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Damian couldn’t tell anyone where it came from.
It first started with the temper tantrums – the unbearable episodes that had everyone running away from him – an understandable thing considering his violent outbursts. Damian wouldn’t have wanted to be around himself either, but at some point, it transitioned into something quiet. It wasn’t aggressive spectacles anymore. It was lying in bed for hours at a time, forcing himself to be ‘functional’ when it was required, until, finally, he stopped trying, and he gave up on ever becoming a better person.
It was too much.
Damian couldn’t recall the feelings that had provoked him into the state. It seemed unimportant to dwell on, since his memories were failing him. Bad memories made it difficult to remember things – to think. Damian was nothing more than an empty husk, devoid of emotion. The only company he had were his thoughts, and even his thoughts were unavailable. There was nothing in his head. Just. Silence.
Until his father knocks on the door.
At this point, it’s routine. He lets himself in and tugs Damian’s blankets off. Alfred trails in after him, fresh sheets in hand. He waits to the side, patiently. He reminds Bruce to be gentle. Bruce grunts in return, claiming he’d never think to do the opposite. The rest flies over Damian’s head. He lets his father tug him out of bed. Except, he’s too exhausted to stand on his feet. So his father wraps an arm around his shoulders, and then he steadies him.
“Let’s get you to the bathroom,” he speaks softly, like a parent with a newborn babe. “Just a few steps, then we’ll be there.”
Just a few steps, he says.
He always says that. He said it three days ago.
“That’s it, one foot at a time.”
They manage to get Damian out of his room and into the hallway. Father makes his pace slower than any human being’s natural walk. All for Damian. Because Damian has been slower than a tortoise these past few weeks. Forcing him to move faster seemed like a genuine chore. His spirit could hardly keep up with it, let alone his body.
Father helps him into the bathroom and then sits him down on a stool.
Damian rolls his head and hangs it low.
He wants to ask his father if he should be here. If there wasn’t some research for him to be doing, something more important to occupy his time with. Instead, he keeps his mouth shut. His tongue is too heavy to move. His jaw, even more so.
Father grabs a bucket. Damian hears him fill it with water in the bathtub, and he knows what’s going to happen next. His father had done this last time. And the time before that.
“Shirt off,” Father says. He sets the bucket down and tugs the pajama top upwards. He’s even prepared to lift Damian’s limbs, if need be, but this time Damian is cooperative. He limply raises his arms, just enough to put a pause in his father’s movements.
Surprise, he suspects.
Father doesn’t comment on the movement even though it was the most Damian had done besides, well, walking, and breathing. He tosses the shirt onto the counter and then grabs the bucket. He tilts it to pour it through Damian’s hair. The water comes in a steady stream, only moved to reach parts of his head that it had missed.
Damian can’t think of many people who’d be willing to do this for a person. Let alone someone that was more than capable of doing this themselves. Truth be told, Damian hadn’t washed his own hair in quite some time. He’d stopped at some point. It must have gotten bad. Otherwise, his father wouldn’t have taken the responsibility upon his own shoulders.
Except, his motions didn’t scream responsibility. There was nothing more delicate than the way his father’s feather-like fingertips run shampoo through his hair. There was compassion there. Love too. The sensation hadn’t dulled even after repeated sessions.
His hair is scrubbed. Then, it’s rinsed.
Whatever happens next, he’s not sure. He zones out, only coming back to himself when his father is trying to get his shirt back on him. Damian sluggishly complies, missing the twitch in his father’s face.
Bruce lifts Damian up again and steadies him.
This time, they don’t go back to his room. His father claims he needs a change of scenery. So, they take the long way to the living room, only pausing at the stairs. The climb downwards is excruciatingly slow, but his father never complains. Eventually, they make it to the ground floor. Then, the living room. His father lowers him onto the couch. He makes sure Damian is comfortable before he locates the remote. Collapsing next to his son, he switches the television on. Then he throws an arm around Damian’s shoulders, squeezing him in.
His father flips through channels as if it were an ordinary Monday. He dwells on the news station for a bit, but then he moves on. Damian hears something about someone building a house, then a Spanish network reporting on celebrity gossip. Finally, his father stops on a classic movie. The grey and white kind, judging from the sound quality.
He puts the remote down on the couch arm. Then, he tucks Damian deeper into his side. He buries his nose into Damian’s hair and sighs.
Why are you doing this?
Damian wants to ask many things, but that had to be the top question. He didn’t see a point in his father’s service. There was nothing to gain from it, no reward.
Damian couldn’t quite get himself to inquire, but his fingers twitch. He weakly grabs onto his father’s shirt and then tugs on it. He hadn’t meant to do any tugging, but it’d gotten his father’s attention.
His father hums. “Damian?”
A whisper. The first thing Damian manages to say after weeks of mutism.
“No one asked you to take care of me.”
It could have been interpreted negatively. Fortunately, his father wasn’t one to be dissuaded. He hums again.
“I wanted to.”
What a ridiculous answer. That couldn’t be all there was to it.
“Wouldn’t you rather be doing anything else?”
A wispy laugh. Now, Damian felt like the silly one.
“Not really, no. Everything else can wait. You’re more important.”
“But Gotham,” another tug.
“Even Gotham.”
Damian isn’t quite sure what to make of that statement as his father sinks into the couch. He settles for silence, ears training back in on the movie playing in the background. His father doesn’t care to expand, having said enough for the evening. He may as well have ended the conversation with a nuclear bomb. Damian couldn't stop repeating the phrase in his head. Even Gotham, he'd said. Even Gotham wasn't more important than taking care of his depressed son.
He should be embarrassed. Instead, he's floored. His father was dedicated to Gotham. Gotham was his everything. His life's work.
He'd put it aside. For him?
Damian blinks sluggishly, held in his father's side.
His father might have just as well have said I love you.