Chapter Text
Jason was smart, no one could deny that. Neither the living nor the dead. He had been Batman's detective partner in crime, Robin, a killer in the League who managed to evade the scrutiny of Ra's and return to Gotham, he had been a Lord of Crime who had conquered the underworld in two months. He was a bat. A Wayne, as much as he liked to deny it. So why didn't he understand what was happening before him?
He clenched his hands into fists as he watched the boy in the bed. The sheets barely moved, as if refusing to admit the truth they contained. One too painful to admit.
He knew he wasn't a good brother; it had been hard for him to even tolerate Tim's presence or Dick's melancholic love, but, for God’s sake, that kid hadn't done anything to him. They'd even been close during their time in the league. Seeing him in that state tugged at the stitches of his heart.
“Come on, little wing, let’s let him rest.”
He just nodded as he let his brother take him out of the room. Dick wasn't in any better shape. He'd argued with Bruce shortly after stabilizing Damian, and from the tone and the rags thrown around, he could guess that the fight after his death had been similar. It didn't comfort him in the least. In fact, it made him feel ashamed. When he returned, all he did was mock and pour handfuls of salt on a wound that Dick himself made sure never to heal.
“It’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you?”
The eldest just shook his head.
“It’s not that simple.”
“And it never will be if you blame yourself the same way you did me. He’s still alive, and he needs us. He needs you, Dick.” He just shrugged, and Jason couldn’t help but sigh. “We’re adults now, not just you. We all share the blame. Even if you fall apart, we’ll pick you up.”
“But… but… God. Now that I see it, he’s tried so many times to get close to us. When he asked what we were doing or tried to go on patrol with us. And what did we do in return? Shunning him, ignoring him, not including him. I even snapped at him four days ago when it wasn’t even his fault!”
“Hey, don’t start going down the spiral.” He snapped his fingers in front of his face and led him to Tim’s room.
Inside, he was waiting for them with his laptop monitor open with several video tabs.
“Did you find anything?” Jason asked as he dropped Dick onto the bed.
“Unfortunately. You won’t like it.”
“At this point I can imagine anything.”
Tim just grimaces before letting the video play. In solemn silence, the three watched their younger brother's rapid decline. The words whispered like sweet poison, his long absences while rocking, his maniacal laughter as he made cut after cut, the tears filled with longing on his way to the cave. His smile before he closed his eyes.
During all that time, they took turns visiting the toilet.
The line between his disgust with the situation and his own disgust had been blurred for hours. He knew exactly how one felt on both sides of the equation. He'd experienced it firsthand, yet he'd let it happen right under his nose. But now there was nothing he could do but wait for the boy to wake up and pray that he'd let himself be helped.
Although he knew perfectly well she would never accept. Asking for help in the league was synonymous with weakness.
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The first time he woke up, Damian's eyelids felt heavier than ever. No matter how hard he tried to lift them, they seemed unwilling to obey. And that was strange. Extremely strange. He had trained himself to be able to move every muscle in his body at will.
He ignored the feeling of panic that rooted on his torso and tried to recall recent events, but it was all in vain. His mind was still filled with mud. What did it mean it continued? Had it been like this before?And his memories were cut off at the very moment Father and Pennyworth closed the door. It couldn't possibly be the next day, right? Wait, what day was today?No matter how hard he tried to grasp the answer, it seemed to vanish through his fingers like incense smoke.
He tried to raise his arm once more, with no luck.
Again. Of course.
Then he felt it. Dark claws that had finally taken shape. They were no longer the mist that had guided him with patience and dark delight. They had abandoned their facade of false kindness. They were hard and sharp, tearing at the walls of his sanity without a shred of mercy. They reminded him of his grandfather's hands.
Oh.
They were his grandfather's hands.
He opened his mouth and made a strangled sound, like that of a newborn chick. He didn't know whether to get angry or cry, but what he did know was that he would kill for a little water. And it seemed that fate had mercy on him this time.
The door to his room opened, letting in a small breeze that accompanied a tall, scarred man. You didn't have to be very clever to know which of his brothers, no, superiors it was.
Jason gave him a small smile that didn't quite hide his sadness and sat down in a chair next to him.
"How are you, Baby Bat? Does anything hurt?"
Damian tried to get some other sound out of his mouth, even if it was just a grunt or a scream, but he gave up after the third attempt, feeling his lips cracking further, and he frowned. He, who had taken such care of his lips, now they were in a state even more pathetic than the mental one.
I just wanted to go home, but where was home?
“Okay, okay, not very well. I get it.” Jason smoothed his sweat-sticky locks and picked up the glass from the nightstand. The same one with he’d tried… tried… tried to kill himself with. That word would have sounded hollow, empty like the rest, like in another occasion, but this time it hit him like a whip in the throat, as if the mere thought of it would take him back to his mother’s dagger, to the Batcave medbay. “Hey, breathe. You’re safe. You. Are. Safe. No one from the League will ever come near you.” Damian gave him a suspicious look as he let her give him a drink. “I will make sure of that, baby bat.”
Baby bat? Him? Damian?Was Ahki using the nickname he'd given him during his time in the league? That was impossible. Todd was his superior, not his brother, not for a long time. From the moment he left him alone in his grandfather's care. At the time, he hadn't understood the nickname, but now he does.
Jason hated Batman. Damian was just like Batman, just like Bruce Wayne. It was only natural that he hated him too. How would he feel if he had to live with a kid who had the same face as one of the men you hate the most? He didn't blame him. He would hate himself too.
He hated himself too.
He made no further movement and let his gaze rest on a random spot in the room. He had no excuse for his behavior. He would simply accept his punishment for being a coward, for messing up the ritual they loved so much.
But the reprimand never came. Todd just let the silence settle over them. Damian assumed he was delaying it so everyone could decide on their punishment at once and not overlap them. His grandfather's claw mocked him.
It was nobody.
After what seemed like an eternity, Jason got up from his seat and left the room, but not before ruffling Damian's hair. Damian put all his willpower to not flinch at it. He didn't want to be touched. The door closed behind them with a soft click. And as if that were a signal, her eyes filled with tears.
They stung. They stung so much that he wanted to tear them off and throw them as far as his weak limbs would allow. He didn't want to be weak, but he didn't know what else to do.
He let his cheeks flush. Soaked silently, as he forced his limbs to move until he was in a fetal position. He gripped his arms tightly, ignoring the soft bandages wrapped around them, and began to dig.
The newly healed wounds began to bleed again.
Relief washed through his body.
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The next time he woke up, Drake was standing next to his bed, the bedside lamp on. He didn't seem to notice the movement in the bed, too engrossed in reading... out loud? He couldn't decipher the sounds he was making.
He stayed for a while observing it, trying to unravel the intelligible knot of words sung by his elder. It wasn't Arabic, nor Chinese. Nor did it dance to the tune of Hindi or Hebrew. It was more European, but it didn't have the precipices and harshness of the Slavic countries nor the sweet dance of the Romance languages. It was English. The language of assassins and protocols. The only language he had never come to love.
Why did he even speak it? He couldn't remember. Wasn't it easier to speak Arabic?
His eyes slowly adjusted to the rest of the room. This wasn't Nanda Parbat. He was in Gotham. With his father. And Gotham was in the USA.
Memories fell upon him like puzzle pieces. But sharpened and flung by those laughing claws.
I would have preferred not to remember anything.
With that thought, he abandoned the idea of staying awake. Perhaps if he fell asleep, he wouldn't have to wake up again.
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The third time was the most painful.
His body was burning, he felt his nerves and veins burning inside him. He needed a way to get that fire out, now! He needed… He needed… Mom's dagger! That's what he needed!
“Damian!” Shouted a deep voice, jolting him out of his nightmare.
His breathing was rapid, almost on the verge of hyperventilating, he was trembling like an autumn leaf, his hair was dripping with sweat and… his hands were buried deep in his arms.
He could barely register Father's twitching. He only had eyes for his broken nails, his torn bandages. I only had eyes for the blood splattering the sheets.
“Damian, please, come back with me, yeah? Breath with me c’mon, chum, please. Four in, six hold and eight out, yeah? Damian, Dami, son… please”
Damian couldn't answer. His hands didn't want to leave the warmth of his blood. The claw urged him with his mother's voice to dig deeper, to draw out all the warmth he could muster. Failures didn't deserve such warmth.
It seemed to him that the door had opened, and strong hands as warm as his insides had caught his. He didn't force them out with a jerk, but rather patiently coaxed each finger out of its burrow.
The cold made him let out a whimper from the bottom of his heart.
I wanted to go back to that warm place.
"Dami, Habibi, I know it’s comfortable, but what if instead of your arms we used heating pads? I bet they’re comforting as well.” The owner of the voice wrapped his hands in soft, malleable bags. He squeezed them a few times and didn’t let go. “I’m glad you like them. Now, could you help me with my breathing? I know a kid as smart as you can handle this task.”
Damian forced himself to tear his gaze away from his hands and back at the adults. They both looked awful. Grayson had bags under his eyes that were almost hanging off his chin, and Father… Father looked just like he had after a night out.an Arkham break. Damian assumed he wouldn't look much better.
“Are you back with us, chum?” The boy just blinked. “It’s good to see you again. Do you want some soup? You can’t eat anything solid or heavy yet. If you’d prefer some mashed potatoes or hummus, I’m sure Alfred won’t mind…”
“Why can’t I die?” Damian said for the first time in over a week. His voice was raspy, cracked from disuse, but there was no hint of doubt in it, only an endless emptiness.
That question caught the two adults off guard, and they had no time to hide their pain. The youngest of the flock, the proudest of them all, reduced to an empty shell. Hollow. With nothing left to give.
And all of that in less than a week. A week Bruce would regret for the rest of his life.
"Damian, darling, I know life is difficult, that you're at rock bottom right now. But we can promise you sunny days are coming."
“Bruce is right, baby bat. You are safe here. There is no punishment for being hurt. This is not the league. You’re safe here. You. are. Safe.”
Damian shook his head.
“I just want to die.”
All the strength he had left in his body left him as two pairs of arms hugged him tightly.
“We will work to make it better, ok? You won’t have to try hard anymore. You’ll be ok. I promise.”
Damian didn’t believe him. Not now, and most probably ever.
But he knew deep down Dick and the rest of the bats would help him. Maybe.