Chapter Text
Wake up, get dressed, eat, take care of animals, patrol, sleep.
Wake up, get dressed, eat, vomit everything, take care of animals, patrol, sleep.
Wake up, get dressed, skip breakfast, take care of animals, patrol, cry, lose sleep.
Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
Damian wasn’t sure if he was even emotive anymore.
The days blended into each other. He went through the motions blindly like a machine, keeping social interactions to a minimum. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken with his father or anyone else in the family. Not since Ric.
Not since Alfred.
He humiliated himself in front of his team and left. His best friend was thousands of years into the future. His father was avoiding him (they were avoiding each other) and his remaining siblings never came by, except for Tim who occasionally visited to check up on him and Bruce. They were all still shaken by the loss of their caretaker. The man who was like a grandfather to them.
It was all his fault.
Every insult and disdain Damian had endured all these years were true. He was the grandson of a Demon. He had blood on his hands. The bringer of death and misfortune, even to those he loved.
(Why was he still here?)
Damian knew from the start that no matter how much he tried, he was never truly going to be an ideal son in Bruce’s eyes. He was bitter, snarky, rude, unpleasant. He was nothing like the sons that were chosen by Father. He was doomed to be an utter disappointment since the day Talia removed him from that accursed test tube.
Rejected by both the League and the superhero community.
(It hurt. It hurt so much.)
(Make it stop.)
The only person who truly, unconditionally cared for him was Richard. But his dad older brother was gone, despised everything and everyone related to Batman and crimefighting life.
It was fine. He was living happily as Ric Grayson and away from the shadow of the Bat that Dick Grayson had tried so hard to run away from.
Damian was fine with it.
(He wasn’t. There was no one else who loved him more than Richard.)
Damian couldn’t remember when it started. One day, he just—stopped his mindless routine. He couldn’t even walk around the manor and not want to burst into tears at the reminiscences of someone who was supposed to be there. The guilt was too overwhelming. It ate away at his sanity day by day, and it came to the point where Damian would have bouts of anxiety attacks alone in the too empty, too big foyer.
No one was here to tell him that everything was going to be okay. No one to hold him, run their fingers through his hair comfortingly or place a gentle kiss on his forehead and whisper sweet nothings to reassure him that he was loved, needed, wanted.
(Richard wasn’t here. Father wasn’t here. No one was going to save him.)
The voices were loud and harrowing. They belonged to every single person he’d wronged or hurt. Killed. They made Damian stumble to the ground in the middle of his room and curl into a tight ball. Shouts and screams of how worthless he was, how undeserving he was of both the Wayne and the Al Ghul name and how he was a monster that destroyed everything he touched. The walls were closing in and Damian could only choke on a strangled sob as his breaths became quick and shallow. He felt like he was once again trapped in the same Hell he’d been sentenced to when he'd died at ten years old.
(I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, please. Leave me alone.)
He just wanted them to stop.
(A monster did not deserve to live.)
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Damian heard his door flying open and rushing footsteps. He saw the blurry silhouette of the person crouching next to him, calling out to him with words muffled by the haunting voices. He tried to focus on whoever it was that was trying to pull him back from his panic attack, but the last thing he could feel was a pair of warm hands on his shoulders before blacking out.
Damian couldn’t stay there anymore.
It was simple. Nobody cared where he was or what he was doing anymore, so it hadn’t been a trouble to just left the manor in an inconspicuous black hoodie and jeans. He had the hood pulled over his head so no one would recognize him. The young teen wandered aimlessly on the streets without food nor drink. He couldn’t stomach anything without throwing it up moments later. Damian’s eyes had lost their shine and there were dark circles under them. He didn’t even look where he was going, he just wanted to walk until his legs finally give out. And maybe then he wouldn’t even get up and just let himself rot away in a dark alley like the true bastard child he was.
Damian ended up on top of Wayne Tower.
He didn’t know how he got there. Didn’t even remember making his way up to the roof. He chalked it up to subconsciousness, because of how much he’d always wanted to be worthy of his Father’s name.
Damian stepped closer to the edge and stared down at the bustling streets of Gotham emotionlessly. The wind was howling.
(It would be so easy to just take another step and put an end to his pain.)
Would anyone miss him? (Would Richard?)
Would Father still mourn him like he did once?
Would they try to bring him back?
(He didn’t want them to.)
Damian had been trained by the League to become a weapon. He was a blood-stained sword that had chipped away because of his incompetence. And when a weapon became useless, it was decommissioned.
And besides, there wasn’t much he had left to live for.
Damian took the step—
—only to be pulled back against a warm, strong chest. Arms coming up around him in a tight, desperate embrace. Arms covered in black spandex and a feathery red cape flowing with the wind.
Red Robin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Drake was furious.
It wasn’t a tone Damian was unfamiliar with, especially when it was directed at him.
But it was the first time he’d heard the fear and desperation for him in Tim’s voice.
“…Why did you stop me?” Damian spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“Why did—Damian.”
Tim spun him around, kept his hands firmly on his shoulders. Damian registered the familiar feeling. He kept his gaze down as Tim’s wide-eyed stare bore into his head.
“Do you know how terrified I was when I couldn’t find you in the manor? When Bruce didn’t even know where you’ve gone to?” The older was a mixture of frantic, worry and anger. “How long has this been going on, Damian? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You never seemed to care before,” Damian replied monotonously, locking eyes with him.
Tim winced, something akin to regret and pain flashed across his face. He dragged Damian into a hug again, this time gingerly cradling the back of his head with one hand as he buried his face into Damian’s hair.
“I can’t lose anyone else, especially not you,” Tim choked. “I can’t—I won’t.”
Damian didn’t understand why he was getting so emotional over him. The younger had been so sure that this was all Tim had wanted, to get rid of the demon brat he hated so much. But every word, every gesture implied that Tim hadn’t hated him for a long time.
He let himself lean into the warm protectiveness of that strong chest.
Drake was hoarding him.
The man had taken him back to his apartment and made Damian his responsibility. He didn’t allow the boy one step into the outdoors, not even out of the bedroom out of fear that he would relapse. He brought him breakfast to bed every morning, staying close to make sure Damian at least get a few bites of food into his system despite the latter’s unresponsiveness.
“Baby bat, please, you need to eat,” Tim pleaded. “Just, at least try. For me. Please.”
Damian heart clenched at the plea. He was being, yet again, a burden to someone. Why was Drake even trying so hard?
(No one can fix him.)
Tim obsessively monitored Damian through trackers and cameras installed in his Nest whenever he left for work at WE. He always fussed over the boy and made him swear that he’d call him immediately if he had an anxiety attack or felt self-destructive. One day Tim watched as Damian fell into a catatonic state and immediately rushed back from the office to hold the crying boy close while whispering sweet nothings to him until Damian passed out from emotional exhaustion.
Tim worked from home after that. He still didn’t let him out of his sight or anywhere within ten feet of the apartment door.
At least this way he could watch Damian better and made sure nothing could take him away from Tim.
Not even death.
At some point, Tim and Damian had resorted to sharing the same bed as the younger couldn’t sleep alone anymore without falling into hysterics because of the voices and nightmares. They were cuddled close, legs tangled and cocooned safely by the blanket when Damian finally spoke.
“Why did you save me?”
Tim swallowed. He never liked thinking about the sheer panic he felt when Damian had gone missing. The fear of what if he had been a second too late. If the boy had succeeded in his attempt and how he would have lost the chance to tell Damian how he truly felt about him.
“Because I care, Damian. I care about you a lot more than you think.”
“Why? No one wants a monster.”
Damian felt the older cupped his face and lifted his head to meet his gaze. There was something so resolute in those deep blue eyes and it made his throat dry and his heart race.
“I do,” Tim whispered earnestly.
Thump. Thump thump.
“Do you mean it?” Damian asked with uncertainty. His voice was so, so small.
“With my heart. And I’ll prove it. I’ll heal you, Damian.”
And for the first time since Alfred’s death, Damian finally felt hope.