Chapter Text
The third extubation attempt came the next morning.
Damian had spent the night in a haze of pain medication and fitful sleep. His throat still felt like raw meat. Every swallow was agony. But Dr. Martinez was confident.
"Your throat has had time to heal," she said. "We'll take it slower this time. More medication to prevent spasm. You'll be fine."
I won't be fine. I'm never fine.
But they proceeded anyway. Reduced the ventilator support gradually. Damian's lungs protested but cooperated. The medication kept the panic manageable.
"Looking good," Lisa said. "Thirty minutes and we'll extubate."
Damian focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Mechanical. Automatic. His body doing what it was designed to do even though his mind screamed at it to stop.
"Okay," Dr. Martinez said after the trial period. "Let's do this. Remember, cough when I tell you to."
The tube came out more smoothly this time. Damian coughed, felt it slide free, felt the blessed relief of an unobstructed airway.
He took a breath.
Another.
His throat didn't spasm. His lungs filled. Oxygen flowed.
"Excellent," Dr. Martinez said. "Oxygen levels are—"
The monitor started alarming.
Damian felt it before he understood it, a strange flutter in his chest. Wrong. His heart was beating wrong. Too fast, like a hummingbird trapped behind his ribs. The rhythm was chaotic, irregular, wrong.
"V-tach," someone said sharply. "Heart rate 180 and climbing."
The world tilted. Pressure built in Damian's chest, not pain yet, but a crushing sensation like someone was pushing down on his sternum. He tried to breathe and his lungs wouldn't cooperate. Tried to focus but his vision was starting to narrow at the edges.
"BP dropping— 90 over 60. He's becoming unstable."
Dr. Martinez's face appeared above him, all professional calm stripped away. "Damian, stay with me. We're going to fix this."
But Damian couldn't respond. The pressure in his chest was intensifying, spreading up into his jaw, down his left arm. His heart was racing so fast it felt like it wasn't beating at all, just a continuous vibration, a motor running too hot, about to seize.
This is it. This is actually it.
And for the first time since waking up in this hospital, Damian felt something other than despair:
Fear.
Real, primal, animal fear. Because this wasn't the peaceful drift into nothing he'd imagined when he took those pills. This was his body tearing itself apart. This was dying. Messy and violent and terrifying.
"Heart rate 210. He's not perfusing. Get the crash cart, NOW."
The tunnel vision was getting worse. Damian could only see directly in front of him, Dr. Martinez's face, the ceiling lights, the monitor showing his heart rate climbing impossibly high. Everything else was going dark.
His chest hurt now. It really hurt. Like something inside was being squeezed in a vise.
"Oxygen sat dropping— 88, 85—"
"Paddles. Charge to 200."
Hands pressed gel pads onto his chest. Cold. Damian tried to say something— ‘wait, I'm scared, I don't want this’ but no sound came out. His throat was too raw, his lungs too starved for oxygen.
From somewhere far away, he heard Bruce's voice: "What's happening? What's—"
"Sir, you need to step back—"
"That's my son—"
"Mr. Wayne, now."
Damian's vision was almost gone. Just a pinpoint of light. His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was tearing itself apart. The pain in his chest was excruciating now. Sharp and hot and all-consuming.
I'm dying. I'm actually dying.
And he didn't want to. God help him, he didn't want to.
"Charged. Everyone clear."
Hands lifted away from him. A split second of terrible anticipation.
Then—
Lightning. Pure electricity slamming through his chest. His back arched off the bed, every muscle contracting at once. The pain was indescribable, like being ripped apart from the inside.
When he crashed back down, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't—
"Still in v-tach. Rate 220. He's not converting."
The monitor was screaming. Multiple alarms overlapping into a cacophony of sound. Damian's vision was almost completely black now. Just fragments, a face, a light, the ceiling tiles spinning.
"BP 70 over 40. He's crashing."
"Charge to 300. And get me an amp of epi."
More hands. Someone was putting an IV in his arm, he felt the sharp sting but it was distant, unimportant. Everything was distant except the pain in his chest and the terrible, arrhythmic hammering of his heart.
"Epi's in."
"Charged. Clear."
Another jolt. Worse than the first. Damian's body convulsed, his jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth would shatter. The electricity tore through him, trying to reset his heart, trying to force it back into rhythm.
It didn't work.
"Still v-tach. Fuck. Rate 240."
"He's going into cardiac arrest. Get me amiodarone—150 milligrams IV push."
Damian couldn't see anymore. Couldn't hear properly. Everything was muffled, like he was underwater. The pain in his chest was constant now. A crushing, tearing sensation that made him want to scream but he had no air, no voice, no—
"Amiodarone's in. Charging again, 360."
"Oxygen sat 78. He's not getting enough perfusion."
"I know. Clear!"
The third shock was the worst. Damian felt his consciousness fracturing, splintering into pieces. The pain was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. Beyond the training with his mother. Beyond the injuries in the field. This was his body destroying itself, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
When he came back down, something had changed.
The monitor's tone shifted. Lower. Slower.
"Wait, he's converting. Sinus rhythm. Heart rate 140 and dropping."
"BP coming up— 80 over 50. 85 over 55."
"Oxygen sat improving— 82, 85, 88—"
Damian gasped. Air flooded his lungs. Not enough, never enough, but something. The crushing pain in his chest was still there but duller now. Manageable. His vision was starting to return in fragments.
Dr. Martinez's face. Pale. Sweating.
"Damian. Damian, can you hear me?"
He tried to nod. Managed something that might have been a twitch.
"You're okay. Your heart's back in rhythm. You're okay."
But he wasn't okay. His chest felt like it had been hit by a truck. His whole body was shaking. And the fear. The terrible, overwhelming fear, was still there.
I almost died. I really almost died.
"Heart rate stabilizing at 110. BP 90 over 60. Oxygen sat 92."
"Good. That's good." Dr. Martinez's hands were shaking as she checked his pupils. "Damian, I need you to stay calm. Your heart went into a dangerous rhythm but we've got it under control now. Do you understand?"
Damian tried to speak. His throat was too raw. He managed a small nod.
"We're going to have to re-intubate you," Dr. Martinez said, and Damian's eyes went wide with panic. "I know. I know you don't want that. But your body just went through massive trauma. Your heart needs support. Your lungs need support. We have to."
No. Please no. Not again.
But he couldn't fight. Couldn't resist. His body was too weak, too damaged, too broken.
From the corner of the room, Bruce's voice: "Is he— will he—"
"He's stable for now," Dr. Martinez said. "But we need to act fast. Lisa, get me a 7.5 tube and prepare for rapid sequence intubation."
Damian felt tears sliding down his face. He didn't have the strength to stop them.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Martinez said softly, meeting his eyes. "I'm so sorry. But we have to keep you alive."
Why? Why do you have to?
But he already knew the answer. He'd felt it in those moments when his heart was tearing itself apart and his vision was going dark and he'd realized. Truly realized, that he was about to die.
He'd been terrified.
Some part of him, some small, stubborn, traitorous part wanted to live.
"Propofol and succinylcholine ready."
"Okay. Damian, you're going to go to sleep now. When you wake up, the tube will be back. But you'll be safe. I promise."
The medication hit his IV. Damian felt the world sliding away, slower this time, gentler. His last thought before the darkness took him was of Bruce's face, pale and terrified, watching from the corner.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm putting you through this.
I'm sorry I want to live after all.
Then— nothing.
Damian woke to the tube.
It was back. Down his throat. Breathing for him.
No. No no no no—
He tried to move and couldn't. Tried to fight and couldn't. His body felt like lead. The sedation was heavy, keeping him under, keeping him compliant.
They put it back. I crashed and they brought me back and they put the tube back.
The despair was crushing. Worse than the shame. Worse than the rage. He'd been so close— so close to being free of the tube, so close to maybe having some autonomy back. And his body had betrayed him again.
Or maybe it hadn't been betrayal. Maybe his body had been trying to do what his mind wanted. Maybe it had been trying to let him go.
And they'd shocked him back. Forced his heart to beat. Put the tube back in.
Why won't you let me die?
Bruce's face swam into view. His father looked terrible—pale, drawn, like he'd aged ten years in the past few hours.
"You're okay," Bruce said, but his voice shook. "You coded. Your heart— but you're okay now. You're stable."
I don't want to be stable. I want to be gone.
"They had to re-intubate," Bruce continued. "Your heart rhythm was too unstable. They couldn't risk—" His voice broke. "I thought I'd lost you."
You should have. You should have let me go.
But Bruce's hand was on his shoulder again. Steady. Anchoring. Refusing to let go.
"I know you're angry," Bruce said quietly. "I know you think we should have let you die. But I can't do that, Damian. I can't lose you. I won't."
It's not about what you can or can't do. It's about what I want. And you're not listening.
But he couldn't say that. Couldn't say anything. The tube stole his voice. The sedation stole his strength. All he could do was lie there while the machines breathed for him and his father kept vigil and his body continued its relentless march toward healing.
The hours that followed were a blur.
More medication. More monitoring. Dr. Martinez explaining in careful detail what had happened; ventricular tachycardia, a dangerous heart rhythm, likely triggered by the stress of extubation combined with the lingering effects of the overdose on his system.
"We'll keep you intubated for at least another 48 hours," she said. "Give your heart time to stabilize. Then we'll try again."
I don't want to try again. I don't want any of this.
But his wants didn't matter. They never had. His body was a machine they were repairing, and his wishes about whether that machine should keep running were irrelevant.
The family rotated through. Dick, looking shaken. Tim, pale and quiet. Jason, who stood in the doorway for a long moment before leaving without saying anything. Cass, who took his hand and held it and didn't speak because she didn't need to.
They all looked at him like he was something precious. Something worth saving.
They were wrong.
On the second day of re-intubation, something in Damian broke.
Not dramatically. Not with fighting or thrashing or panic. Just... broke.
He stopped resisting the ventilator. Stopped trying to breathe against it. Just let it do its work.
He stopped fighting the restraints. They were there to keep him safe, the nurses said. To keep him from pulling at the tubes. Fine. He stopped caring.
He stopped fighting the medication. They pushed sedation into his line and he let it take him under. Let the world go soft and distant. Let himself float in the haze where nothing quite hurt.
He stopped fighting.
This is what you wanted, his mother's voice whispered. To break me. To make me weak. Congratulations. You've succeeded.
But that wasn't quite right. His mother had wanted him strong. Had punished weakness. Had measured his worth by his ability to endure.
And he couldn't endure anymore.
Bruce noticed the change. Of course he did.
"Damian," he said, leaning close. "Talk to me. I know you can't speak, but— squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
Damian squeezed. Barely. Just enough to acknowledge.
"Are you in pain?"
Squeeze for yes.
"Physical pain?"
No squeeze.
Bruce was quiet for a moment. Then: "Emotional pain?"
Squeeze.
"I know," Bruce said softly. "I know this is hard. I know you didn't want to be saved. But you're here now. And we're going to get through this."
We. Always we. As if this is something we're doing together instead of something you're forcing on me.
But Damian didn't have the energy to be angry anymore. Didn't have the energy for anything except existing, breathing mechanically, letting the machines and the medication and his family's stubborn love keep him alive.
The fourth extubation attempt came three days after.
By then, Damian had been intubated for nearly a week total. His throat was damaged. His lungs were weak. His heart rhythm had finally stabilized, but Dr. Martinez was cautious.
"We're going to take this very slowly," she said. "Lots of medication. Lots of monitoring. At the first sign of trouble, we stop. Understood?"
Damian managed a small nod. He was too tired to fight. Too tired to care.
They reduced the ventilator support gradually. His lungs protested but cooperated. The medication kept everything manageable; the panic, the pain, the despair.
"One hour," Lisa said. "Levels are stable."
They waited another hour. Then another. Making absolutely sure.
Finally, Dr. Martinez nodded. "Okay. Let's do this."
The tube came out. Damian coughed weakly, felt it slide free, felt the oxygen mask replace it immediately.
He breathed.
His throat didn't spasm. His heart kept its rhythm. His lungs filled and emptied.
"Good," Dr. Martinez said, watching the monitors like a hawk. "Very good. Keep breathing, Damian."
He kept breathing. Not because he wanted to. Not because he'd chosen to. But because his body wouldn't let him do anything else.
The first words Damian spoke, once his throat had healed enough, were: "I want to die."
His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper. But the words were clear.
Bruce, sitting in his usual chair, went very still. "I know."
"Then why—" Damian's voice cracked. He swallowed painfully. "Why won't you let me?"
"Because you're my son," Bruce said simply. "Because I love you. Because your life has value even when you can't see it."
"I'm a burden."
"You're not."
"I'm broken."
"You're hurt. There's a difference."
"I don't want to be here." The words came out as a sob. Damian hated himself for it. Hated the tears that leaked from his eyes. Hated the weakness.
"I know," Bruce said again. He moved closer, sat on the edge of the bed. "I know you don't. But you are here. And we're going to help you find a reason to want to be."
"There isn't one."
"There will be." Bruce's hand found his shoulder. "I promise you, Damian. There will be."
Damian closed his eyes. Didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him.
But some small, traitorous part of him wanted to.