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When Damian opens his eyes to darkness, he knows he’s not truly awake. Bleak abyss spans on either side of him, no glimmer of light visible through the cutting black. Despite this, he can see himself. His hands at his side, covered in green gauntlets. His boots, red strings laced up and snug. The edges of his cape moving, coaxed along by an invisible hand. He can’t feel the mask on his face and his world isn’t being viewed through white lenses, but he knows it’s there.
He takes a step forward.
It’s like walking through molasses. His body doesn’t want to move, legs dragging and aching. He’s sore, like he’d just finished patrol, and his lungs sting with frozen air.
Damian stops, and the feelings vanish. He doesn’t feel much of anything, now. It’s a strange sort of numbness. Like he’s sleeping in the snow but he can’t actually feel the cold. Like he’s…
Dead.
At the thought of the word, the world shifts around him. His stomach bottoms out, clenching and twisting as black streaks away to reveal a dark and dreary scene. Rain falls from the sky, but it doesn’t touch him. Thunder rolls in the distance, muffled and slow. The full moon lights the night, illuminating the miles of tombstones all around, though he can’t make out any of the names.
A graveyard full of unmarked graves.
Damian inhales, body going through the motions of choking on the sharp stench of death, but mind not following.
“Look what you did.”
The voice hisses in his ear, accusatory. Damian turns and sees no one.
“This is all your fault.”
The voice is back at his ear, and Damian twists back to the front, only to see no one once more.
“Murderer.”
Something slams into his back, sending him to the muddy ground. Damian lands with a dull splat, caking his uniform in muck. Now the rain drenches him, thunder booming loudly in his eardrums.
He rolls to his back and pushes to his elbows, staring up into the darkness. His assailant stands before him, a bright shock of tattered red and yellow and green. Robin. He looks at the hair. At the twisted mouth. At the hard glint in blue-green eyes.
Jason.
“You’re a disgrace to the uniform,” Jason says. “Murderer.”
“No-” He hears himself protest, but it doesn’t feel like he intended to. Like it’s not really him. “I’m different now.”
Jason leans down, expression cold. “Killers don’t change.”
“I did”
“You will never change.”
“I did!”
“Murderer!”
-
Damian wakes with a gasp. He stares at the ceiling of his bedroom - his room, not a graveyard - panting for breath. The stench of death is still fresh in his mind, but the honeyed smell of his room is slowly washing it away. He glances to his nightstand, eyes falling on the mug of steaming tea. Judging from the light peeking through his curtain, it’s well past the time he usually wakes to walk Titus.
Damian pushes himself out of bed, hunching over his knees. He swallows the lump in his throat. It had just been a nightmare. Nothing unusual there. Except, his nightmares had never starred Jason before. He inhales deeply, pushing his bangs from his forehead.
“You okay, kid?”
Damian looks up sharply. Jason is standing in the doorway to his – their – room, a towel around his neck and cotton sweats snug at his waist. He looks freshly showered, and his eyes flicker with concern.
Damian chooses to avoid the question altogether. “I’m not a kid, Todd.”
If Jason knows he’s deflecting, he doesn’t show it. “Roy called. Wanted to know if we could help him out on a job while he’s in town. Sound good?”
Damian nods, forcing his posture in to something less vulnerable. “Fine.”
“Good,” Jason sounds far away. “Grab a shower, then. We meet him for lunch in an hour.”
-
This time, Damian isn’t quite sure if he’s awake or sleeping. He’s in the cave, surrounded by the souvenirs of his father’s past, and the ghosts of Batman’s. The memorial case stands before him, empty but for the outfit of a boy who’d lost so much so early. He feels himself reach out, sees himself press his hand against the shining glass.
“I died for him.”
Damian doesn’t startle. He doesn’t move as skinny arms wrap around his waist. He doesn’t move as a cheek is pressed against the column of his spine. He doesn’t have to move, to look, to know that it’s Robin – Jason – against him, eyes closed and uniform tattered.
“I died for him, and when I came back he hated me.”
Damian doesn’t remove his hand from the glass.
“Still, he loves me more than he loves you. Disappointment. Killer in your blood.”
Damian whips around, pushing the boy away from him. “I’m not a killer!” His words sound more his own than last time he’d dreamt this, but they still don’t sound right.
“You’re always a killer,” Jason narrows his eyes. “You’ve killed thousands. Mass murderer.”
“I don’t do that anymore!”
“It doesn’t matter.” Jason’s voice is loud. He’s in Damian’s face, eyes flashing and tone biting. “You will never change. You can’t change. You’ll always be a monster and everyone else knows it!”
“That’s not true-”
“Monster!”
“No!”
“Evil.”
“I’m not!”
“Bad Robin!” Jason yells. He shoves Damian back, sends him crashing into the case behind him. Damian lands on the ground, bits of shattered glass and immaculate uniform strewn below him. Jason is staring down at him, impassive. “Look at you,” He says. “You break everything you touch.”
This time, when Damian wakes, his eyes sting.
-
The dreams don’t stop. They come with a vengeance, plaguing Damian with shadows and doubts and forcing him to wake on the brink of nausea. It’s never the same place, but it’s always the same. It’s always Jason, telling him those things…truthful things…
He is a murderer…was.
He is a monster…still.
Damian isn’t oblivious to his own faults. He knows he isn’t normal, or next to normal, and he knows he will probably never be so. He knows his childhood makes him a killer, a monster, in the eyes of everything and everyone. He knows that no matter how much he tries to change, tries to make up for it, it will never be enough. There will always be blood on his hands, seeping into his skin and branding him. He can’t change the past.
He doesn’t know why it’s Jason.
If it were Dick, or even his father, it would make more sense. Their disappointment, their disapproval, cuts him easier than any blade.
He’s lying to himself, though. He does know why it’s Jason.
Earning Dick’s disapproval…being his father’s disappointment…those are things he knows are (probably) true.
Jason’s…
Jason’s hurts.
Jason understands Damian on almost every level. He understands Damian’s urges and past and motivations. He understands how hard it is to change, and he understands that Damian is trying – really trying – even after all these years, and struggling. He understands Damian, shares in his secrets, and…and…
Loves him anyway.
They don’t say it. They don’t need to – they aren’t really the type to voice such vulnerabilities. They know, though. Jason wouldn’t have moved back to the manor – for him - if they didn’t. They wouldn’t have stayed together this long if they didn’t.
If it’s Jason calling him those things (murderer, monster), it hurts. Jason is the one person Damian doesn’t want thinking those things about him. He wants to be better in Jason’s eyes. Better attitude, better fighter, better person. He knows, logically, that it’s an ironic wish. Jason isn’t a saint, and any faults Damian has aren’t faults to Jason. Jason is a killer too, even if it is in the name of good. He knows what it’s like to be around the League. None of that makes a difference; Damian still wants to…deserve Jason.
(That’s what everyone thinks about the person they’re in love with, right? That they deserve everything.)
So it being Jason…makes sense. Night terrors are about fear, about what will hurt you the most. Jason…Jason could hurt Damian the most, if he wanted.
That’s why it’s Jason, and not Dick or his father.
That’s why he wakes up sick to his stomach with an ache in his chest.
The dreams don’t stop.
-
Damian is pulled from the night’s dream by rough hands on his shoulders and a low voice in his ear. He fights, at first, not knowing whose hands are on him. It doesn’t take entirely long to understand that he’s no longer asleep, and after that to discern who’s touching him.
“Damian!”
Damian forces his eyes open, blinking at the harsh light of the lamp filling the room. The dream had been dark, so dark, and the light was welcome. He isn’t aware he is panting for breath until Jason’s fingers settle at the back of his neck and his rough voice mutters, “Just breathe, kid.”
Damian swallows, nodding to himself and Jason. “Not a kid.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Damian rakes his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, scowling at the ceiling. He pushes himself up, rubbing the heel of his hand over his forehead.
“You are not okay,” Jason sits up too, scowling at Damian’s lie. “You’ve been having nightmares-”
“I do not have nightmares-”
“For the last three weeks,” Jason speaks over Damian. “And I didn’t say anything because I know how you get-”
“I don’t get like anything-”
“But three weeks is enough. You need to talk about this.”
Damian gives Jason his best glare under the circumstances. “I don’t need to talk about anything.”
Jason holds his glare for a moment before his eyes quiet around the edges. When Jason speaks, his tone is considerably softer. “You should talk about this. With me. Because I care.”
Damian averts his eyes, shifting away.
“You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”
Damian snorts, “That’s a lie.”
“Fine. Maybe you won’t feel better,” Jason adapts, “but I need to know.”
“Why?” Damian narrows his eyes at the corner of the room.
“You know why.”
Damian glances at Jason, feeling more than slightly guilty about the determination and concern lurking in his eyes. He lies back, rolling on his side so he’s facing away from the older man.
Jason sighs, “Damian-”
“I have dreams,” Damian mutters. “About you.”
Jason shifts behind him, but doesn’t interrupt.
“You’re Robin, and you don’t think…” Damian thins his lips. “You say I’m a murderer. That I don’t deserve to be Robin. That I’ll never change.”
“Damian.” Now Jason’s tone is sympathetic.
“You say I’m a monster.”
The room falls into uncomfortable silence. Damian blinks rapidly at the wall while Jason remains static behind him. Damian counts out forty seconds before one of them breaks the lull.
“Hey.”
Damian doesn’t move. Not until Jason reaches around and rolls him over with another, stronger “Hey.”
Damian furrows his brow as Jason stares down at him. “What?”
“You know I wouldn’t say that about you.”
“I know,” Damian shifts. “It’s just a stupid dream.”
Jason frowns, but continues his thoughts. “I wouldn’t say that about you, because none of that is true.”
Damian looks away, “It is, though.”
“You’re not a murderer. You’re not a monster. You’re just you, and that’s not a synonym for either of those things.”
Damian frowns. “I am a murderer.”
“You were, and that’s how you were raised. You changed.” Jason says. “And don’t you dare say you’re a monster. We both know what real monsters are like, and that’s not you.”
Damian swallows, easily rolling back to his side. He doesn’t move when Jason follows him, simply wrapping an arm around his waist and settling his chin over Damian’s shoulder.
“You aren’t a monster,” Jason repeats in his ear. “You’re not a murderer, or unworthy or whatever you’re thinking about being Robin. You’re a damn good Robin, and you’re a good person.”
“Stop,” Damian muttered.
“No.” Jason said, bluntly. “Not until you feel better.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Damian huffed. He squirmed in Jason’s arms, but he lacked the intention of removing himself from the hold.
“I don’t know how to make you feel better.”
Damian stills, biting his tongue.
“All I can do is tell you that I don’t feel that way about you.” Jason continues. “Maybe we don’t say it a lot, but I…you know I love you.”
“I know,” Damian doesn’t resist as Jason pulls him closer.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect, Damian.”
Damian snorts again, quieter.
“I mean it, attitude and all. Fuckin’. Perfect. Got it?”
Damian grunts.
Jason squeezes him, pressing his stubble against Damian’s cheek the way he knows makes Damian shiver. “Got it?”
Damian finally lets himself relax, holding back the slew of words he wants to say. Jason always…always knows how to make him feel better, and that…that means something. Damian isn’t sure what – besides love, obviously, but there’s something more than that – but it does.
“Got it.”