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#danny’s injured hands are now canon to the clone^2 au
starry-bi-sky · 4 months
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More Clone^2 or just Damian Clone Au because these two have my heart rn.
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“Asmi Danyal.” Damian says.
“Asm- asmi Danyal.” Danny repeats.
There is a sharp jab to his leg.
Danny thinks this means he’s winning, and he grins goofily.
(He’s not, he did the pronunciation wrong. He has to say it again.)
Where he is, is his room. It’s nearing midnight, and him and Damian have been sitting in his room for the last three hours.
He has books about learning arabic sprawled at his feet, from beginner’s books to advanced, he got whatever he could get his hands on that would teach him Arabic.
And Damian, little Damian who has finally taken it upon himself to settle down over these last few months, has decided that he doesn’t really like the way Danny is teaching himself.
“Your pronunciation is bad.” He told him through the translator Danny downloaded onto his phone. And then he sat down onto the ground and pointed at the floor and said “‘Ardia.”
And then wouldn’t stop until Danny said it in a way that he liked. He moved on to the next object. And then the next, and then the next. And so this has been their dynamic for the last two weeks. They’re finally moving on to proper sentences.
(It’s not fool-proof, and that’s why Danny still has his books. Damian doesn’t know every word, and knowing words doesn’t mean he knows how to string them together into a sentence.)
(But never let it be said that Danny is not a quick learner when he sets his heart to something.)
“Asmi Danyal.” Damian says.
“Asmi Danyal.” Danny repeats.
(“My name is Daniel.”)
Damian nods, satisfied and sated. He points to himself, puffed up like a peacock showing off its feathers. “Asmi Damyan Alghul.” He says, “‘Ana abn aldam.”
(There’s a flicker of uncertainty on Damian’s face, a slump in his shoulders that exists for only a millisecond. It’s a look on Damian’s face that Danny sees on his own whenever he looks in the mirror.)
(A question of identity, an ‘I think’ - am I really who I say I am? Doubt comes in with fickle tongue.)
Danny - much to his own surprise - is able to piece together the second half of his sentence on his own. It’s slow, assigning words to translation, but he learns it.
(“My name is Damian Al Ghul. I am the blood son.”)
The blood son - he can only assume he means the blood son of Bruce Wayne, of course. He shares the same face as the very public figure’s youngest boy.
And Danny shares the face of the youngest boy’s father.
And much like him, this Damian was younger than the original, thirteen year old one. Much younger.
“Marhaban Damian.” Danny says, a sly smile creeping up his face. “Asmi Danyal Fenton —” his eyes glance to one of his books, a list of greetings going down the page. He finds one he’s looking for. “Tasharafna.”
(“Hello Damian, my name is Daniel Fenton. It’s nice to meet you.”)
(He’d hold out his hand in a customary, playful handshake, but his palms still sting and hurt from his last encounter with Damian’s blade. He’s got them half curled at his side, unmoving as much as possible.)
Danny got the last pronunciation wrong, much to his amused delight. Damian’s face darkens and his smug expression falls away into a scowl.
“‘Ant aldajaalu, wanha ‘tasharafna.”
(“You are the imposter, and it’s ‘tasharafna’.”)
And so here they go again.
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