled and pried my katana lower, me resisting with every muscle in my body. He was bigger than me, and had a physical advantage of being stronger. But I wasn't about to give in that easily.

I threw my elbow back, catching his jaw, twirling so that I was free of his grip. His head snapped to the side by he didn't falter, his arm blocking my next blow as he stepped back from the force.

"Robin, stop," his voice was a low, viscous growl.

But I wouldn't stop now. I swiped with my sword, nicking his chest before he seized my arm and slammed me against the concrete wall of the alleyway. I lost my weapon, my head ringing from the impact.

Bruce looked like he might have felt guilty, but I turned clockwise, brought my leg around in a roundhouse kick and hit him square in the gut, blood now trickling from my forehead as I watched him stumble to the floor and roll back up.

"You think you can control me, don't you, father?" I was aware how loud my voice was now but I didn't care, I wanted him to hear me. I wanted him to hear my pain.

"You don't get to do that," I was breathing heavily, anger flowing through my veins. "No one gets to do that!"

I threw my fists at him, each blow landing exactly where I intended them to. I was too fast for him to react, I was more agile than he was. And smarter, clearly. But I already knew that.

"You're letting your emotions take over you," father caught my boot with his hands and threw me to the the floor.

I rolled into a crouch and hurled three batarangs at his direction. He dodged and dived, capturing one between his fingers and propelling it back at me.

I managed a dry, bitter laugh as I snagged the batarang from the air. "Please, you know perfectly well that I can't even express my "emotions" in the first place."

I hand-springed towards him and drove my leg into his chest, his body contracting as he fell back against a dumpster. I landed on the filthy ground, swept my left foot underneath his legs like a blade, and watched him drop to his knees.

"Okay," Bruce grunted, hauling himself up against a railing. "You want to fight me, then?"

But I was fueled up now, and already charging at the man who was supposed to be my father. The man who couldn't accept me for who I was: a merciless, bloodthirsty killing machine. An assassin, an Al Ghul, a descendant of Ra's himself.

I threw my knee to his chin, blood splattering my uniform at the contact. My knuckles landed against his face next, but he caught my second punch and twisted my arm, then drove his elbow into my cheek. I tumbled back into a puddle, the water splashing against my legs and chest.

Father sent his foot to my throat but I blocked with my forearms, grunting under the weight of his boot before flinging both my legs up and kicking him off me.

"I've fought hundreds of men your size," I snarled, rolling to my feet and delivering a heavy right hook to his face.

I went to hit him again but he ducked, punching me right in my exposed gut and sending my back a couple steps, winded.

Father stood upright, his hand drifting to his side at the blood I noticed was forming. He glared at me, where I sat on the cold concrete floor, a look of anger and disappointment in his eyes. Those eyes that I couldn't even see under the mask, yet I already knew what they bore.

He hated me. He'd always hated me.

I picked myself up and we both stood still, waiting for one of us to make a move. I wanted him to fight me, I knew he wouldn't attack me unless I hit him first. That stupid self-righteousness that he had, those idiotic "rules" of never killing or hurting innocents. He didn't want to attack his own son.

He thought he was such a good person, didn't he? He thought he was above me, thought he could play the bigger person and only fight in defense. He had it all planned out, all calculated like the cold-hearted man that he truly was. He would use this against me in future, I knew. Say that he had never fought me, I'd been the one to attack him.

He always had to be right. It was pathetic. It was utterly pathetic.

"Come on," I growled, shaking out my fists to get my blood circulating. "Fight me, then. I know you want to. I know I annoy the shit out of you."

Bruce remained completely still. He wouldn't do it, would he? He couldn't.

I was angry. I was so very angry.

"Just fucking do it, father. Stop pretending your one of these goody-two shoes boy-scouts with the high morals and dignity bullshit!" I yelled.

Silence on his end, but I was ranting now. I was mad for reasons I was unsure of. So many emotions filled my chest, emotions I'd never really felt before. They were different to just plain rage - there were more of them, like grief, I supposed. I needed to let it out somehow. I felt like I would explode if I didn't.

I stabbed my finger in his direction. "You're not like them, and you know it. We both know it. We both know it because we're both as bad as each other!"

More silence.

I breathed jaggedly. My throat felt tight, my hands were shaking.

"We're both fucked up," I said, quieter this time. "We're both just so fucked up."

I realized then how much pain I was in. Physical pain? Or something else? My insides were hurting, but not in a way I was used to. Not in a way I had been trained to believe.

My heart felt so heavy. It felt... sad

I felt sad.

"Damian," Bruce was speaking softly, like a father comforting his son. He could sense my sudden sorrow. He knew that something wasn't right.

I stared at my bloodied gloves. They were trembling again, my body heaving violently with each breath I took. I needed to calm myself down again; my anger was in control. My anger was always in fucking control.

Bruce said, "You're hurting, Damian. Tell me what's wrong."

I didn't know how to put it into words. What was going on with me? Why was I being so weird? This was unlike me.

"I..." was all I managed to say, unable to speak anymore. I'd forgotten how to form sentences.

His eyes were on me again, burning holes into my skull. Why had I even lashed out at him in the first place? What exactly was my reasoning?

I didn't even know.

"That man... what he did to those girls... and then everything that happened with Summer..." my speech came out in mumbles.

Then, through shaky breaths, "I just wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him so badly, Bruce. I wanted him to die."

Bruce's gloved hand suddenly landed on my shoulder. I flinched at the sudden movement and glanced up. His face was firm, but not angry anymore. He gripped me tightly and looked me right in the eyes.

"The world is bad, bad place," he spoke grimly, like he always did, but I knew this was his twisted way of consoling me. "That's why we do what we do, that's why we put away bad people."

Before I could interrupt, Bruce added, "But we can't kill them, Damian, because killing them makes us just as bad as them. And then what's stopping others from putting us away?"

I knew this. I already knew this, I didn't need him explaining it to me like the countless other times he had. I wasn't an imbecile.

He let go of me and walked toward the crumpled mess of a man lying twenty feet away. He cuffed him to a street lamp while I continued to stare at my reflection in the puddle below me. My masked eyes stared back as the moonlight shone down and sparkled in the water.

Bruce's voice spoke from the distance, "You're a good person, Damian. You're not as bad as they tell you. You never have been."

They was the League of Assassins, I realized. Bruce knew that the League had painted me to be the villain that I was. The son of the demons head, the all-feared assassin who was destined to "rule" the world.

As I gazed at the kid in the puddle, my thoughts flickered back to Sasha. Sasha had been there for Summer when I hadn't. She'd known all this time and had tried to help. I should've done something, but I hadn't. I hadn't looked into it when she'd asked me about Coach all those weeks ago. I hadn't joined the dots earlier.

Some detective I was.

"Let's go home," I said eventually, my body aching with exhaustion. It had been a long day, and I needed to check on them. I needed to check on Summer and Sasha.

I needed to check on my friends.

Friends.

I never thought I would use that word.

i'm back at school and i want to go kill myself cause i don't understand shit

this chapter focuses on summer and damian dealing with their own mental health and traumas etc. hope u enjoyed and sorry if it was kinda heavy but i prefer writing dark things over comedy things

we are on 14k reads!! pls vote comment and follow if you like my shit