Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The catwalk under Damian’s feet groaned. He could almost hear the rusty bolts squeaking against the metal sheeting they held into place. It was as if the whole thing was about to sway and then burst apart like Damian’s Lego structures did when Titus ran through them, completely unaware of the hours of work that had gone into them.

He shifted his feet and turned his attention back to the control pad he was working on. The catwalk would would hold. It had held for the number of years since it had been constructed, and had held under countless feet trampling across it to do repairs on one side of the waterworks or the other. What he needed to worry about now was stopping the virus implanted in the facilities systems.

Damian had no idea what it was supposed to do, but from the way the man his father was fighting below had been monologuing it couldn’t be good. His fingers danced along the keypad as he attempted to log in. One good wash of the whole system should clear the bug from the computers and put things back to normal, he just had to break the code and get in.

He spared a single glance down at Batman. His father was busy dealing with a handful of thugs and their ringleader. Mr. Monologuer wasn’t even Gotham enough to warrant a mask or fancy name, he was simply a thug who’d thought he had a good idea and had gotten caught by the Batman. Damian wasn’t worried, but he’d be happier below helping his father all the same. It wasn’t good to underestimate anyone, goofy name or not.

He cracked the code and allowed himself a small smile at the victory. It took him a few seconds to reboot the system. All around him came the sound of hums and whirs slowing as systems ran through shutdown procedures, the lights above even flickered for a moment.

With the entire place slowing down, Damian could hear sounds of a fight still going on below him. He stepped back away from the control panel towards the edge of the catwalk. His plan was to pull his grapple out and use it to jump down to help his father in the fight.

The structure groaned then metal screeched as rust gave way and bolts popped out of their sockets and the catwalk under Damian’s feet began to jerk and shudder violently. Segments began to drop away, one after another, shaking the one Damian was standing on and sending him tumbling forward with a yelp.

His stomach hit the protective rail and, in another moment, the failing catwalk shook again. This time, the grating below his feet gave way, dropping and spinning below him to splash into a tank of water. Damian scrabbled for the rail, gripping it tight with both hands before looping one arm around it, his other hand going to his hip for his grapple gun.

The rail snapped and dropped along with a shower of other bits and pieces. One of them, part of the railing, smacked Damian’s hand with the grapple, and sent the gun spinning down, below him. He sucked in a quick, too shallow, breath of air and tucked his body in preparation for impact with the water below.

He hit the water a second after the grapple did. The force of the impact broke Damian’s tuck and he splayed in the deep container, sinking for a moment before he could get his bearings. The water around him shifted and roared with life as more metal rained into it, breaking and dragging through the once still water, creating currents that shoved and spun him in dizzying waves.

He had to get up, had to right himself. His lungs were already beginning to strain against the pathetic gulp of air he’d taken in. He’d manage if he could only get himself righted. He flipped over in the water, from his back to stomach, ready to pull himself up. Something heavy hit his back, pushing him further down and forcing the trapped air in his lungs to escape.

Shock had Damian gasp in a mouthful of water, only to spit it out the next moment. His lungs burned, jerking against his windpipe as if to say “We are empty and writhing” His vision was spotty, and all he wanted to do was breathe.

Like a child trying to stay underwater longer than his brother, Damian threw a hand over his mouth, pinching his nose with two fingers. He shifted again, and kicked against the side of the container closest to him, pushing himself up towards the top. His free hand pushed at the water, his legs kicking at anything to give him that burst he needed.

His chest caught again, and Damian swallowed, as if that would stop the burning need for air. The spots were worse now as black inched in from all sides. It wasn’t dizzy spots from a fall but instead those of encroaching unconsciousness and the ache for oxygen.

An arm reached in and caught him around the middle and pulled him up, sputtering and coughing into clear air. The hand, and another helped sit him down on a platform. Damian let himself sit there, a puddle forming around him, while he caught his breath, and refilled his lungs. Batman knelt by him, resting one hand on Damian’s shoulder. He watched him carefully, his jaw tight with worry.

It had taken time, but Damian had learned the difference between his father’s worried and angry jaws. Anger usually came with other body language of the sort, balled fists or a vein in Father’s neck that jutted just at the point where chin turned into neck and met the rest of the suit. Worry was almost pursed lips, one side drawn in further than the other like an inverted dimple.

He coughed, the water still coating the inside of his mouth and tickling the back of his throat. It tasted funny, tangy and odd. Damian passed the flavor off as being because it had only been partially treated in the plant so far. He ran the back of his hand across his nose, trying to stop the seeping watery snot, overflow from his body trying to keep him from drowning when he’d tried to breathe water.

“I’m fine.” he rasped, and coughed again, “Swallowed some water, but I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Father said, “We are done here.” he announced.

Damian peered around him to get a better look at the floor below them. Everyone, including the ringleader, had been knocked out and zip tied. They really were done.

“Should we--” Damian broke off to cough again, water tickling the back of his throat, “take some time to check things out?” he finished.

His father hummed, “I’ve already contacted the police, if there’s anything else wrong they’ll find it. We are going home.”

He fiddled with the cape around his shoulders, detaching it, and pulling it from his back. Then Father swung it around and wrapped Damian in it. The cape was like a weighted blanket, heavy and comforting on his shoulders, even if it did little to help soak up the wet.

“It’s cold outside.” Father explained, helping Damian stand.

Damian nodded, tugging the edges of the cape closer to himself so that he was wrapped snugly in it. The edge dragged behind him as he followed Father out of the building and on the too long trek back to the car. He still hadn’t managed to clear up the tickle in his throat and once outside the cold air caught at it and stirred up more coughing. Cold air whipped at his wet hair, tangling it as it tried to freeze the water dripping off it. Damian’s cheeks burned, and he tugged the cape closer, trying to bury his face in it and still see where he was going.

He’d left a bottle of water in the car, and chugged it down after he climbed in, attempting to dislodge the tickle with the application of more water. He even made one almost disastrous attempt at gurgling, the act teasing out another string of coughs instead of clearing up the problem, and ending up with more water dribbling down his face.

Father had not appreciated that moment.

Damian skipped showering before bed in favor of drying himself off and slipping on comfortable pajamas. The shower could wait until morning, all he wanted right now was his bed, soft and dry and blessedly warm. Father’s cape had helped keep him from freezing, but he’d still returned home with teeth chattering, and shivers down to his bones. He hated the cold.

He curled up in his bed, tugging his knees close to his body, and the comforter up to his chin and sighed as the chill of the sheets gave way to toasty warmth. Damian’s door cracked open, and the patter of paws preceded Titus’s joining him by only a few seconds.

His dog puffed warm air into his face, prompting a giggle from Damian. He pulled his hands out from under the blankets to bury them in Titus’s soft fur, and give him a kiss on his head.

“Good boy. Stay and keep me warm tonight.” Damian murmured to him.

Father hummed from the doorway. Damian rolled over to look at his father, as Titus settled down on his side of the bed. When green eyes met blue, Father moved into the room, a small smile on his face.

“Already in bed?” he asked, tone teasing, “You should fall in water more often on patrol if it means we skip the bedtime argument.”

Damian rolled his eyes up at his father and yawned, “It has nothing to do with my accident, I am simply practicing good sleeping habits. As you should.”

“Brat.” Father said, reaching out to adjust the blankets Titus’s entrance had messed up, before running his hand through Damian’s hair. He swatted lightly at the hand with a small smile.

Father surprised him then, leaning down to wrap him in a hug, “I’m glad you’re alright.” he said.

Damian felt heat rush his cheeks at the display of affection, and at the realization of just how badly his fall had scared his father. He returned the hug, messing up his covers again to wrap his arms around Father’s neck. Father gave him another light squeeze before he let go.

“Goodnight, Damian.” he said, moving towards the door.

“Goodnight, Father.” Damian replied, another yawn already rising to remind him of why he was in bed already.

The next day the tickle plaguing the back of Damian’s throat was still there. To make matters worse, his head felt stuffy, his ears ached, and his nose was so backed up he was surprised he hadn’t woken the house snoring the night before.

He wrinkled his nose and sniffed, allergies. The cursed things were a gift from living in Gotham. He had not dealt with the issue while with mother. Nothing he was allergic to bloomed in the desert.

Damian took an allergy pill, followed by the shower he’d skipped the night before. He lingered too long under the hot water, letting the heat and steam work on opening his sinuses again. It worked for a few minutes before he was stuffy and miserable again.

He managed to hold back the worst of his symptoms until patrol. There he could not sip hot tea or rest his head for a few minutes while he powered through a growing headache. It only took a few hours for Damian to finally admit to himself he was sick.

Not that he would admit that to Father. Dread welled up in him at the thought of stopping them because he wasn’t feeling good. Father tended to be less upset with him when Damian announced something before they left. He did not get grounded for simply being sick. Lying about not being sick was what got him grounded.

Damian sniffed and readied his grapple to follow Father from one building to another. He managed the shot and the swing. As he arched through the air his vision swam and his stomach did it’s best impersonation of Richard when he was feeling particularly acrobatic, twisting and turning as if it were on high bars. His feet hit the concrete of the rooftop and he stumbled, crashing to his knees to throw both hands over his mouth as saliva welled up in the tell tale way it did prior to throwing up.

He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the way his knees ached from his knee pads not quite absorbing the shock of hitting concrete, and tried to focus on keeping himself from throwing up. He breathed in and out through his nose, wishing Gotham’s air was even colder than it’s almost freezing temperature.

He was hot. His face was sweaty, the liquid trying it’s best to slip past his domino and find his eyes to join the beads of sweat already building under it. He wanted to tear the mask from his face so he could breathe. Instead he curled forward, pressing ribs into stomach in an attempt to stop the welling need to throw up.

“Robin?” the word was spoken a moment before a hand brushed his hair back, a second cupping his cheek to tilt his face upwards.

Father wore his worried jaw again, and every heartbeat that passed between them made Damian think the angry one was soon to follow. Damian dropped his hands from his face, choosing to wrap his arms around his middle.

“I don’t feel good.” he whispered, worried anything louder would invite his stomach to release its contents.

“Can you stand?” Father’s voice was gentle.

Damian swallowed, “I believe so.”

Father helped him rise, hands on his shoulders for balance, almost pulling Damian to his feet. He swayed for a moment, before gathering his bearings. His arms wrapped back around his stomach, pressing as if he could hold everything in. His head felt too light, his throat tight and hot and sick. That stupid tickle was still there, itching away.

Damian focused on steadying himself enough so he could manage at least climbing down the building to get to the street. While he stood there, willing his body to cooperate, Father was calling the car around to their location.

He did manage the climb down on his own. A fire escape connected to the building’s side made it easier, and he was thankful for it. He wouldn’t want to be forced to lean on Father or make him carry him down. He was already interrupting patrol enough for one night.

Neither he nor Father spoke until they were in the car on the way back to the cave. Damian decided he didn’t want to leave Father to his own imaginings about why he hadn’t spoken up earlier. It was better to get the explanations and groundings out of the way now.

“I’m sorry.” Damian started, pulling his legs up in the chair to be closer to his center. For some reason the position helped ease some of the pain in his stomach. “I did not realize I was as sick as I am.”

“Oh?” Father asked, his tone mildly curious, but mostly disappointed.

Damian glanced over to find Father staring out at the road, cowl outlining his jaw. It was tight, not quite angry, but no longer as worried as he had been. He pulled his legs a little closer to him.

“I thought it was a case of bad allergies.” Damian said, “I did everything I could to mitigate them earlier by taking an antihistamine and indulging in hot tea and honey through the day. I was feeling better by patrol.”

The last bit he’d tagged on as a lie. He hadn’t felt any better by patrol, but he also hadn’t felt any worse. Patrol was not supposed to make allergies magically turn into upset stomachs and dizzy spells.

He let his head rest on his knees, “The sickness came on quickly. If I had realized it earlier I would have told you. Both you and Richard have made the dangers of attempting to patrol while ill clear. I would not endanger Batman by going out if I believed I was at risk of collapse.”

Damian slid his eyes over for another look at Father, little had changed about his appearance, aside from a slight relaxing of his hands on the wheel. Damian looked back away and actually buried his head in his knees. This was twice now he’d inconvenience patrol. Two times in one week was bad.

Even as patient as Father had become, Damian still knew he was stretching things with him. He had ruined, or at least interrupted, patrol two days in a row. For foolish, avoidable, things. He could have prevented himself falling in the water if he’d been faster with his grapple line. If he had prevented that, it was probable he would not be ill today. Even so, he should have marked the correlation between his waking up feeling bad and being soaked the previous evening.

Father returned Damian to the cave, staying only long enough to inform Pennyworth of Damian’s illness before he left again to finish patrolling. Damian gave Pennyworth a report of his symptoms, and their development, falling into a coughing fit (brought on by that inane tickle) halfway through.

He took the medicine handed to him and went straight to bed. Not moving helped his stomach feel a little better, so Damian tried his best not to shift or shuffle in bed as he tried to fall asleep. His body ached and he was still too hot, made worse now by the blankets. He kicked them off and felt his stomach kick back.

He groaned and curled in on himself, hoping the technique would work again to still his rebellious stomach. He tried squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to fall asleep. When that didn’t work he attempted to watch videos of cats on his phone until the bright light sparked a headache.

At last he dozed, only to wake up freezing, his body feeling like he’d been shaken down to his bones. Damian pulled every blanket he had back over himself, wrapping them tightly as if he were cocooned in them. Still, he could not get warm. He looked around the room, his vision bleary and surroundings dim, searching for Titus to call up to lay with him.

His dog seemed to have found somewhere else to wander off to, perhaps down in the cave with Pennyworth. Or curled up in a different room. The point was, he was not around to help.

The tickle at the back of his throat was still there, teasing out coughs now. Damian coughed, and coughed, and coughed until it felt like his lungs were trying to claw their way up his throat. All the movement sent his stomach rolling again, and Damian tumbled out of the bed in a panic to get to his bathroom.

He flung himself down on the tile and leaned over the toilet. It took a moment, as if his stomach was suddenly hit with indecision on if it wanted to go through with this whole ‘throwing up’ business. Then coughs racked his chest again, their force enough to make him heave. He couldn’t stop. He’d catch his breath only for his stomach to lurch again and again.

Finally, when he had nothing left to give, Damian sat back and leaned against the bathtub. He was freezing still, shaking but unwilling to move beyond where he sat. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, pressing his face down, so his forehead was squished against his knees.

He felt gross, sweaty and cold, his skin itched begging to be scrubbed clean. His stomach was hollow and sharp. His throat was thick and scratchy from coughing and throwing up. He could still taste the sour tang of bile when he swallowed, and feel the slight burn of stomach acid dredged up in his body’s attempt to expel anything and everything bad.

Damian let out a shaky breath, his chest rattling against his legs. He felt bad. Sick and gross and all alone. He wanted Father. Or Grayson. Or someone. He sucked in air and leaned his head back, blinking at the darkened doorway to his room, wishing Father would appear.

He didn’t want to go find him. He should be back from patrol by now, but Damian had bothered him enough already. He had inconvenienced him time and again, and by the end of the night father had not even been speaking to him. Damian pressed his lips together and held back a whine.

His eyes watered and he told himself it was just the stress of being sick, not the twisted familiar worry that he’d messed things up again. That he might have pushed Father too far. That he’d been lying to himself this whole time and maybe Father was little different than Mother, and his performance over the past few days had been enough to ruin things for him.

First, he had needed to be rescued. Then he’d ruined patrol by being sick. Now he was even worse off, and contemplating ruining Father’s rest. Even if he was just sick and his mind was lying to him, he’d still been too much trouble. He had to deal with this.

Damian pulled himself up and turned the shower on. He tugged his clothes off and jumped in as fast as he could, letting the hot water warm his chilled skin. Standing left him dizzy, so he sat down, curling under the spray of steaming water, and letting it beat the back of his neck and spine.

He stayed in long after the water had gone cold, the chill pulling sudden heat from his skin. He managed, at last, to drag himself up and back out. He dried quickly and dressed in fresh pajamas that didn’t smell of sick. He still felt terrible, even the shower hadn’t seemed to alleviate his symptoms this time.

He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to get back in his bed. He still wanted his father. He didn’t want to be alone. He hated the feeling, but-- He moved to his door instead of his bed, reaching for the handle. It turned under his palm and pulled back, opening to reveal Bruce.

“Damian?” he frowned, “You should be resting.”

Damian’s chest caught, “I--I am not feeling too great.”

Bruce stepped closer to him, the back of his hand brushing Damian’s forehead, “You’re burning up. Why is your hair wet?”

Damian looked down, “I threw up.” he explained, “I had hoped the shower would help me feel better.”

“And?” Father asked.

Damian shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed against hot welling tears. He sniffed, sucking them back.

“Symptoms?”

Damian detailed them out as best as he could, listing them mechanically. This was a problem and Father was here to help sort it out. He would know what to do, he just needed the right information.

Father knelt before him, and brushed his thumbs under Damian’s chin, against his neck, searching for something. Damian had the vague memory of Richard doing the same when he’d caught a case of strep throat, perhaps Father was checking for that?

“Alfred said he sent you up here with some medicine, did that help at all?”

Damian shook his head again.

Father’s frown deepened. “Where were you going?”

This had been something Damian was dreading being asked. With Father standing here all the doubt and worry Damian had been fighting came rushing back. He wanted to back out and hide in his bed, and force himself better.

“I was thirsty.” he lied. He didn’t want to trouble his father any more, and this seemed the easiest way to do that.

Father nodded, and stood. “Alright, think you can make it down to the kitchen okay?”

Damian swallowed, “Yes.”

He pushed past Father and hurried down the hall, hoping he would not be followed. He found that he did want something to drink now that he’d admitted to it. He made a cup of his favorite blend of tea for feeling sick, chamomile, lemongrass, and spearmint.

The cup was carefully held between his palms when he returned to his room and discovered Father still there. He was just tugging Damian’s comforter back into place, with a pile of discarded sheets on the floor beside him. He looked up and smiled seeing Damian.

“Father?”

“I always liked having fresh clean sheets after I got sick.” Father said, “I figured you’d like them too.”

Damian nodded, “Thank you.” he said, throat thick.

Father held his tea for him while he crawled back in bed, the fresh smell of fabric softener sharp and delightful even to his stuffed nose. Father then tugged his blankets up and over him, even as Damian rested against his headboard sipping on the warm tea. The mint actually felt like it was helping his stomach a little, and the warmth was helping ease him back into feeling sleepy.

“Feeling any better?” Father asked, sitting down on the edge of Damian’s bed.

“A little.” Damian said, into his mug.

Father hummed, and lifted his phone, the screen brightening. Damian swallowed, Father was already bored with his presence. He wasn’t sure how to react.

“I left our copy of The Jungle Book in my room, but I’ve got an eBook version. Give me a second and I’ll find the chapter we were on.”

Damian couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips. He liked reading with Father. Sometimes they read quietly together, working their way through the same book in silence. Others they read aloud to each other. Damian loved the way Father’s voice was always warm and rumbly when he read, like he was telling a story he was fond of, or speaking with an old friend.

He nodded, and sipped at his tea again. Father found the chapter and started reading, his voice soft in the night. It didn’t take long for Damian’s eyes to get heavy and hard to open. The mug in his hand started to slip. He felt it pulled from them, his head tucked into his chest.

Father helped him ease off the headboard and snuggle down into the sheets proper. The blankets were tucked close around him, and Father’s lips were whisper soft against his head, “Rest up, son.”

Chapter Text

Damian was little better the next day, even with flu medicine and copious amounts of tea. Pennyworth confined him to his room for most of the day, which wasn’t much of a problem since Damian didn’t want to move.

He wasn’t hungry either. He refused breakfast and frowned at every suggestion from Pennyworth for lunch. At last he accepted two slices of toast, covered in strawberry jam, but only after Pennyworth threatened to blend everything he needed nutrient wise and make Damian suck down a smoothie.

He threw up almost immediately after the first slice.

Pennyworth frowned at that development. They tried broth next, and Damian managed to keep that down for an hour before his stomach rebelled again, rejecting even that little bit of food.

It was decided that Father needed to be called. When Pennyworth stepped out of his room to call him Damian's stomach twisted, not in preparation for throwing up, but in terror. The moment he was alone, it felt like the whole room started to close in on him. He was suffocating in blankets, and threw them off his too hot body. His breath kept catching in his chest, and Damian didn't know why. He should not be afraid, or anxious, or anything but perhaps bored. Not knowing why he was afraid seemed to make it worse, he shuddered, the feeling jerking through his back and down to his legs, tugging them close to himself in a curl.

It felt like an eternity before Pennyworth returned. While he waited Damian squeezed his eyes closed, trying to focus on his breathing. He didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want to be left on his own. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. He couldn't...couldn't... he just couldn't.

“Master Damian?”

Damian’s eyes flew open, catching on Pennyworth. He let out a sob.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m--” Damian said, “I don’t want to be alone.”

Pennyworth nodded, “I will stay with you until you fall asleep. Your father is on his way home.”

Damian felt too terrible to be upset that he’d once again messed up Father’s plans. Hearing that he’d be home soon filled Damian’s chest with a lightness he couldn’t explain. Pennyworth was wonderful, but all he wanted was his father close by.

He dozed at last, with Pennyworth quietly reading to himself nearby.

When Damian woke up he was alone again. True to Pennyworth’s promise he’d left only after Damian had fallen asleep. Some part of Damian’s mind had hoped he’d feel better this time waking up. He didn’t, and he still felt that terrible ache for someone close by.

It was worse than an ache. It kept building and Damian knew it would peak at terror. Like if he was alone he would be alone forever. Like his family had decided he wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t good enough. Had been too much trouble already.

He curled in on himself, hot tears burned against the back of his eyelids. His already stopped nose felt even more stuffed, so he had to suck in air through his mouth. His throat was tight, and he knew he wasn’t breathing right. His breaths were too fast, too shallow, but he couldn’t stop. He was terrified. Sick and scared.

There was a light knock at his door a second before footsteps hurried over to him, and hands found his, pulling them away from where he’d covered his eyes. He blinked at his Father’s face, with open worry written all over it.

"What's the matter? What happened, son?"

Damian sobbed, and his chest caught again. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t get anything in. 

"I. I. I." his chest jerked with each attempt at a sentence.

Father pulled him forward, sitting on the bed in the same instant as he pulled Damian into his lap. One hand rubbed his back, the other ran through his hair.

“It’s okay. Breathe for me, Damian.” Father murmured, “Come on, deep breaths.”

Damian curled close to him, hands gripping Father’s shirt tightly. He tried to breathe right. He really did. It wasn’t until Father started breathing deeply himself that Damian managed his first full breath, an attempt to copy his father’s. In, then out, and in, and out again, he matched the steady, even rise and fall of Father’s chest pressed tight to his own.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Father’s voice was gentle, but Damian couldn’t answer.

It took him longer than he’d care to admit to pull himself together, calming his racing heart, and finding his voice again. He finally shifted, not willing to move from his Father’s embrace, but moving enough to see his face.

“I am okay now. I-- I didn’t want to be alone.”

Father was frowning at him, and Damian had the sudden feeling he’d said the wrong thing. Was it too much to ask that he not be alone?

“I think this is a little more than not wanting to be alone.” Father said, “And I doubt it’s the flu.”

“I’m sorry.” Damian mumbled, “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Father pressed his face into Damian’s hair, “I know, we’re going to figure it out.”

He moved to stand, shifting as if he were going to move Damian from his lap and Damian panicked, grabbing tighter at Father’s shirt and pulling.

“Don’t.” his voice cracked, “Don’t leave me.”

Father’s arms tightened around him, “I don’t plan on it.”

Damian wrapped his arms around Father’s neck as he stood and carried him out of the room. He knew that it wasn’t ideal to cling to someone when sick, but he couldn’t even think about letting go without panic starting to dig its way into his chest again. Besides, Father didn’t seem to think it was the flu, so perhaps he was not contagious at all. He buried his face in Father’s neck and tried his best not to allow himself to get sick while being carried.

He managed it as they traveled all the way down to the cave. He focused on his breathing, making sure each breath was even and measured. He worked to keep himself focused on anything but throwing up.

When the familiar smell of the cave hit him, Damian’s stomach turned over. He tugged on his father’s sleeve. Father caught his meaning and set him down by a trash bin. At this point, Damian was mostly dry heaving when he threw up, losing the little bit of liquid he’d taken in before retching for an unbearably long time.

At least this time, Father’s hand was on his back, rubbing slow circles in it until he stopped. They made a quick stop by a sink so Father could wipe Damian’s face before he was settled onto a gurney.

“Let’s see.” Father said, motioning for Damian to hold his arm out.

He took a blood sample and turned to start it running. Damian’s breath hitched as Father stepped away. He kept his eyes locked on his Father until he turned back around. One look had Father striding back towards him, lifting him again into his arms. Damian hated the fact that he was so desperate for touch. It was not typical for him to react this way when he was sick.

He didn’t mind being held close sometimes, but then it was more because he wanted comfort in the moment. This time? It felt as if he was going to die if he was away from someone. Worse, his mind didn’t hesitate to conjure a hundred reasons why he’d been left, and of what he’d done wrong. It was maddening.

Father carried him to the computer and settled in the chair with Damian snug in his lap. He called Pennyworth and requested tea be sent down for them, then he pulled up the previous evening’s files to work on while they waited on the results of the test to populate.

Damian was warm against Father. He still felt miserable, but less so now that he was close to him. He curled closer to his chest, steering his attention away from the screen. It was too bright, but he liked the sound of the keys under Father’s fingers, clicking together in a focused chaos. Damian closed his eyes and listened until Pennyworth arrived downstairs with the tea.

“Thank you.” Damian said, taking his cup.

“Of course.” Pennyworth smiled gently at him.

The tea was minty, lightly steeped and pleasantly soft on his stomach. Drinking it didn’t feel like it was going to make him throw up. All the same, he drank slowly, and in small sips to prevent irritating his stomach again. It felt like heaven on his throat, raw from all the abuse it had taken so far.

It was hard to believe all this had come from a cold or allergies. His fall into the water had to be the source of all this misery. Damian did not simply get sick out of the blue. People rarely did, there was usually a cause, external or internal.

“Father?” Damian asked, voice raspy, an idea taking shape in his mind.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think there was something wrong with the water I fell in?”

He felt his father’s sharp inhale before he heard the woosh of breath, “Perhaps. It was a treatment plant, it’s possible the water hadn’t finished going through a cycle or--”

“It was poisoned.” Damian finished.

Father nodded, “I’m going to reset the parameters on the test. Then I’m calling Dick.”

Damian frowned at this statement, foreboding building in his chest, “Did you send him to look after we left?”

“No, I want to take a second look, but I don’t want to leave you alone again.”

“Pennyworth can assist me.” Damian said.

“He can, but I’m not going to ask him to carry you around until we get this sorted.”

Damian felt his face heat up. He looked away from his father, “I do not need constant supervision.”

Father’s arm around his middle loosened to find one of Damian’s hands, he linked fingers with him, “It’s not supervision, it’s for your health.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, knowing full well what his father meant. He just wanted to hear it. To know he was not going crazy and that the fear that ate away at his mind when he was alone was due to something more than his own inadequacies.

“If I left you here, on your own, for even ten minutes do you think I’d come back to you as calm as you are now?”

Damian stiffened at the suggestion of being left on his own. Father nodded.

“See what I mean? I believe it’s a side effect of whatever’s in your system.” He pressed a kiss into Damian’s hair, “Not that I mind holding you while you’re feeling bad.”

At Father's words a blush creeped it’s way back into Damian’s cheeks, less from embarrassment this time, “I would not mind spending time with Grayson if it allowed you to ensure no one else ends up in my state.”

Damian stayed snuggled with his father while the test was changed, and Grayson was contacted. He could hear his brother’s varied tones coming from the phone loud enough to drift down to him. There was delight, worry, and even laughter. Damian was not laughing at his situation, but he could see how the ‘snuggle side effect’ would make his brother laugh.

It took a few hours for Grayson to arrive, though neither father or Damian had a problem waiting. It was too early to go out as Batman, and Damian did not mind the extra time with his father, even if he was still getting sick more often than he wished to, and his whole body felt like he’d been pummeled with stones.

Grayson’s arrival coincided with that of the computer beeping to inform them that Damian’s guess had been right. The treated water had been poisoned with a substance designed to mimic the flu, but grow steadily worse. A person’s body would keep fighting a sickness that wasn’t there, while the poison dug in deep.

It chilled Damian to his core.

Grayson pulled him into his arms while Father started a program designed to create an antitoxin. It would work faster if they had a sample of the water, so Father left moments after he made Grayson promise to keep Damian close by and call if he worsened.

Damian was afraid it was going to get worse before the antidote was made. It kept jumping. First the allergies, then the cold, and flu, and the inability to hold down solid foods. He clung to Grayson’s shirt and tried to breathe evenly.

“What’s wrong?” Grayson asked.

Damian shook his head, he was not going to admit he was afraid. They were handling the situation. He was going to be fine. He did not need to bother Grayson any further than he already was.

“I’m fine, the shift simply shook things a little.”

“Sorry.” Grayson said, “B says you’re throwing up at the littlest thing, I’ll be gentle as we head upstairs. What do you think about watching some animal documentaries?”

Damian nodded into Grayson’s chest, and squeezed his eyes shut. He should be happy his brother was here. That he was doing what he could to help comfort him, but he could not stop imagining what was going to happen next. It was bad enough that he could not keep solid liquids down, and everything hurt all the time. What if recovering from whatever came next was not as easy as recovering from a bad bout of the flu?

“Dames?” Grayson’s voice sounded scared, and Damian realized they’d moved further than he’d thought. Grayson must have been saying something else and Damian had completely missed it.

“Sorry.” he whispered.

Grayson settled onto the couch, shifting Damian to being cradled in his lap. He leaned back against the couch and ran a hand through Damian’s hair. The motion was soothing, Damian loved the gentle pressure of fingers pulling out tangles from his head, and the repetition of it.

“It’s going to be okay, you know that right?” Grayson said, voice gentle, “We know what this is and we’re working on an antidote. You are going to be fine.”

Damian shifted to press his face to Grayson’s chest, “Yeah.” he said, “I know.”

He curled closer, to Grayson, “I feel bad.” he whined, “I feel terrible and sick, and I hate it.”

“Aww, kiddo.” he felt a soft kiss planted in his hair, “I know.”

“It sucks.” Damian complained, “I want to feel good again.”

Grayson’s hand started running through his hair again, “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

He would not have complained like this to Father, but this was Grayson. He of all people understood the need to be dramatic about feeling ill. Damian had seen his brother flop like a child against their father multiple times and whine for all the world to hear over something as simple as a headache. Damian felt that, in this instance, he could act the same and be safe from judgement. Not that Father would judge him, it was simply different with Grayson.

Damian could be childish with Grayson because, because, well because Grayson was Grayson. There was no need to prove himself to the man any more. There never had been a need to do it, Damian had learned that over their year of partnership. His brother would love him no matter how he reacted to this situation. Even if he allowed himself to wallow in feeling terrible.

The soothing motion of Grayson’s petting his hair was something easy for Damian to focus on. Even with a documentary playing in the background, Damian latched onto the simple motion. Focusing on it meant he thought less about his stomach or the aches in his body. It meant he’d turned his attention away from the way his throat felt raw and the throbbing of his head.

He didn’t feel better, but at least he didn’t feel like everything else was going to overwhelm him.

Somehow his attention slipped to the television and the birds flying across the screen. Now that he was distracted, it was easy to let himself be further distracted, until he’d been laying against Grayson so long his body finally gave back into the temptation for sleep. Damian allowed it, since he was warm, and he knew Grayson would take care of him if some new symptom presented itself while he slept.

When he woke again the warm chest he’d been laying against was gone, replaced with a plush pillow, and a blanket had been draped over him, tucked around so that he was wrapped snugly in it.

Damian yelled, throwing the blanket off, and sent the pillow flying. His heart was racing, he was alone. Alone. He couldn't breathe. His already congested body started restricting his air more as his throat started to close up, his lungs unable to hold more than a burst of air with each breath. He couldn’t stop the hitched, shallow, too fast breaths from wheezing in and out at a rate so rapid Damian knew he’d knock himself out again if he didn’t get it under control. But what could he do? He was alone. He was all alone and by himself and he had finally done it. Finally pushed everyone away, and been left to let the poison take his system.

“Damian?” Grayson’s voice preceded his body by a second.

Damian heard ceramic scratch against glass and liquid slosh. Hands scooped him up from where he’d curled, dragging the blanket across himself even tighter. He found himself pulled into a chest, and Grayson’s warm familiar scent washed over him.

“Look at me, please.”

He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed to see worried blue eyes locked on his own.

Grayson gave him a gentle smile, “There you go, now I’m going to need you to breathe for me, okay?”

Damian nodded. The panic was fading already, his buzzing brain slowing down now that he wasn’t alone. It was easier and easier for him to take in full breaths. His chest ached still, and his head was light but he could breathe.

He sobbed and let go of the blanket to grip Grayson’s shirt and bury his face in it. Hitched tears replaced panic, and with them the feeling of being unable to get a full breath returned.

“I hate this.” Damian hiccuped, “I h-hate it.”

Grayson started rubbing circles into his back and Damian started crying harder. He sucked in air only to release it the next second in a wail of frustration. One caught in his throat, reminding him of the tickle that started this whole affair, and he coughed. One turned to another and another chaining together to further steal his breath.

His head was light, and the coughs got so bad they pulled at his stomach again. It was like one of the only fits he’d had as a child, where he’d cried so hard he’d made himself sick. He shoved his way out of Grayson’s arms, and tumbled to the ground, blanket tangled around himself, so he could bend over the trash bin they’d brought in just in case he needed to throw up again.

He heaved, nothing coming up, but the action a necessity all the same.

“Damian.” his name was a breath from Grayson as the man moved quickly to settle by his side.

Damian stayed hovered over the bin for a few seconds until he was sure he wasn’t going to throw up again, before settling back on his heels. He wrapped his arms around his middle and released a long slow breath.

“I’m sorry.” he said. “I should have been able to handle you being gone for a few moments.”

“No, I’m sorry. Bruce warned me you were reacting badly to being alone, I shouldn’t have left for a moment, even while you were asleep.”

Damian looked up and found the earlier source of sloshing and noise, two mugs rested on the coffee table, tea and coffee pooling together around them. He winced.

“It’s stupid.” Damian muttered, and let himself lean over and into Grayson’s side, “I know rationally that no one is leaving me, and yet my body is reacting without my consent.”

Grayson tugged him closer, and leaned over to press a kiss into his hair, “I’m so sorry.”

He helped Damian back up, settling them both on the couch again together. The mugs were a little drippy but after a wipe from Grayson’s sleeve both seemed usable. Damian wrinkled his nose at his brother.

“Pennyworth would not approve.”

“I think in this instance he would. It was that or carry you to the kitchen for a rag.”

Damian blew on his tea as an answer.

The trembling started somewhere between the Caves and Deserts episodes of Planet Earth. It was around then that Grayson seemed to keep shifting the blanket off his body, and Damian found himself wrapping tighter and tighter in it.

He couldn’t stop shaking. Every few seconds some part of his body would jerk uncomfortably, his hand or foot, sometimes his shoulder. And he ached. Not in his bones (though yes there too) but his skin. It was tender and felt funny. Like he’d been immersed in a chemical bath too long.

His feet were the worst. His socks scratched and itched until Damian reached down and tore them both off, balling them up in the corner of the couch. He curled his toes into the soft lining of the blanket and finally felt like he could focus on something else.

Of course, that’s when his mind turned to the fact that the blanket wasn’t tight enough, there wasn’t enough pressure on his arms. He tugged it closer, pulling it the rest of the way off Grayson.

This caught his brother’s attention, and immediately the man frowned.

“You’re not looking so good.” He leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to Damian’s forehead, “Crap, Dames, you’re burning up.”

Damian flinched away from the hand, it was too cool, and pulled the blanket tighter. The corner he held in one of his fists was shaking with his body. He wanted to curl up and hide from the whole world, and most of all, himself.

“I’m calling Bruce.”

“No.” Damian said, “He’s got to look into the plant.”

“I promised I’d let him know you got any worse, this is you getting worse.”

Grayson pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Father. He hit the speakerphone button and dropped it onto the table, reaching for Damian’s face, “Let me see your eyes.”

His hands were still too cold, and Damian squirmed as Grayson tilted his head this way and that after he determined Damian’s eyes weren’t bloodshot. Damian’s grip on the blanket turned his knuckles white as he resisted pushing Grayson’s hands away.

Grayson picked up on this and opened his mouth to say something when the ringing picked up and Father’s voice said, “Yes?”

“B.” Grayson’s attention turned to the phone, “Damian’s developed some new symptoms, he’s got a high fever, not sure how high yet, he’s trembling, and he’s sensitive to touch.”

“Just some places.” Damian said, “My skin feels weird.”

“Explain.” Father said.

“My feet were scratchy in socks, but my arms feel like they wish to be squeezed until flat.”

Grayson tugged Damian close, wrapping his own arm tight around Damian’s. Damian leaned into the embrace and swallowed back the emotion welling up at his brother’s immediate move to help him feel better.

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone, then, “I’m heading back. I’ve gathered a sample of the water and I’ll alert the police to the contamination, the building is still shut down, so it's likely they'd come to the same conclusion in a few days. Take Damian downstairs and check on the antidote, then wait for me.”

Damian tuned out the rest of Grayson and Father’s conversation, leaning into his brother’s embrace, trying his best to make the buzzing hurt across his skin stop. He just. Ached. Everything was compounding on itself and no amount of sleep had helped.

He was near tears again. He sucked them back, knowing last time he’d cried it had turned into a mess. Instead he burrowed his head into Grayson’s chest and tugged at the blanket again. He almost wanted to hold something large and comforting in his arms, like Titus or Alfred. Though, his cat would squirm away, and Titus might be too large to really be comforting.

Grayson gathered him into his arms and Damian let him. He didn’t want to move, let alone walk on his own. He laid his head against Grayson’s shoulder and closed his eyes as they moved. Grayson’s gait was usually very smooth. He always seemed to walk with grace. Damian had a feeling he was still doing it, and it was the fact that Damian was moving at all that was bothering him.

When they got downstairs it was apparent that the antidote wasn’t finished yet. Grayson promised it was close and that when Father returned it’d be made even faster. Damian tried not to complain.

He didn’t have a lot of attention for it anyway. He curled up on the cot Grayson settled him on and squeezed his eyes closed. After a moment, he felt the cot shift as Grayson joined him, laying down next him to curl tightly around him.

“Is this okay?”

Damian nodded, not opening his eyes. He wanted to cry, instead he curled closer to his brother.

Grayson rubbed his back gently. After a moment his voice picked up a song.

“If I lay here.” he stared, “If I just lay here. Would you lie with me, and just forget the world?”

“You started in the middle.” Damian said.

Grayson settled his chin on Damian’s head, “Oh yeah? Start it for me then.”

Damian knew what he was doing. He was distracting him. Or he was trying to. His voice was wrecked, and he had little desire to to attempt to sing. He shook his head, rubbing Grayson’s chin in the process.

“Fine.” his brother sighed, “We’ll do it all…” he started again, his voice gentle.

It was easy to let Grayson’s voice wash over him. It was less easy to let it distract him from the way the ache in his head felt like it was trying to dig its way out of his eyes, or the fact that his toes did not at all like the texture of the cot’s sheets.

He continued singing until the sound of the Batmobile rumbled and roared into the room. The gentle peace was shattered as chaos took over the room. It rattled Damian, making him wish he’d fallen asleep again so he could miss the noise and movement. It built and built becoming almost too much for him to bear, and Damian pressed his hands to his ears.

Eventually, someone lifted him from where he was curled. He leaned immediately into whoever had him now and let his arm be pricked then rubbed. Grayson’s voice was warm against his ear, soothing.

“It’s alright, kiddo. You’re gonna start feeling better soon.” Grayson paused long enough to press a kiss to his temple, “I promise.”

Damian nodded and yawned. He blinked his eyes open to find Father beside them. He gave him a small smile. Father reached out and brushed his hair back matching his smile.

“I think it’s time for bed.” Father said, his attention shifting to Grayson, “Why don’t we head upstairs?”

Movement this time wasn’t as bad. Damian had a feeling Father had included some kind of sleeping medication in the antidote to help him rest. He didn’t mind. He’d slept so much he was afraid he’d be up all night fighting off the aches. As it was his eyes were growing heavy.

He blinked and he was settled in bed. He blinked again and Grayson was snuggling next to him. Father leaned over and gave both of them light kisses.

“Sleep well, boys.” Father said.

“Thanks.” Damian murmured.

“Always.” Father and Grayson said at the same time.

Damian smiled as his family chuckled around him, and let their quiet conversation fade into obscurity as he fell back asleep, warm and happy, and finally starting to feel better.