Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey, sweetheart,” Damian hears. He should reply, he’s got loads to say, but nothing escapes his mouth. His mouth is like a rock. Bound in eternal solidification. Motionless. Changed only by external forces. He’s a trapped observer, a spirit in an inanimate object, forced to record the world around him with his body. His scars had many stories to tell, and so did his limp form. Hindered by something beyond his control.

Damian can’t see anything, but he can feel things. He feels the slow thrum of his heart. He feels his aching arms, bruised face, and sore legs. He feels fingers gently wrapping around his collapsed body, careful, and cautious. His body slides off of cold leather, and joins the warm cradle of another human body. Damian’s head hangs like a ragdoll. Whoever was carrying him tries to remedy this problem, supporting his neck by guiding Damian’s head forward, settling his cheek on a broad shoulder. Damian feels the world move around him, and then he hears the nearly soundless vehicle door closing behind them.

Damian can’t open his eyes, so he relies on his ears. 

There’s not a lot of conversation happening around him. Damian can tell there are other people present in the cave, but none of them were making the effort to speak. They were most likely watching him, taking note of his appearance, inwardly mocking his weakness. Damian would not be so helpless, otherwise, and stuck in such a state. 

Damian feels himself get laid down on a stiff cot. Hands run over his body. Someone is checking over him. Damian can’t do anything about it. He can’t even manage a sound of annoyance. His vocal cords are terribly disobedient. They don’t catch onto his brain’s commands. They’re taking a vacation while Damian’s mind works overtime. Trying to figure out what was wrong with him.

The cave is painfully silent for a long, long, time. Damian’s guardian is concentrating on getting Damian’s body healed. He’d bandaged up some of his injuries, and now he was icing Damian’s bruises. Making sure they would not turn into ugly bumps in the future. Damian’s always hated how bruises can bubble over. They made him look grotesque. He supposes he should be thankful that someone is taking care of him, but Damian would rather be in control of his own faculties. It was embarrassing that he could do nothing. 

“B,” his guardian’s voice rings. Dick. Damian should have caught on earlier. “We need to find a cure for him, and we need to find it fast.”

Damian can’t hear the answer. Comprehension dawns upon him as he realizes that Dick was most likely speaking to a comm in his ear. 

Another voice sounds, this time further (in distance), and feminine. “I have Constantine on the line. He said that they’ll all wake up once the wraith is killed.”

Dick’s hand adds pressure to Damian’s bruises. It’s not a comfortable feeling, but Damian can do nothing to protest.

Damian listens to the soft, leather, clack of shoes. He narrows his hearing on the rustling of a cape. “We’ll find that wraith, Dick, and then we’ll get your boy back.”

“We better, Babs. We better.”

“You’re telling me that it’s only targeting kids?”

Damian feels fingers running through his hair. Blunt nails dig soothingly into his scalp, dragging down, hitting the good spots. His head is on a warm cushion. Strong, firm, and supportive. Damian realizes quickly that it’s not a pillow, but rather a human being. Dick was sitting on his cot. He’d rested Damian’s head in his lap. 

“Yeah. If you look at the victim list, they’re all around Damian’s age, if not younger. It’s no wonder Damian was targeted. I should’ve made him stay home from patrol. I should have kept him safe.”

“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” Jason drawls nearby. “Guilt-tripping yourself isn’t going to change anything. You can’t control everything. Also, knowing Damian, I doubt he’d stick around in the cave. He’s not exactly the listening type.”

Well, Damian thinks, that is all I am now.

“I wasn’t there when he fell, Jason,” Dick whispers. “I could only watch as he hit the ground.”

“Fortunately, it wasn’t that big of a drop, and Damian is fine.”

“He’s not fine,” Dick’s voice falls. He sounds broken. His fingers stop running through Damian’s hair, and Damian inwardly calls for him to keep going. He didn’t want Dick to stop. He likes the sensation.

“He will be,” Jason promises. “We’re all working non-stop to find that wraith. You know B is working the hardest, and you know his streak hasn’t been broken yet. He’s got luck that the rest of us don’t have when it comes to locating evil entities. Damian’s going to be back to his old self in no time, insulting people, and threatening to impale them.”

“I miss his threats,” Dick mopes. “What I’d give for a good decapitation remark.”

“I’m fine without it,” Jason says. “Might as well enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Jason,” Dick scolds. He sounds upset. It’s not the time to be joking, and Damian isn’t exactly appreciative of Jason’s comments. Regardless, his faith in Batman is admirable, despite having some internal issues with the man.

“I’m heading out,” Jason says. “I called Steph to drop by sometime today with the intention to relieve you from watch-duty. I know you’ve been itching to find this wraith thing, and I know how it feels when things get a little personal.”

“Thanks, Jay.” Dick starts running his fingers through Damian’s hair again, and oh, it feels good. Damian is glad that the sensation has returned. “You don’t need to do this for me. That’s why this isn’t lost on me. I’m going to return the favor one day. Promise. ”

Dick’s promises always came true. Jason must’ve known that, too, because his voice softens. “I’m counting on it.”

Damian rouses with a pressure encasing his hand.

He blinks blurrily. His body has trouble booting back up. His eye-lids are the first, low-energy, thing he struggles to control. Damian feels his toes twitch, next, and then he swallows. 

Damian tries to roll his head to the side. His eyes rest on a figure half-way on his bed. Dick was clinging onto Damian’s hand, pinning it to the mattress with his head, and slumped forward in a chair. Damian observes the tear tracks frozen on his face. Without much thought, he lifts his free hand, and then he struggles to reach Dick’s face.

He tries to clear his face from any watery residue. He fails horribly. His fingers aren’t really working right, and it’s an overall clumsy attempt. 

Damian watches Dick twitch. His eye-lids flutter. Suddenly, he’s not sleeping anymore, and his hand flies to snatch Damian’s in the air. 

Dick straightens himself out of his chair. He hovers over Damian with wide, blue, eyes. They both stare at each other for a few seconds. 

Damian frowns when he notices Dick’s blod-shot whites.

Dick’s breath shutters. “Hey, honey.” He lowers himself back on the chair. Relieved. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”

Damian tries to squeeze Dick’s hand. His anxiety grows the further he recognizes his body’s lack of obedience. He opens his mouth as if to comment on it, or maybe to tell Dick he should really get some sleep, but nothing comes out. There’s not a single sound. There’s no croak, no restricted voice, nor a squeak of vocal cords. Damian can’t speak.

“Damian?” Dick questions. 

Damian doesn’t know what to do. 

Chapter Text

Damian can’t wrap his fingers around a spoon.

It’s humiliating. Damian is bed-ridden, mute, with limited control over his limbs. To say that his situation is frustrating was an understatement. 

Damian can’t remember a time where he’s felt this vulnerable. This is a nightmare come true. He’d been born to fulfill a purpose, taught how to master his body at a young age, and yet here he was being spoon-fed. Damian would rather go without food completely if he had his way. Unfortunately, Alfred was insistent, and patiently tended to Damian’s diet.

Currently, Alfred was waiting for Damian to swallow, and Damian was mortified. It was taking him an unreasonable amount of time. His tongue just wasn’t working. It was hard to guide soup to the back of his mouth when his tongue felt like a block of cement. 

Damian feels himself a pathetic spectacle. Alfred was not the only one in the room with him. Damian had an audience. His long-time guardian sit on his right, Dick, watching intently. In the far-off corner, his father leans against a dresser, arms crossed against his chest.

They’d all come together to discuss Damian’s condition, and Damian wouldn’t even be able to communicate his opinion. The thought makes him feel sick. He’s never felt so utterly helpless before. No kidnapping attempt, no hostage situation, could compare to what he was going through right now. He’d thought himself helpless then. He could never have accounted for how helpless he would feel in the future. 

“I’ve been looking into the other victims,” his father voices. His form was hidden in the shadows. It made it difficult to read his features. Damian found that he didn’t really want to read his father’s features. He did not wish to see the complete disappointment in his face. He also did not wish for possible pity. He was embarrassed enough as is. He did not need people to feel sorry for him. It was degrading. It made him want to shrivel up into a single molecule, and then pop out of existence. 

“It’s been reported that they’re all going through similar symptoms. They lack complex function of their bodies. The pediatric hospital has put them on a strict schedule of physical therapy to assist in recovery.” His father pauses briefly. Then he makes mention, “I’ve been thinking of investing in a personal nurse to take care of Damian.”

Damian feels fingers wrap around his right hand. Dick runs a thumb over Damian’s knuckles. Soundless.

“They’ll be able to tend to his needs better than we can," his father finishes. 

Alfred plops Damian’s spoon in his bowl of soup. He frowns. “I do not think it wise to involve a stranger. I am perfectly capable as is. I do not often flaunt my history in medicine, but I think I am experienced enough to take up the task.”

“It’ll be a full-time job, Alfred.”

Damian feels himself flush angrily.

“It is too risky to involve others,” Alfred insists. “There will be questions that we will not be able to answer.”

“He has too many scars,” Dick whispers. He traces one on Damian’s hand. Damian might have once felt strange giving Dick this much freedom to touch him, but things had changed over the years. Damian wasn’t an angry, mistrustful, ten year old anymore. He was thirteen. Dick was, in all but name, his father. “Do you remember when we had to hospitalize Tim last year?”

Damian remembers that fiasco. Someone had broken patient confidentiality, fed rumors to the media, and then created a scandal about Tim’s possible abusive childhood. It’d been a nasty problem to deal with. Not only did it damage their father’s reputation, but it also nearly exposed Tim’s vigilante activities. Fortunately, things started dying down after Bruce found the nurse who’d been feeding the media information (they were promptly slammed behind bars), and after he exposed news outlets for harassing his family. Barbara worked overtime to delete evidence of Tim’s involvement with vigilante work, and Zatanna came in clutch to wipe away memories. It’d been a giant mess.

“You will have to take care of him for an extended amount of time,”  Bruce warns. “You will have to bathe him, change him, and help him use the restroom.”

“I am capable of those things,” Alfred drawls dryly. 

Damian feels his heart squeeze painfully. His lungs constrict tightly as he thinks about Alfred bathing him. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have minded it too much in the beginning. He’d just been a spoiled brat back then, and he’d been accustomed to having servants taking care of him. Now, however, Alfred was his family. He wasn’t just a servant. He wasn’t just a butler. He was someone that Damian knew far too well. The idea of having Alfred bathe him was not too appealing. Neither was having the old man assist him in using the bathroom. It was a horrific nightmare. Damian would rather a complete stranger be brought in. 

Damian wants to snap at something. He wants to insist that he is fine by himself. Yet, his mouth opens, and he cannot speak.

No one had seen him try to speak. They continue discussing his circumstances around him, making decisions for him, and Damian sits there. Hopeless.

Defeated.

Chapter Text

“Let’s get you out of that bed.”

Damian grits his teeth angrily as Alfred helps him sit up. There was nothing more frustrating, more infuriating, than being trapped in your own body. Damian couldn’t even show that he was upset. He had been forcefully rendered mute by a magical attack on his psyche. Now, he was living out the consequences, handled like a limp vegetable. 

Damian tries his damn hardest to pick up his own weight. He might not have great motor function, but he can still move his arms. They might be weak, they might be hopeless string noodles, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He desperately tries to cling to what control he does have.

Alfred braces an arm behind Damian’s back.

Damian feels his world fall away. It’s a nauseating feeling. 

Alfred, despite being an elderly man, has no trouble supporting Damian’s body. He removes him from the mattress, and then gently deposits him in a wheelchair. Damian tries to make himself comfortable, weakly adjusting his own legs, trying everything within his power to get his limbs to listen to his brain. Weakly, his fingers twitch in his lap, mostly unresponsive to Damian’s commands. 

Damian feels humiliated as Alfred braces his neck. His head couldn’t be held up without the cushioned brace. He imagines himself a ridiculous sight. Once, so vibrant with energy, and now limited to a wheelchair. 

He’d previously been abright with springing muscles. He’d been the master of his own body. He’d been able to perform complicated maneuvers. Hop between gaps, roll on rooftops, and wham a curled fist into noses.

Damian squeezes his eyes in emotional pain. He’s helpless now. He’s a burden. He’d been Robin, once, and now he’s unsure if he’ll ever retain the privilege again. His wings had been clipped, his legs bound, forced to rest in a nest of eternal torment. It was only a matter of time before his spirit was crushed, too, because Damian wasn’t sure if he’d be able to handle this for much longer. He was already feeling as if he’d been stripped of all human respect.

Damian thought he could not be further humiliated, but he had been when Alfred helped him use the bathroom.

The shame, the embarrassment, he’d felt had been a heated flame. It’d been an unrestricted feeling, chaotic in nature, that Damian wished never to feel again. He was filled to the brim with dread. He would have to use the bathroom again, and Alfred would be there with him. It made Damian want to disappear on the spot. Vanish, like dust in the wind, never to be seen of again.

His was a pathetic existence. His future seemed bleak. His father had implied that he’d eventually regain basic skills, but Damian could not see such a thing happening in the present. 

Damian could do nothing to express these feelings.

Alfred pushes him forward in the hallway. Damian had been transported to a room downstairs to avoid the, well, stairs. 

When they emerge into the entryway, Damian catches sight of his family standing aside, silently observing Damian’s first day out of his room since the incident. They were all there to witness his failure. To watch Alfred push him outside for a needed ray of sunshine.

Damian feels his soul crumble like paper. Tim examines him with a look of pity. Jason is stoically silent. Cass clings to his arm. Leaning against him with misty eyes.

Damian cannot think of a more degrading moment. His pride has been completely shot. He is forced to present himself to these people as he is now. It is the final stamp on the envelope. It is the wax seal. Damian cannot take back his previous actions. His state is the final product of his mistakes. 

Alfred pushes Damian’s wheelchair out the front door. They take a turn to the garden, the first of many daily walks they would have to take, and Damian can do nothing but observe his surroundings. 

Damian’s grief quickly turns into raging anger.

He feels it bubble up on their walk. It reaches its peak when it’s lunch time. Alfred tries to feed him in bed, but Damian is madingley irked. He cannot express his bubbling emotion. He can’t scream, he can’t yell, and he cannot cope by training. He is imprisoned in a useless body that denies him these things. It is vexatious. It is upsetting. It is every synonym for irritating in the dictionary. 

Damian has always had a warrior’s spirit. Being fed like a babe pops his ego in a most demeaning way. Perhaps it would be different in a one-time circumstance, but this is not a one-time circumstance.

Damian is a job.

Damian can think of stories about mighty samurai, vicious vikings, glorious heroes, and great kings. He can pick apart each character within his mind, and draw out admirable traits. He can dissect their valor, their courage, and durability. He can see why people make stories about these great men and women. They are the epitome of strength.

Their examples show Damian that he is nothing. 

He is not strong. He is not a benefit to his people. He is not worthy of praise or admiration. He is a burden upon his family. He is a weak, crippled, chess piece. It would only be a matter of time before he was replaced. Was it not rational to discard a chipped chess piece? Was it not rational to order a new one? That is how a chess set retained its beauty. This is how life works. It moves on when you break.

Damian is broken.

When Alfred holds the spoon up to his lips, Damian moves his lips away by an inch, and then flings his arm at the bowl.

The bowl clatters on the floor, spilling tomato soup over the carpet, now stained red. 

Alfred is quiet. 

Damian hopes his action communicated a message. He hopes Alfred can see. Damian wants him to get it. He wants Alfred to understand. 

Discard me. 

Alfred speaks at last. “You cannot waste food, Master Damian. It is essential for your recovery. Throwing tantrums, on the other hand, is not essential for your recovery.”

Alfred leans down to pick up the bowl. His white gloves pick up the residue of color on the rim. 

“I will bring up another bowl’s worth,” Alfred states. He picks himself up off of his chair. “I will also bring up some cleaning supplies. We cannot have your carpet retaining any permanent stain.”

Damian watches his caretaker leave the room. 

Feeling his anger deflate, feeling the numb apathy settle in, Damian realizes the pointlessness of his actions.

Damian sits alone. 

Chapter Text

Alfred wheels Damian to the end of the picnic table. 

It was a pleasant day outside. Blades of grass rippled in the breeze, except for those pinned underneath Damian’s wheels, imitating a rolling green sea. Damian could hear the distant rustle of leaves. He might have appreciated the sound if it were not muddled underneath chatter.

“This looks divine, Jason,” Stephanie says. She rubs her hands together excitedly, stopping only to wipe the drool from her lips. “I am so ready to dig in.”

“I only smoked the meat,” Jason drawls. “I had nothing to do with the rest of this crap. I mean, I get that potato salad is a necessity, but you’re not going to be seeing me peeling potatoes in the kitchen. I can barely stand hanging around the house as is.”

“I’m guessing that the rest of this has something to do with Alfred, then?” Stephanie guesses.

“Ah,” Alfred sounds from behind Damian. He pulls a bib around Damian’s neck, and ties it in a fitting knot. “I do believe I have been caught.”

Damian imagines himself a most sorry sight. He has no more comments regarding his situation. He was much too dull to make any more comprehensive observations. His head was heavy on his neck, kept afloat only by basic muscles, almost like a fishing bob. Damian was just waiting to be pulled under. His mind did not fare any better. It was devoid of any intelligent thought. Damian could only feel the numbing void of apathy. 

Damian doesn’t listen to his sibling’s conversations. He zones out as Alfred pulls up a chair next to him, attentive, and careful in his efforts to feed. 

Damian can’t taste what he’s eating anymore. It’s soup (he can tell from the texture). It doesn’t have any flavor. Damian finds no joy in eating it. It is a boring process that he is forced to endure. There is no exploration. There are no fond memories associated with his food. Damian has nothing to draw from. He would much rather avoid eating altogether, if only to spare himself the misery, and the dragging boredom.

Damian feels an eternity pass by the time Jason gets up for a stretch. He pulls his arms over his head, pops his joints, and then pats his stomach in an exaggerated gesture.

Stephanie joins him. She follows his example, stretching, and groaning in satisfaction. “That’s the good stuff,” she insists, “but man do I need to burn some calories. I ate way too much.” She looks thoughtful for a moment, pausing to reconsider her words, before continuing, “Who’s up to shoot some hoops?”

“I’m down,” Jason volunteers.

“I think I’m going to just go hit the hay,” Tim mumbles. He doesn’t say much more than that. He slumps against the picnic table. His cheek smudges against the wood. 

“I could go for a round,” Dick says with a smile. He’s standing up, too, now. He’s leaning on both hands. The table supports all of his weight. “Bruce? You can’t skip out on us. How long has it been since we last played a sport together?”

“It’s been a while,” Bruce admits. “I’m not sure it’s a great idea. I’m still trying to recover from a knick in the side.”

Dick frowns sympathetically. “Right. I forgot about that. Well, in that case, you should probably sit this one out.”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees. “I’m thinking that I probably should.”

Damian’s eyes follow his siblings as they all leave the table. He barely turns his head to watch them hit the outdoor, concrete, basketball court. They take a step onto the concrete slab, pick up a sad-looking ball, and start up a game of friendly shooting. Damian watches Dick spring like a fawn. Jason tries to block him with practiced footwork. Stephanie involves herself by stealing the ball, showing off her smarts, and demonstrating strategic thinking. Cass proves herself the superior opponent. Unrivaled.

Damian turns his head back to the picnic table. His father is now patting Tim’s back, whispering in his ear, trying to convince him to head back into the manor. Probably to sleep somewhere that wasn’t a hard wooden table.

Damian stares. 

He feels the empty, black hole in his heart expand. 

Damian feels a jolt in his wheelchair. Alfred is backing him up in the grass. It’s not an easy process. The wheels don’t roll as nice as they do on the concrete, but Alfred makes due with what he is given. 

“Why don’t we take a walk?” Alfred suggests. “Today is much too nice to remain still.” He maneuvers Damian’s wheel chair until they’re heading back to the garden. Damian is tempted to glance over his shoulder, to see his siblings enjoy themselves, but he forces himself to look forward.

Once they’re far enough away, Alfred pauses, and Damian observes numerous shaped hedges.

“Your father recently hired a physical therapist,” Alfred says. “It will only be a matter of time before you are up on your feet again.”

Damian supposed he should feel excited. He didn’t.

“He also hired a speech pathologist. I look forward to hearing your voice, my boy, for I have sorely missed it.”

Damian’s eyes travel down to the ground.

Chapter Text

Damian’s burst of anger is frequent. Occasionally, he’ll sit in bed, dead to the world, only to find himself boiling over with uncontrolled rage. He hated the way his family would look at him. It was as if he was a broken object instead of a sentient being. It was amazing how quick they were to forget that he had an opinion. Damian wasn’t only angry at his situation, he was angry at his family, and he felt it was well-warranted. 

So, when the physical therapist comes over, Damian does the only thing he has control over. He throws a tantrum.

Yes, he’s aware it’s childish, and yes it hinders his own progress. Still, Damian wanted to feel like he had control over something, and throwing a tantrum just happened to be the one thing he could do. He could make it difficult for everyone involved. He could demonstrate that he’s alive. 

Damian doesn’t let the therapist have his way. He doesn’t listen to anything he says. He makes sure to be as uncooperative as possible. They might be able to manhandle him, they could force him to stretch, but that didn’t mean he had to listen to them. If they wanted him to practice curling his fingers around objects, Damian simply didn’t, communicating the clear message that he was not something to be controlled. 

Damian was angry. He was angry at Alfred, he was angry at his physical therapist, and he was angry with his family. 

Damian fixes his eyes on the door. It’d been thirty minutes since his last therapy session, and Alfred had left to report Damian’s progress to his father. 

Damian rolls his eyes. His father’s concern did not extend to the point of physically visiting Damian. He decided he would not figure out that information on his own. Alfred had to report to him like a servant, which he happened to be, consistently updating his father in a seperate part of the manor. 

Damian grits his teeth. He grinds them together as he throws off his blankets. It is a surprisingly complicated process, but he had managed to wedge his arm underneath the fabric. Once his arm flung the blankets away, Damian forces his legs to move, pained by the strained weight of muscle. He powers through the feeling. He moves his legs, inch by inch, until he’s laying at the very edge of his bed. 

Damian tries to sit himself up without assistance. His arms had the strength to lift him up, but that didn’t mean they were willing to obey. He feels himself falter multiple times. It is a frustrating process. His arms will work for a second, but then they’ll abruptly cease accepting commands. 

When Damian does manage to sit up, it only lasts for a few moments, mostly because his body quickly decides to fail him. 

Damian flops backward on his bed.

It jostles his abdomen. Damian can feel the pressing need to use the bathroom. It’d been the main reason he’d been trying to get up on his own. He didn’t want to have to be forced to rely on Alfred’s assistance. He wanted to get there by himself. He wanted to drag himself there if need be. 

Damian screams internally. It is an angry, upset, thing aggravated by his situation.

Damian tries to get up again. 

It takes a long time for Damian to sit upright. When he is sitting upright, he feels a panicked rush of his heart. His anxiety kicks up a notch as he anticipates the likelihood of another fall. 

Damian doesn’t fall backward this time. He falls forward.

Damian hits the floor. He hits the floor hard.

Damian is too stunned to fix himself. His face is planted in the carpet, his arms are strewn in weird angles, and his knees are aching.

Damian takes a moment to catch his breath. He straightens himself on the floor.

Rolling his head, Damian stares straight at the wall, except his vision is mostly blanketed by his imagination. He could picture the door ahead of him by a few feet. If he could somehow manage to crawl there, even if it was an army crawl, then he’d be able to make it out of his room.

Damian adjusts his arms. 

He tries.

He tries desperately. He just needs to make it to the hallway. He just needs to somehow do this unassisted.

He just-

He needs-

Damian wants to scream. He wants to scream as loud as he can, but there isn’t a single sound’s worth escaping his lips.

Damian pants. His vision is blurring over. For some reason, the wall was wobbling like a heat wave, and Damian was getting weaker. He could feel the strength fade away from his body as his body heaves for breath. He can’t find the energy he’d sought through anger. It had completely escaped him.

“Damian!?”

Damian hears someone throw the door open in a panic. Damian then feels hands wrap around him, turning him over, forcing him to look upward. Damian meets Dick’s eyes. 

“Oh, Damian,” Dick whispers. He wipes away a tear. Oh. That's why Damian's vision had been blurring over. “How did this happen? What were you doing?”

Damian wants to answer. He can’t.

Dick slides an arm underneath Damian’s knees. He braces another behind his back. With a little bit of effort, he lifts Damian off of the ground, and then gently deposits him back on the mattress.

Damian cries harder. He’d been halfway across his room, but now he was back where he began.

“Hey, now,” Dick hushes. He’s climbing into bed with Damian, wiping away his tears again. “I’m sorry things are hard right now. I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of this.”

Damian squeezes his eyes shut. He feels relief in the pressure. It makes his head throb. Good. He deserves the pain. 

Damian feels an arm wrap around his shoulder. Damian is squeezed into Dick’s side with a reassuring grip. Damian feels unworthy of it. He feels like a small, pathetic, piece of garbage. 

“I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you,” Dick mutters into his hair. 

Chapter Text

“How is Damian?”

Bruce hunches over the cave’s lab table. He carefully handles a pair of tweezers. In front of him, laying in parts, sat his Justice League comm. The wiring had been fried during his confrontation with the wraith, and now Bruce was trying to narrow in on the damage. 

“I’m glad you asked,” Alfred says. He stands next to Bruce, and slightly bends forward to peer at his work. “I’m afraid we’ve had some complications with the most recent session. Damian is uncooperative.”

Bruce continues with his work. This, though upsetting, is not surprising news. 

“I’m afraid there will be no improvements at this rate,” Alfred confesses regretfully. “I’m afraid that Damian has-”

He stops talking. Alfred swallows. 

“I believe Damian might have given up.”

Bruce’s tweezers hover over a delicate wire. He can’t bring himself to clamp the tool down. Alfred’s words are distressing. Bruce imagines his proud, energetic, son swinging past buildings with a grappling hook. He envisions him kicking a punching bag with an accomplished grin on his face. How could Damian possibly give up? How could the boy in Bruce’s memory let go? He was too stubborn to give up. He was too determined to let things slip through his fingers. 

“His early frustration was understandable,” Alfred continues, “but now he’s completely unresponsive. I fear that he won’t be making much progress. He’s stopped trying.”

Bruce turns to face Alfred. They look at each other for a vulnerable moment, quiet, and fearful. 

“What do you mean?”

Both men turn to face the staircase. Dick stands at the top, having recently returned from a patrol, covered in form-fitting spandex. Bruce didn’t know how long he’d been listening, but he had a feeling he’d heard enough to adopt concern. 

“It is exactly as I said, Master Dick, Damian has stopped trying to get better.”

“That - that’s not possible,” Dick says. He’s frowning. “Damian doesn’t give up. He’s endured many injuries. He always bounces back.”

“Well, yes,” Alfred reluctantly agrees, “but nothing can compare to his current circumstances. He has no means to communicate with us, he’s vulnerable, and incapable of moving his limbs. I’d say it is enough to crush his spirit.”

“But he’s going to get better,” Dick argues. “He’s going to be able to walk again.”

Alfred looks downcast. “Yes. That is what we originally believed.” 

Dick looks horrified at Alfred’s statement. He’s deathly silent as Alfred continues, “Whilst the other victims might be receiving the same therapy, there’s been no significant signs of improvement. It hints to the fact that there is more to their situation than experts have assumed.”

Bruce turns to look back at his busted comm.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dick exhales shakily. “You’re telling me-” he takes a weak step forward, “You’re telling me that Damian could stay as he is forever?”

“I’m saying that we must consider the possibility,” Alfred puts out warily. 

“No way,” Dick laughs hysterically. He looks positively mad. “You’re saying that my kid isn’t going to get up again?”

Alfred is quiet this time. He lets Dick play his emotions out. Dick is chuckling to himself in a breathy attempt, wheezing like his lungs are constricting. Finally, his laughter dies down, and his eyes mist over with unshed tears.

Dick moans mournfully. He lowers himself until he collapses on the ground. His legs weren’t strong enough to keep him up. He buries his face in his hands. 

“Damian,” he laments.

“We shouldn’t lose hope,” Bruce says suddenly. He gently places his tweezers on the table. He leans on the metal surface with two hands. “What we need is to collect data, and come up with a plan. Damian could be the key to helping the other children who have fallen victim to the wraith.”

“You would treat your own son as an experiment?” Alfred questions disagreeably. 

“He’s not an experiment,” Bruce growls out. “ I went to Apokalips and back to bring him home. I’m not going to have him live the rest of his life laying in bed.” Bruce gives Alfred a critical glance. “And, if I’ve learned anything about magic, there is no spell that cannot be reversed. Constantine told us that the children would be cured if the wraith was sealed. The wraith is sealed.”

“Where are you going with this, Bruce?” Dick croaks. He wobbles back onto his feet. 

“Damian’s mind is unaware that he is cured. Psychologically, that could mean he thinks he is incapable of controlling his body, when in all reality it is not beyond him.”

“What?”

“I’m saying that Damian’s condition might just all be in his head.”

Chapter Text

Dick stands at Damian’s door.

He takes a deep breath.

He was well aware that Damian was on the other side, stuck in bed, motionless. He’d stopped trying to move since Dick had found him on the floor. Dick didn’t know what had happened to him, but it had to be something distressing. It wasn’t in Damian’s character to give up. Then again, Damian has never had to face something like this, and Dick could bet that the League didn’t prepare a training regime for it. Damian was as clueless as the rest of them.

Probably.

Dick wasn’t too sure. He couldn’t ask Damian for his opinion. His kid couldn’t physically respond to him. 

Dick’s mind wanders to his most recent conversation with Bruce.

“It’s more complicated than I phrased it,” he had said. “I don’t know how the wraith did it, but his curse disrupted the brain’s communication system. By all accounts, everything should have returned to normal, but Damian’s body shows us otherwise. I’m theorizing that his body has been traumatized. It would explain-” Bruce had gestured to the busted communication comm in front of him, “-why, by all accounts, this device should be working. There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with it, but it’s as if it has forgotten how to operate. It needs a jolt.”

Dick remembers Bruce meeting his eyes.

“Damian needs a jolt,"  Bruce had expanded.

Alfred hadn’t been too happy with that. “You cannot be implying we electrocute him?”

“No. He’s more complex than that.”

Dick recalled thinking how a piece of technology could possibly forget how to operate. It didn’t make any rational sense. It was an inanimate object. It was formed in such a way to accomplish a specific purpose. Yet, when he’d looked at Bruce’s comm himself , he’d seen that everything was in perfect condition. There was no reason it shouldn’t have been working. 

Dick knocks on Damian’s door politely. He doesn’t expect an answer. He says, loudly, “Damian? It’s Dick. I’m coming in.”

Dick invites himself in after announcing his arrival. Sure enough, he sees Damian laying in bed, back braced against his headboard. His eyes were staring straight at a television screen, set up by Jason (who would’ve thought?), and they do not move to acknowledge Dick’s presence. 

Dick takes a deep breath. He knew he was in for a rough time. He wasn’t sure how to go about this. They talked a lot about what Damian was going through, but no one knew how they were supposed to go about giving him a ‘jolt.’ 

Dick glances at the television set. He sees a man, tall, and lean, explaining foreign cuisine. Currently, he was talking about puffer fish, standing side by side with a Japanese chef. 

“Looks interesting,” Dick comments. He sits himself down at Damian’s side. “I don’t think I’d try it, though, not with my luck.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. 

Dick watches Damian’s features closely. He couldn’t tell what Damian was feeling, but he could look for his kiddo’s tells. He’d hung around him long enough to know Damian’s tics. Sometimes, it gave away his thoughts, and sometimes Dick could anticipate Damian's emotion. He wasn’t always right - but -  likewise - he wasn’t always wrong.

“Don’t tell him,” Bruce’s voice rings in his ears. “I don’t think he’ll take the news well. It might hinder his progress.”

Dick suppresses a bitter smile. 

Well, Bruce, he thinks to himself, I don’t think he’s making any progress at the moment. 

And man did that break his heart.

Dick tries to compose himself. He needs to be positive. He needs to do better. Damian needs it. Damian needs him.

“I just wanted to check up on something,” Dick gets straight to the point. “It’d help me a lot. Do you think you could try to squeeze my hand?”

Damian finally turns his head to look at him. Dick feels a strange sense of accomplishment. His baby is still in there, after all, and he’s listening. 

“I promise it’s not because I want to be sappy,” Dick jokes.

Damian stares at him critically. Dick thinks he’s got something good going on when Damian rolls his eyes. It’s the most personality he’s seen from him since - well - the breakdown.

“I’m going to pick up your hand,” Dick warns. He slides his hand underneath Damian’s, and then lifts it up from the younger boy’s lap. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to squeeze it as long as you can.”

Dick stares intently at their joined hands. Damian’s hand was weak against his own. There was zero grip strength involved. Dick was doing most of the work.

It takes Damian a moment. Dick thinks that maybe he’s not going to cooperate, just like with his physical therapist, but then he watches Damian slowly curl his fingers around his hand.

Dick’s eyes drift up to Damian’s face. He knows he should be watching Damian’s hand, but he feels drawn to Damian’s concentrated features. He had a frustrated fury in his eyes. Dick’s not sure how he missed seeing it before. 

Dick’s eyes stay on Damian’s face as he experiments with his fingers. Damian manages to get his fingers working, but when he starts squeezing, he doesn’t last very long. His entire grip falters, almost as if it’d short-circuited, and Damian’s hand abruptly relaxes.

Filmy water glosses over Damian’s eyes. Dick wonders why he hadn’t been trying to read Damian before this. 

Dick, without thinking, rubs at Damian’s cheek. He banishes a salty, stray, tear. He didn’t want to see it on Damian’s face. It hurt his heart, his everything, just thinking about the emotion behind it.

“Bruce is probably going to run some more complicated tests,” Dick admits. “Hook you up to a machine. We think there’s something wrong with your nervous system.”

Damian looks up at him. 

And, well, it’s a simple action that strikes him.

Damian couldn’t support his neck, not without a brace, but he could turn it?

“I don't know what it is,” Dick admits, “but Constantine told us that this is curable. You will be walking Damian.”

He’s not sure why, but Damian doesn’t look all that hopeful. At first, Dick thinks maybe it has something to do with the present, and how unlikely it seems that Damian might walk again. It’d probably feel like doomsday in Damian’s position.

But - no - that doesn’t make sense. Damian would spring for this sort of opportunity. There’s something else that he’s going through. 

Dick’s not sure what it is.

Damian can’t communicate with them, sure, but Dick is his baba. He knows Damian. Damian is his boy. If he put more thought into it, if he pondered on it thoroughly, Dick was certain he’d be able to decipher the root of the issue. Damian wasn’t just upset that he couldn’t move. That wasn’t it. There was something more to it. 

“Do you mind if I stick around?” Dick asks. 

What could it be? Why had Damian given up?

Damian’s response is removing his eyes off of Dick, and returning them to the television set.

Dick watches, too, except he doesn’t pay attention. 

I’m going to figure it out, Damian. 

Chapter Text

Dick holds Damian's limp hand in his own. 

"Remember what I asked you to do last time? Think you could try it again?" 

Dick waits patiently for Damian to re-enact the previous day's experiment. Bruce stood in the corner watching the monitors (which he had wheeled in), and Alfred was sitting on Damian's opposite side. Damian, who was centered on his mattress, had multiple wires connected to various points on his body. According to Bruce, it'd give them a better look at Damian's condition, and give them further insight on how to treat it. 

Damian looks at their joined hands. He slowly tightens his fingers into a firm grip, and his eyes narrow in concentration. Bruce keeps an eye on the monitors the entire time, waiting for something, and Dick wouldn't know what to look for until Damian's hand abruptly collapses. 

Dick doesn't let Damian's hand fall. He offers Damian an appreciative smile. "You did great, Damian. "

"It looks like there's a disruption in his nervous system," Bruce observes. "He's aware of what he needs to do, but his body will only cooperate for short bursts of time." 

Dick traps Damian's hand in between both of his own. "Okay," he says. "How do we address that?" 

"Well, firstly, we'll have to change Damian's nutrition plan. He'll need an increase in calcium, potassium, and essential vitamins."

"How is that supposed to help him?" Dick asks. He knows that this might not be an entirely physical condition, but if that was the case, then what was the point in changing up Damian's entire diet? 

"Vitamin B will help Damian's nerves send impulses from the brain to the body. It'll give his nerves the energy to function. The calcium and potassium will help his nerves regulate electrical impulses that are generated by the nerves."

Okay, Dick thinks, but it can't be that simple. 

He thinks about the comm on Bruce's lab table. He thinks about how the comm should be working. Vitamin B wouldn't help it properly function. But, then again, the comm wasn't human. Perhaps it required different means to operate. For example, as Bruce had put it, a jolt. Who was to say that a change in nutrition wouldn't be the jolt that Damian needed? 

"He'll still need to continue physical therapy. Stretches strengthen the nervous system. It's a necessity."

"If I might recall," Alfred clears his throat, "Master Damian is not too inclined to cooperate with the physical therapist nor his speech pathologist." 

Damian doesn't look anyone in the eye. He roots his eyes stubbornly to his blanket. Dick pats his hand thoughtlessly, and says, "Who can blame him? I wouldn't want a stranger messing around with my body." 

And isn't that a damning thought. 

Damian's not the type of person to accept assistance. He had pride comparable to the size of the Titanic. Having no mobility and zero use of his muscles was the tear in the hull. Damian could try his best to stay afloat with what independence he had, but eventually he'd end up sinking to the bottom of the ocean. It's this train of thought that leads Dick to the abrupt realization that, in a way, fighting the physical therapist is a way Damian can be 'independent.' It gives him the only sense of control he has. 

Damian is going down with the ship. He might see a neighboring rescue crew, but he doesn't think he'll be one of the survivors. He's defeated in spirit. Reserved in a withdrawn, trapped, shell. Dick's not sure how he'd adopted this attitude, but if he had a guess, he'd probably give Damian's pride another look. It'd been demolished with the loss of his faculties. He most likely felt useless, pointless, and alone. 

Dick knows Damian had a never-ending desire to prove himself. It'd most likely been stolen from him when he found out he couldn't move. 

"But," Dick continues aloud, voicing his thoughts, "it's important to accept help. There's no shame in it." 

Dick can imagine Damian thinking the exact opposite. To him, accepting help is a shame, unless it had something to do with a mission operation. 

"That's what I'm here for, Damian," Dick says solemnly. "I'm not going to give up on you. I'm going to do whatever I can to help you. I know everyone else here feels the same way." 

"Quite right," Alfred agrees. 

"Yes," Bruce promises. 

"So, you've got to give us something to work with," Dick continues. "We need you to cooperate with the physical therapist." 

Dick feels like his approach isn't wrong, but it's not what Damian wants to hear. He tugs his hand out of Dick's with a sharp snap, and then looks away angrily at the wall. 

"Dames…"

Dick is certain Damian would be crossing his arms right now if he could. He had the face for it. 

"You can't be telling me that you're going to give up?"

Damian doesn't do anything to acknowledge nor deny Dick's question. He continues his staring contest with the wall. 

"I thought you wanted this," Dick says. "I thought you wanted to walk again, to talk again. "

Damian snorts. His chest puffs with the sound. 

"Damian?" 

Dick isn't sure how to interpret it. 

"Perhaps we should give the young master time to think upon it," Alfred rescues. His tone suggested that, from the look of things, Damian's current attitude would not be solved soon. "He also needs his rest. He won't get it if we hound him."

Alfred stands up from his chair. Dick feels helpless as he flexes his fingers. He stares into his palm, recognizing the phantom sensation of Damian's missing one. 

"Damian…" Dick asks brokenly. "You can't tell me that you're actually giving up?"

Damian doesn't give up. Damian doesn't do that. He's stubborn. He has a will of steel.

"Dick," Bruce says. He places a hand on Dick's shoulder in an attempt to prompt him upwards. 

Dick feels drained the more he looks at Damian's face. He's so lost, so frightened, that he hardly puts up a fight against Bruce pulling him up. He leans into Bruce's side like he has a concussion, except Dick is perfectly healthy, and he has use of both of his legs. 

"C'mon, son," Bruce mumbles as he guides them towards the hallway. Dick keeps his eyes on Damian the entire time, turning his head to look over his shoulder when they're close to the exit. Damian doesn't bother to look back at him. He's determined to look off at the side. Ignoring Dick entirely. 

Dick takes a shaky breath.

He hadn't wanted Alfred to be right. 

Chapter Text

“Bruce told me that he thinks Damian’s condition is primarily in his own head. Physical therapy will help, so will his new diet, but it’s pretty much dependent on his mental state. I just-” Dick takes a frustrated pause. “I just can’t tell where he is right now. Mentally, I mean. It’s hard to know what he’s feeling when he can’t even communicate with us.”

“I think a good place to start is spending time with him.”

“What can you do with someone who can’t move?”

“Get creative,” Barbara deadpans. “I read an article about a group of boy scouts who made a palanquin. They’d use it to take their crippled friend on hikes. Uphill. ”

Dick can hear Barbara shift her phone. 

“Why don’t you just start with a walk?”

“Alfred is the one who takes him on walks,” Dick says.

“And that’s stopping you? I’m sure he’d be willing to trade off.”

“I guess it’s not stopping me,” Dick says as he stops in front of Damian’s door. “Do you think Damian would be fine if-” 

Damian’s door opens. Alfred gives Dick an inquisitive look, hands resting on Damian’s wheelchair. 

“-I took him on a walk?” Dick finishes.

He lowers his phone. Barbara says something, Dick figures it must be positive, and then he gives Alfred a sheepish smile.

“You wish to go about in the garden with the young master?” Alfred questions. He didn’t seem against it. He was simply curious. Dick hadn’t done much since Damian ended up bed-ridden. He’d sit at his bed-side sometimes, sure, but he never went out of his way to participate in an activity with him. 

Dick knows his mistake. He wants to remedy it. Barbara gave him some pretty good advice. He might as well use it.

“Something wrong with that?” Dick asks.

“Not at all. Would you like me to accompany you?”

Alfred wheels Damian out into the hallway. He lifts his hands from the wheelchair’s handles, and then stares expectantly in Dick’s direction.

Dick thinks it over. “No. I’d like to have some time with Damian alone. Haven’t really done anything with him since- um- before the- you know. Thing.”

“Ah.” 

Dick takes Alfred’s place. He hangs up on Barbara (he’ll have to apologize later), tucks his phone into his pocket, and then he wraps his hands around the wheelchair’s handles. “Thanks, though! Appreciate you every day, Alfred!”

Alfred smiles good-naturedly as Dick wheels Damian away, into the direction of the back door. He hums to make himself look busy, like he knew what he was doing. He spares the occasional glance downward.  He takes notice of Damian’s well-groomed hair (Alfred’s doing, surely), and his uncomfortable-looking neck brace. 

“So, you do this every day?” Dick slides the back door open, and then navigates Damian outside. He closes the door behind him. “Must be nice to get some sun. I feel like I’ve been cooped up in the cave for the last couple of weeks. I’m turning into Bruce.”

Dick guides Damian’s chair to the start of a paved path. It was surrounded on all sides by colorful plantlife. Some of Alfred’s best works were in the garden. Dick knew how much effort he put into shaping the hedges. He was constantly trimming the bushes, too, and tending to the fruit trees. Dick didn’t know how Alfred had time to do it all. 

“We don’t need two Bruces,” Dick decides. “This is good for me. I like being outside. I like being with you.”

Damian doesn’t answer him. He can’t.

“I’m sorry that I haven’t been spending more time with you. It’s probably boring sitting around all day.”

Dick slows down in pace. Damian’s wheels hit the occasional pebble. Bumping along with small jolts. 

Dick small-talks. It’s all he can do. He comments on the garden. He comments on Alfred’s hard-work. He talks about the temperature. The weather. How there’s no clouds in the sky. The sun is too bright for his eyes. 

There’s only so much he can ramble about. Dick sometimes thinks he can chat someone’s ear off without stopping, but that was only when he had a participating audience. It was difficult to talk to someone who couldn't respond.   Dick’s attempts to fill the silence eventually die down. 

He gets lost in his thoughts.  His focus still lingers on Damian. 

How was he supposed to help Damina’s mental state? Barbara said that he ought to start spending time with him, but it couldn’t be as simple as that. Mental health was something entirely personal. Dick didn’t know how he could go about helping Damian when he didn’t even know what his underlying issue was. 

Why did Damian want to give up? Or, if not that, then why had he stopped trying to get better? 

Dick mulls over this problem for quite some time before the sprinklers burst.

They’re not in the line of fire, but it does get him to halt. Dick looks at the sprinklers shower the path in front of them.

Dick watches the little jets mist the air. He was sure the plants were happily drinking up what they could get. Refreshed by a simulated rainfall. 

Dick gets an idea.

“Hey, Damian, you know how I like to take risks, right?”

He can’t see Damian’s face. He doesn’t know what emotion he might be wearing, but he can bet it’s something akin to exasperation. Damian knew Dick too well. He most likely understood that Dick was about to do something dumb. 

“Well-” Dick continues, tightening his grip on the wheelchairs handles, “I could use a little adventure right now.”

Dick pushes Damian forward with a sharp jolt, and then he runs straight for the sprinklers. Dick only barely registers Damian’s tensing shoulders. He was mostly concentrated on getting Damian through a sudden barrage of water.

Dick cheers as his shoes smack against puddled ground. Water flies beneath him, at his side, and kicks up behind him. Dick doesn’t let anything stop him. He wheels Damian forward at a safe speed, and then lays his eyes on the end of the path. 

Dick is soaked by the time he breaks free from the sprinklers.

Damian isn’t any better.

Dick momentarily releases Damian’s wheelchair. He gives out a breathy laugh, and then lifts up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face. Water drips down his eyelashes, and trinkles down his cheeks. 

DIck rounds Damian’s spot to crouch down in front of him.

Damian has the biggest, fatest, scowl on his face. He wasn’t pleased. Not in the slightest. Still, Dick smiles in spite of it, because he remembers Damian showing his emotion freely. Just like this. 

He’s glad to see it. 

“You’ve got a little something on your face there,” Dick jokes. He uses his hand, which wasn’t all that dry, to rub at the water on Damian’s forehead.

Damian’s glare intensifies. 

“We’ll dry you off back inside,” Dick promises apologetically.  “Get you a warm pair of clothes.”

Something about what Dick said made Damian spur into action. He slaps Dick’s hand away angrily. Dick eyes dart to his red hand in surprise.

What?

What had he said? What was wrong with being dried off? With getting dressed into a pair of not wet clothes?

Or maybe Damian was just angry about the water? 

Dick looks back at Damian. Guilt fills his heart.

“I-” Dick’s smile falls. “Sorry. I just thought you could use some cheering up and- well- I just- I don’t know. I wanted you to be happy.”

Dick’s eyes glaze over with a sudden haze of emotion. His smile comes back, but it’s wobbly, and sad. Something leaves his eye. It’s camouflaged with the evidence of his impulsive decision. Wet. Just like his face.

Dick gently reaches for Damian’s hand. He gives Damian the time, and the space, to refuse his attention.

He doesn’t.

Dick uses this opportunity to rest his forehead on Damian’s folded fingers.

“It was my fault, Damian,” Dick croaks. “I should’ve been with you. Should’ve thought about how you’d be in danger. You’d still be walking around right now if it weren’t for me. You’d be giving me your usual snark and- I can’t believe I took that away from you.”

Dick lifts his forehead. He presses Damian’s hand against his cheek.

“I took everything away from you. You’re in bed because of my own negligence. I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.”

Damian’s scowl turns into something softer. Something defeated. Dick keeps Damian’s warm hand on his cheek for a second longer, and then he lets his hand go. He rests it back on Damian’s lap.

Dick wipes at his eyes. He gets up, rounds Damian’s wheelchair, and then grips the handles.

He pushes Damian back to the house. He takes the long way.

He doesn’t say anything. Not even as he’s drying Damian’s hair off, ruffling it up with a towel. He helps Alfred wipe his kid down. When they start changing his clothes, Dick notices how withdrawn Damian looks, and how increasingly limp he grows the more he is handled.

It is then that he realizes Damian hadn’t been angry at the sprinklers. 

Chapter Text

Dick pays more attention to Damian as the days pass by.

He was there when the physical therapist comes to visit. He saw the speech pathologist try to help. He watched as Damian disengaged with them by shutting down. Damian had zero interest working with them. 

Dick felt he was beginning to have somewhat of a clue as to why.

Damian wasn’t only like this with the outside hires. He was equally difficult when Alfred tried to feed him. It bothered Dick a great deal that Damian didn’t seem to want to eat, but as time passed by, Dick was beginning to realize that maybe he was missing the point. It wasn’t that Damian didn’t want to eat. It was that he had to be fed by another human being.

Damian, who’d once been fiercely independent, was now having everything taken care of for him. He had no control over anything in his life. Nothing except for how he reacted to certain things. 

Like feeding.

Like the physical therapist.

So, the next time Dick sits in on mealtime, he stops Alfred by resting a hand on his wrist. He prevents him from spoon-feeding Damian a serving of applesauce. 

“Why don’t you let Damian try to feed himself?”

Don’t get Dick wrong, he absolutely believed in the necessity of accepting help, but maybe they’d enabled it for too long. Maybe they weren’t making way for the proper solution. It was understandable that Damian needed assistance at first, but, as time passed, they hadn’t given him room to do things himself. Dick could imagine how distressing that might be for someone who felt they had no influence over their own life. 

Maybe he’s onto something based on the look Damian gives him. Surprise. 

Alfred considers Dick quietly. He doesn’t seem too displeased with the suggestion, but he doesn’t seem gung-ho about it either. Alfred must see something in Dick’s expression though. He draws back his hand to dip the spoon into Damian’s plastic cup. 

Dick reaches over Alfred to grab the disposable cup. He carefully draws it over to himself, and then he’s bending over Damian’s form. Gently positioning the applesauce in Damian’s lap, making sure the spoon didn’t unbalance the whole thing, and tip it over entirely.

Dick gives Damian’s hair a little ruffle before he draws back. He settles down into his chair with a comforting smile.

Damian stares down at his applesauce for a tic. Dick notices his fingers twitch at his sides. Finally, after another tic, Damian raises his hands. Dick fights the urge to glue himself to Damian’s side. To barrel over him just in case he accidentally flicked the applesauce over.

Damian’s hands falter. Dick keeps in his immediate reaction, which was one of pity, and of coddling. It wouldn’t help.

Damian flexes his fingers again in the air in front of him. He slowly curls one set around the spoon handle. Dick can tell when Damian’s grip falters. His muscles fall abruptly lax, unintentionally, but that doesn’t stop him. Damian’s expression is one of pure concentration. He tightens his grip again as tight as he can, and then he struggles to scoop a serving of applesauce.

His control is horrible.

Regardless, Damian continues, determined. 

Damian lifts the spoon from the cup. He struggles to raise it to his mouth. His hand nearly drops the spoon. Dick had mentally prepared himself for flying applesauce. It was a consequence he was willing to deal with. 

Damian has trouble turning his wrist to angle the spoon. He manages to push the spoon’s head between his lips, but before he can get anything out of it, his hand falls limp without warning. Damian’s jaw releases pressure. His spoon goes tumbling out of his mouth. His hand lands on wrinkled sheets. 

“Master-” Alfred starts getting up to assist, but then Dick puts a hand out to stop him. He physically acts as a barrier to prevent him from helping any further. 

Damian shoots Alfred a look. He spots Dick’s hand. He meets Dick’s eyes. 

Dick gives him a short nod. Damian returns the look impassively before turning his head again. Flexing fingers for the third time in the session.

Damian raises his hand again. Alfred goes quiet when Damian starts working his fingers around the discarded spoon handle. He manages to get a good grip. Then, he raises it up in the air, and navigates it to his applesauce. He, once more, attempts to scoop out another serving.

His hand ceases listening in the middle of a scoop. Damian doesn’t stop trying. He strengthens his grip again, and then he’s pulling the spoon upward.

Dick is on the edge of his seat as Damian pushes it past his lips again. His hand doesn’t falter like Dick expected it might. Damian pulls the spoon out of his mouth. Dick makes the quick observation that it is missing a serving of applesauce.

Damian swallows.

His spoon falls to his lap again once his fingers stop obeying his commands. Dick is barely paying attention to it. He makes a loud cheer, climbs up onto the mattress with one digging knee, and then pulls Damian in for a congratulatory hug. Dick squeezes Damian sideways into his chest. Both hands are grabbing Damian’s right shoulder. 

“You’re amazing, Dames,” Dick says, “You’re absolutely fantastic.” Dick presses a hard kiss to Damian’s head. 

Damian makes a noise with his throat. Dick is too happy to understand the implications of such a noise. He’s hugging Damian’s life out with the strength of his embrace.

Damian was previously stiff in Dick’s embrace, but as Dick nuzzles his cheek against his hair, Damian gradually melts. The fact that it was a gradual change meant that it hadn’t been related to Damian’s condition, which also happened to mean he was comfortable in Dick’s hold.

“You’re going to make it, kiddo. You’re going to make it,” Dick repeats like a mantra. He draws back to give Damian a smile. “You might need a little help on the way, but you’ll be running around, yet, Damian. Mark my words.”

Damian snorts out an exhale of air. 

Dick’s response to that is to pull him in for a hug again. Pressing kisses into his hair with unrestrained affection. 

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take Dick long to track Bruce down.

Slipping through a crack in the window, Dick lands in a crouch, and rests his eyes on his father. Bruce’s black cape hid every feature of his costume. The only thing that could be seen, in the bare minimum of pale moonlight, was his white lenses.

Dick straightens himself. He follows Bruce’s gaze. 

Dick's vision narrows on a thin figure.

Dick knew why Bruce was interested in this particular individual. Judging by the form’s young age, and the childish decorations scattered across the room, they had to be in the space of another victim. Damian hadn’t been the only one attacked by a wraith. He was, however, the only one at home. Dick didn’t know of a single child who’d yet to be freed from the hospital. To Gotham’s knowledge, there was still a wraith wandering around, and the bed-ridden children were being affected by it. Dick knew that wasn’t the case. 

Bruce doesn’t bat an eyelash when Dick makes himself known. Dick shuffles further into the room until he’s inches away from his father. 

Dick crosses his arms. 

“You have time to visit random children, but you don’t have time to be with your own son?”

Dick had to admit that he was frustrated. He knew that Bruce worked hard to figure out what was going on with Damian, but, in turn, he rarely spent time with the kid. Dick understood how difficult it was to see Damian in his condition, but it didn’t warrant complete avoidance. Bruce would only make the occasional visit to propose new information. Dick didn’t think that was enough. Damian needed his dad. 

“I’ve left anonymous evidence. After proposing a care routine, using the techniques we’ve applied in Robin’s case, doctors have noticed improvements in the wraith victims.”

Dick shifts his weight. “It’s nice to know that it’s working out for them, but, c’mon, B. You should let someone else handle this. You’re needed elsewhere. Robin might be making improvements, but he can’t do everything by himself. He needs to know that you support him.”

“You reported that Robin wanted to be left to his own devices in terms of autonomy.”

“You’re acting as if that somehow translates to Damian not wanting his father.”

Bruce goes quiet for a moment. Dick listens to the nearby heart monitor. It’s the only noise in the room aside from the occasional foundation creak. Dick takes the time to look at the patient. A young boy, probably Damian’s age, was propped up against the bed. His hands were resting on his stomach. Dick could only assume someone had purposefully settled them that way. It was unlikely that the boy could have put them there himself. Not unless he had made the same breakthrough that Damian did.

“I don’t think he wants me to be around,” Bruce admits, “I think he associates my presence with pity.”

Dick unfolds his arms. He lets them fall to his side. “I bet you could say the same thing about Agent A, the physical therapist, and the speech pathologist. It doesn’t change the fact that he needs them.”

Dick makes eye-contact with his father when the man turns to look at him. His body-language doesn’t change, nor does his voice, but Dick can still sense his vulnerability.

“I heard from Agent A that he managed to eat by himself.”

Dick’s shoulders go slack. With a tired smile, he pulls back fond feelings, and relives Damian’s success.

“Yeah.”

Bruce goes quiet again. He doesn’t take his eyes off of the wraith victim. Finally, after thirty seconds of silent brooding, Bruce says, “It’s difficult to visit him.”

“You’ve got to give me more than that.”

Bruce adjusts his cape. “I feel responsible for his condition.”

There it is, Dick thinks. 

“You’re not the only one.” Dick reels back to when he’d first found Damian comatose. “I think we all could have approached this in a different way. I should have known he would’ve been targeted. He’s a child. I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”

Dick raises a hand to inspect his palm. Giving a bitter chuckle, he continues, “It was a nightmare. I couldn’t look at him without thinking I could’ve done something to prevent his condition but-” Dick lowers his hand. “It didn’t justify leaving him in his time of need. I can’t let the guilt get to me. I imagine that, if I were in Damian’s position, I wouldn’t want him to agonize over something he couldn’t control. I think he feels the same way about me.”

“It’s hard to see him when he’s suffering,” Bruce confesses. 

“I know,” Dick says. He doesn’t deny it. It is hard.

Regardless, Bruce takes a step back from the boy’s hospital bed, and then makes his way to the window. Dick trails after him with his eyes in hopeful anticipation. He didn’t usually have such heart-felt conversations with Bruce, so he could only imagine what it might lead to. It might have only been a brief exchange, but Bruce must have gotten something out of it. Dick could only hope he'd properly communicated his emotions. 

“Nightwing. I’m going back to base. I trust you can pick up where I left off?”

“You mean check the status of the other children in the hospital? I think I can manage.”

Bruce doesn’t look back at Dick, but he gives the slightest of nods. Dick watches him climb out of the window. Bruce might not have outwardly confirmed it, but Dick knew Damian would be receiving a visitor soon. He wouldn’t have asked for Dick’s help to finish things up otherwise. 

As if on cue, the steady heart monitor spikes, and Dick turns to watch the patient stir drowsily. 

“Nightwing…?”

Dick sits on the edge of his bed.

“Hey, kiddo, how are you doing?”

Chapter Text

It’s a sweet thing to see Bruce sitting with his son.

Dick peeks into Damian’s room after training his heart out. He was expecting to see Damian lying in bed while Alfred attended nearby. Instead, it seemed Bruce had taken Dick’s advice to heart, because Bruce was now situated on Damian’s mattress. With soft murmurs, he reads out the description of a new gallery book. Damian had rested his head on his shoulder in quiet attention.

Dick was glad to see that Damian’s complexion was looking better. In fact, his overall countenance had improved, and this observation had given Dick great joy. 

Thank God, Dick thinks, remembering the devastation he’d faced only a few days prior. He’d been deeply pained to find out that Damian had no motivation for recovery. Thankfully, Dick learned the opposite to be true. Damian simply wanted his own autonomy. 

It was good that they had reached this point. Dick would have been heart-broken if Damian made the decision to head down a different path. 

“It’s not like you to eavesdrop,” a voice sounds from his flank.

Dick doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. “It depends on who I’m eavesdropping on.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that information on.”

“Babs, you could tell the whole world, but it wouldn’t stop me,” Dick teases. “I’m an older brother. It’s my job to snoop on my family’s business.”

“It’s also your job to get out of my way,” Barbara says. “I know that pedestrians often get the right-of-way, but I tend to have the upper-hand in those cases.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re not in traffic, huh?” Dick twists to eye Barbara with a friendly smile. “I didn’t know you’d be coming over today.”

“I didn’t want to be stuck in a five-hour conversation with you over the phone, so I decided it’d be best to pay a surprise visit. I thought I’d give Damian some moral support.”

Dick’s face visibly softens. “I think he’d like that. I’ve been trying to help him in whatever way I can, but I think he just needs someone who understands him.”

Barbara folds her hands professionally in her lap. 

“I think I’ve got it covered in that department,” she says.

Dick considers Barbara fondly before he hears Bruce speak up from Damian’s room. “Dick. Barbara. You might as well come in.”

Dick looks a little sheepish as he steps inside the room. Barbara wheels in after him, heads straight for Damian’s bedside, and settles near the edge.

Damian doesn’t lift his head from Bruce’s shoulder. However, with the new added presences, he seemed to relax further. It wasn’t missed by the three detectives in the room. 

“I was just reading about Vincent Van Gogh’s famous works,” Bruce says. “I remember seeing Damian eye this book a while back, so I thought that he might enjoy it.”

“Well,” Barbara says, “don’t let us interrupt you.”

Bruce eyes Barbara with consideration. It looked like he had something to say, but he seemed to judge against it. His eyes float back down to the book in his lap. Gently, he opens the cover, and smooths his hand over the introduction. 

Dick decides to get comfortable in Alfred’s usual spot. 

Bruce’s voice is calm as he reads. It’s so soothing, so strangely relaxing, that Dick finds himself dozing. Soon, his head is bobbing, and Dick tilts his head back to keep himself from falling over.

It wasn’t the greatest of ideas. Dick ends up napping with his neck in a strange position, and he sure could feel it once he roused from sleep. 

It seemed he wasn’t the only one lulled to sleep. Damian was knocked out cold in the position he’d already been in. With his cheek pressed against his father’s shoulder, Damian snoozes away, making gentle snores befit for his uncommon sleeping position.

“I didn’t mean to waste your time,” Bruce whispers to Barbara who gazes upon Damian fondly.

“It’s fine,” Barbara waves her hand in dismissal. “I can come back another day. I don’t want to disturb him. He looks so peaceful. It’d be a sin to wake him up.”

Bruce grunts in the affirmative.

Dick straightens out his neck. He massages it with a subdued groan. “I can’t come in here when you’re reading again,” he decides. “It puts me to sleep quick.”

Barbara quirks a brow. “Are you saying Bruce bores you so bad that you fall asleep?”

“No,” Dick denies. “It’s just so soothing.”

Bruce reaches over to brush the bangs out of Damian’s eyes. 

“I’m glad you think it’s soothing,” Bruce says.

“You should do it more often,” Dick insists. “I bet Damian would love it.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bruce murmurs. 

Dick smiles himself silly as an image of Damian, snuggled up against Bruce, pops into his head. It would be great bonding time for them. Damian had always wanted to be close to his father. 

“I’m going to get going.” Dick picks himself off of his chair with a stretch. “I’ll be back to check up on Damian later. I heard the speech pathologist is making some progress.”

“Yes,” Bruce affirms.

Dick feels warm at the thought of hearing his kid’s voice again. Humming a sweet tune, he strides for the door, and puts an intentional hop in his step. 

Damian would recover. It was a given. 

Chapter Text

“C’mon son, you have this handled.”

Damian’s face is twisted like a lemon as he struggles to step forward. It’d been three weeks since he had started to cooperate with the physical therapist. Damian had already improved leaps and bounds.

Even so, Damian still finds walking a daunting task, especially when his hands fail him. 

The strength in Damian’s hands abruptly relax, and Damian finds a one-way ticket to the ground. His knees buckled underneath him with traitorous intent, and his hands release the metal railings that surround him.

Damian feels his heart jump when he’s inches away from eating tile. 

Damian’s father is his saving grace. He sweeps in, catches Damian before he can face-plant the ground, and shifts himself to carry all of Damian’s dead weight. Damian leans against him limply, physically incapable of moving himself, while his father adjusts their positions on the floor. Soon, Damian is being forced to look up into his father’s eyes, no thanks to the hand cupping his cheek.

Damian searches his father’s gaze.

Damian is stunned when all he sees is pride.

“I’m so proud of you," his father says. 

Damian feels his heart stutter again except, this time, it’s for a different reason. 

Damian almost expects his physical therapist to pitch in with a few words of his own, but then Damian remembers that the physical therapist wasn’t present. Damian had wanted to practice on his own, and his father had agreed, only under the conditions that he could be there to assist. 

Damian feels the strength slowly return to him. With a klutzy tongue, one that was still difficult to use, he whispers, “Father.”

Bruce doesn’t fight the smile that stretches over his lips. 

“I think that’s enough for today,” he says gently. “It’s time for you to get some rest.”

Damian sentimentality quickly begins to evaporate at the mention of going back to bed. Stubbornly, Damian attempts to take himself away from his father’s hands, not at all pleased at the prospect of giving up. 

Bruce sighs as Damian tries to pry himself away (Damian wasn't doing a very good job with virutally no strength). For a moment, he looks tired, but then his expression swiftly changes. Something mischievous crosses over his features, and before Damian can do anything about it, his father lifts him up in the air.

“If you’re going to act like that, I guess I’m just going to have to hand you off,” he mock-sighs. “I think I saw Dick taking a nap on the couch earlier.”

Damian looks up at his father pleadingly. No, he tries to communicate, but Bruce plays oblivious.

Bruce carries Damian out of the gym, which had been turned into a makeshift rehab room, and then proceeds to head for the library. Damian feels energy shoot up his arm just so he can weakly punch his father’s chest. 

Bruce laughs lightly as if he’d just been tapped. Damian wanted to slap the smile off of his face, but he wouldn’t be given the opportunity. Bruce enters the library, heads straight for the reclining couches, and then proceeds to dump Damian over his older brother’s form. 

Dick immediately rouses in a jolt.

Dick looks around, disorientated, as he tries to figure out what was happening to him. When he lands his eyes on Damian, he stares, and then considers the boy’s state sleepily

“Oh, Damian, you wanted to sleep with me?” Dick hums cluelessly as he wraps his arms around his favorite kid. “Could’ve just asked.”

Damian scowls hard. 

Dick clearly wasn’t in his right mind because he accepts the situation as it is without question. Their father walks off with a smile, completely unspotted by Dick, which shouldn’t have been possible, but Dick was only half-conscious. He didn’t seem to be all that aware of his surroundings. 

Damian struggles only for a few seconds before realizing he wouldn’t be getting out of this. Angrily, he slumps against his older brother, and smudges his cheek against his chest. Damian’s face was not a happy sight. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Dick soothes as he pats Damian’s back. “I’ll help you through your nightmares.”

Damian flushes horribly as Dick misinterprets the situation. 

I don’t need comfort for nightmares, he thinks distastefully.

Dick continues to pat his back as if he were a babe settled against his bosom. 

“I’m always here for you,” Dick’s voice falls into a whisper. “Always, always, always.”

Damian feels some of the anger slip away as Dick presses a kiss into his hair. Damian begins to think about Dick’s unwavering loyalty, and how he’d been by Damian’s side from the very beginning. While Dick had every right to cast Damian aside because of his new-found uselessness, he’d done nothing of the sort. In fact, if anything, they’d gotten closer in the midst of Damian’s physical trials.

Damian feels his soul calm as he rests against his brother’s chest. 

He opens his mouth, attempts to speak, and fails on his first attempt. Damian doesn’t give up. He tries again, fumbles around with his tongue, and finally manages a slurred, “Thank you.”

It sounded more like a th’nk ‘ou, but it was better than nothing. 

“Hm, what was that?” Dick asks with a following yawn. 

Damian curls his fingers into his brother’s shirt.

He doesn’t bother repeating himself, and instead focuses on his brother’s heartbeat. Dick seems to forget that he had asked a question. Damian listens to his breathing settle back into a sleepy rhythm. His hand - the one which had been patting his back - ceases completely. It lays heavily into Damian’s body like an anchor. 

Damian doesn’t end up falling asleep, but he takes the moment to enjoy his brother’s company. 

Damian would make sure to subject his father to the same fate when he finally had complete control over his body.

Until then, Damian would heal, and he would surround himself with family. 

It only seemed right.