Archive of Our Own

Damian had never seen eyes so intimidating.

Maybe he would have cared enough to be frightened by them, in another circumstance. Nowadays, there wasn’t anything to be scared about. His end was coming soon. He could feel it. It was only a matter of time before life faded from his body, and before he was released from an existence of weakness and frustration.

He’d always been sick.

He was born with a weak constitution, and it made everyday tasks difficult. For some reason, he couldn’t walk as well as the others. Nor could he even wipe his own face. He was bedridden, and that had never been a problem until recently. After Grandfather was usurped by a faceless man, Damian’s help was erased altogether. No one came to visit, save for a young serving girl who delivered him food. She stayed by his side for about thirty minutes to make sure he got everything down, and then she slipped away with a sense of urgency.

He had the feeling she wasn’t supposed to be feeding him.

The only reason he was still alive was out of pity. That wouldn’t be the case any longer. The servant girl had stopped visiting him. He never saw her anymore. The only person that had entered his room in recent days was this man—a stranger who’d been escorted here by robed assassins. They stood by the door—waiting. Their hands were clasped behind their backs, and they were silent.

Damian weakly stared up at the eyes of the man who stared down at him. They were a deep blue. He’d seen such a color before, but it was different this time. It belonged to a living soul, and Damian wondered how many things those eyes had recorded.

Had they seen the ocean? Described to him only in books?

Or the lush green jungles that spotted the Earth?

Had he seen exotic animals like elephants and tigers?

What wonders they must have seen, he thought. Far more than a ceiling, he was certain.

“This isn’t what Talia described.”

The man’s voice was deep and steady. There was a twitch in his face, but Damian didn’t know how to decipher it. He didn’t have the energy to do so, anyways.

“He was neglected under Projekt’s rule,” an assassin informed him evenly. “Projekt ordered that he was to die a slow and painful death, but it’s suspected that he forgot about the boy after he was thrown in the Lazarus Pit. He never inquired after him. Lady Talia had no idea of his deteriorating condition. Only that he was imprisoned.”

The man’s face morphed into something dark and cold. Damian felt the same cold travel down his arms, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to see anything unpleasant. He was tired of unpleasant things. If he was going to die, it ought to happen with a sense of peace. Not with a sense of uneasiness.

A few moments passed, and voices exchanged words. While this conversation should intrigue him, he didn’t want to listen. He might not fear his death, but he did fear one thing. Hope. He didn’t want it. All it would do was crush him.

He waited for everything to end—for the men to stop talking and leave. That never happened. Instead, his body shifted. Arms dipped underneath him, prying him off his bed. Damian’s whole body ached, and his pain resonated through his throat. Put me back down, he wanted to say, but nothing came out. Only a tight noise, as if it’d been squeezed through a narrow tube.

His captor did not put him down.

“I don’t want anyone following us,” the man commanded cooly.

The assassins agreed respectfully and stepped to the side. They allowed the man to carry Damian away from his room, and Damian felt the air pressure around him shift once they emerged into the hallway. Cracking his eyes open, he noticed that the ceiling was different. Not only that, but there were new things to look at. There were torches stabilized against the walls, and while the walls didn’t look too different from the ones in his room, there were different spots and crevices that he’d never seen before. He’d already mapped out the ones in his room, so this was a special experience indeed.

But nothing could compare to the night sky.

His breath had been stolen from his lungs. All of creation hung above him. Twinkling. Soft.

He’d only seen illustrations in the books that had been read to him. His astonishment was powerful and all-consuming. The sky was like a magnet. His eyes were drawn to it, unwilling to look anywhere else.

Perhaps it was better that he’d been carried out of his room.

How could he miss such a thing before perishing?

Damian would stare at the ceiling for hours if he could.

It wasn’t because it was the only thing to look at. It was because it was so different from the ceiling that he was used to. It was mesmerizing. Damian could trace its imperfect bumps all day. It had patterns that ran across it, and he mapped every single one with his eyes. It was far more entertaining than it should have been.

Damian could only tear his eyes away when he wanted to rest. It was hard to keep his eyes open at times. It required a lot of energy that he didn’t have, but it was getting easier to remain lucid when he had visitors.

Damian was first introduced to his father that way.

Damian hadn’t known that the man who carried him away from his prison was his very own father. It never would have occurred to him, for he had never dreamed of meeting him, nor did he imagine having one to begin with. He wasn’t sure what to think now that he did have a father, but maybe he could come to appreciate it. He couldn’t think of anyone else who’d go out of their way to visit him, every day no less.

“Let’s get you sitting up.”

His father helped him get up and slowed his efforts when Damian whimpered. He continued carefully, bracing Damian against the bed’s headboard. Then he sat on the edge of his bed and presented a bowl of soup.

“Tomato this time,” his father explained. “I think you’ll like this one. Alfred made it.”

Alfred was one of the servants that visited Damian frequently. He’d been the one to give Damian his very first bath. He helped him go to the bathroom, and he also helped him change his clothes.

Every day.

Without fail.

That man attended Damian better than any servant of the past. He not only helped Damian keep his hygiene intact, but he also went out of his way to massage his muscles.

When a spoonful of soup was presented to him, Damian opened his mouth to accept it.

“Very good, Damian,” the man praised calmly.

Damian had never been praised for eating before.

How strange that simple things please this man.

After he’d been fed a good amount of soup, the bowl was placed on the end-table. Then Father left the bed, only to pull up a chair. After sitting down on it, he grabbed hold of a children’s book. He scooted the chair as close as he could, and then he opened up the book for reading.

He read often to Damian. This wasn’t the first time this had occurred. For the last two weeks that Damian had been here, they’d gone through several books.

“The Dog and his Xylophone,” Father announced.

He began to tell the ridiculous story of a dog who was missing his favorite xylophone. When a page was read, Father turned the book so that Damian could see the pictures. What he saw was a cartoonish looking dog, and an even sillier looking xylophone. It was bendy and wobbly, as if it could be shaped into anything. As the book proceeded, Damian felt himself growing tired. He was always tired. He took naps often. Even when people were talking to him.

When he started nodding off, the storytelling ceased. Then there were hands moving him around, laying him down in bed. With care, he was tucked back underneath a soft blanket. Just like the one he used to have, before the servants all left him.

He wondered if he could be safe here.

“Incredible,” Alfred said, “I’ll have you do all my untangling for now on.”

Damian looked down at the rope he’d taken the past hour unknotting. It’d been loose to begin with, probably for his sake, but it’d still taken him some time to get his fingers to work properly. Alfred had given him the knot to untangle, just like he’d given him a napkin to fold the day prior, and it seemed there was a purposeful intent behind it.

“You can show your father when he next visits,” Alfred mused. “He’ll be very proud of you, I’m sure.”

Will he?

Damian was skeptical of such a claim since he’d barely done anything worthy of pride, but then he remembered his father was always complimenting him for doing mundane things. Like eating and drinking. Perhaps Alfred was right. Perhaps he would be impressed.

The thought was childishly exciting.

“Here, why don’t you try this knot next?”

Damian was presented a new knot to mess with, this time having to do with shoelaces. He accepted the task humbly, and then fussed over the knot for a good long while. This one seemed to take him longer than the other, but he had Alfred’s company while he tried to figure it out. Alfred talked to him about what he would be making for dinner, and then he talked about taking Damian out when he was healthy enough. That had given him pause.

Alfred continued speaking but Damian’s mind drifted back towards the night sky.

He’d like to see it again.

After spending most of his time untangling things, Alfred decided he ought to have a break. They moved onto other activities, and after watching a cartoon on the tablet Alfred brought, he was much too tired to do anything else. He fell asleep mid-episode, dreaming about tomato soup.

When next he woke, it was because the tablet was being removed from his hand. He protested within his throat, but someone soothed him with a soft voice. Father.

“He did well today,” Alfred reported. “His dexterity still has some way to go, but it’s much improved.”

“Thank you for working with him, Alfred. I know that you didn’t sign up for this but—”

“But I wouldn’t have allowed you to do this alone, nor the young master. Which is why I think it might be beneficial if we begin introducing the others to the young sir. You won’t be available all the time, nor will I, so—”

“I wouldn’t wish to burden them.”

“They would have to know who he is regardless,” Alfred dismissed. “We don’t want any unfortunate accidents occurring.”

“They wouldn’t harm him.”

“They wouldn’t but—well. I imagine the young master would be upset if strangers began poking around without prior knowledge.”

“Good point,” Father murmured. He grabbed hold of Damian’s arm so that it could be tucked underneath the blanket. “We’ll see about introductions after he’s situated. Do you have the wheelchair in working order?”

“I do.”

“Thank you. I want to take Damian around for a walk in the gardens. He might enjoy the change of view.”

“He certainly would. There’s only so much one can do in their room. And to expand upon that, he’s been in his room his whole life. Going outside could prove to be more thrilling than average.”

Damian dozed back away unconsciousness as they prolonged their conversation. Deep within his dreams, he’d forgotten about tomato soup. Now he was dreaming about stars.

He’d like that.

To see them again.

A walk in the garden was a most enlightening experience. His eyes were wide the entire journey. His initial reaction got a chuckle out of his father, but otherwise, the whole thing was rather quiet. A breeze rustled through their hair, and Damian could hear the faint chirps of a songbird. He spent a good amount of time simply looking at the passing clouds, and then he’d seen a butterfly float along the breeze. Flapping blue wings, and landing on a bright, happy, flower.

He did not think he’d ever tire of it.

And he didn’t.

Father included daily walks within their routine after he’d discovered that Damian enjoyed them. They took different paths at times, but their favorite was the curly, winding path that led around the gardens, and then through the center. Sometimes Alfred would accompany them, and he had plenty to tell Damian. He told him all about the lemongrass he was growing, and the spearmint he hoped to acquire for his herb garden.

“Makes for a good tea,” he’d said.

After their garden walk, Damian was rolled into the kitchen. If Alfred was with them, he sometimes gave Damian homemade pudding. That was because Damian was slowly getting better at eating food with more substance, and Alfred had put in the effort to find things that weren’t so bland, and that might lift Damian’s spirits.

He enjoyed these moments, but what he really craved was walking on his own two feet. While he appreciated that he could get out of the house because of the wheelchair, he wanted to move around by himself. He was tired of staying in bed. Sitting down was just as exhausting. He wanted to stretch his legs. He wanted to walk himself across the hall and visit the bathroom by himself. Without Alfred’s assistance.

That was how he’d gotten into this predicament. After he’d been laid back down on his bed, Alfred had retreated to grab a chessboard. Father had already left for an arranged occasion, so he figured now was a good time as any to test himself. With no one around, he figured this was a perfect opportunity to get up.

He attempted to do that very thing, inching off his bed until his feet touched the ground. The ground was cold and hard, and his feet felt soft and weak. He attempted to stand himself up but—

“Master Damian!”

Alfred rushed to his side to help him get off the floor. He’d fallen from his bed.

“My word,” Alfred exclaimed, “how did you get yourself into such a mess!?”

Damian sighed as Alfred lifted him back up into the bed. He laid Damian back down and threw the covers over him. Just as they had been just a few minutes ago.

“Goodness,” Alfred huffed. “We don’t want you getting hurt. That would break your poor father’s heart, and mine too.”

Alfred attempted to straighten himself out, but he halted when fingers curled around his sleeve.

Alfred turned to look at him. There was no chessboard in his hands. He must have rushed back after hearing Damian’s thud. Nevertheless. Damian was a little surprised that his fingers had listened to him.

“I—” His voice came out weak and strained from neglect. “Walk. I want to… walk.”

“You wish for another walk in the garden?”

Damian released him. No. That’s not what he’d meant. He should probably correct him, but he didn’t. He felt fatigued. He didn’t want to waste his energy trying to explain something when he was so… so… tired. He’s so tired, in fact, that he began to drift off right then and there. The bed was doing something to him, and he wanted to blame it on the fresh sheets. They always felt so nice and cozy after Alfred fitted them on.

“Master Damian, we already went on such a walk today,” Alfred said.

Damian hummed and his head rolled to the side.

Alfred said something else, but he couldn’t hear.

His drifted away, once again.

Far, far away.

Thinking of a butterfly that was free enough to do whatever she wanted, and to go wherever she desired to go.

Damian couldn’t decide how he would appear to their new company, but he didn’t really care about first impressions right now. Damian was struggling just to eat, allowing Alfred to feed him like an infant, which meant eating oatmeal by the spoonful, and being fussed over with a napkin every-so-often. Alfred would occasionally dab his chin and smile at him.

Dick and Tim sat at different spots at the table. Damian could feel their eyes on him, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Jason sat not too-far off too, next to Cass, but they didn’t bother to examine him. Jason was too caught up in his head, leaned back against his chair with his arms crossed, and Cass was ignoring him for reasons unknown.

Damian didn’t care.

It took too much energy to care.

“I heard you were taking care of someone, Bruce, but I had no idea it was your own kid,” Tim said.

“I never thought he’d have any kids,” Jason muttered under his breath.

Dick wasn’t like the others because he made direct eye-contact with Damian and gave him a small smile. It was as if he was the only person within the room who understood he could hear them.

Alfred gave Jason a disapproving look, though, but Jason was too busy looking at his plate to notice.

“Well,” Tim began, clearing his throat, “is that the only reason you had us all gather here?”

It was strange how awkward the dinner was. Tim didn’t get an answer from his father, which left him sitting there like a neglected child, and Jason huffed with clear annoyance. Dick ignored everyone and stood up from his chair. That one motion gained everyone’s attention, including Cass. Every pair of eyes followed him as he rounded the table, and then crouched down next to Damian’s wheelchair.

“Hey there,” he said warmly, “I’m Dick. Nice to meet you.”

Damian was silent for a good long moment. How incredibly odd, he thought. Even so, the man waited patiently for a reaction of kind.

His effort was rewarded when Damian, ever-so-quietly, whispered his name. Low enough so that no one could hear, except for Dick.

Dick’s face brightened and he seemed to see something in Damian that no one else could.

“Damian,” Dick repeated. “How old are you?”

Damian stared at him. Had anyone ever encouraged conversation with him like this?

“Eight,” he admitted with a faint breath.

“Cool. I’m twenty-five.”

Damian examined his face. Twenty-five?

“You’re old,” he realized.

Dick barked a laugh and Damian was astonished. How was that funny? This man would die soon from old age. He would start looking like Grandfather, and then he’d grey away.

“Maybe a little old,” Dick said, “but I’m still plenty young too.” Dick looked heavily amused, but he felt it best to move onto a different topic. Before he ran out of things to say about his age. “So. What do you think about the manor?”

Damian decided to entertain his question by answering it, confessing that the manor was a nice change of pace, and that maybe he’d really start liking it once he’d explored the other rooms. It was far better than where he used to live, he had claimed, and Alfred was much more tender than his past servants.

“Yeah, he’s a big-ol grandpa,” Dick agreed.

Alfred gave him a humored look.

Dick proceeded to ask more questions that Damian answered honestly. When asked his favorite food, he said tomato soup. When asked about what kind of things he did in his spare time, he mentioned the garden walks and hand exercises. Then Dick asked him if there was anything he would like to do, and Damian paused at that.

He would like to walk.

He would like to be healthier and run in the grass.

He mentioned something else instead.

“The stars. I want to… to see the stars again.”

“The stars!” Dick exclaimed. “That can be easily arranged.”

“Quite right,” Alfred said.

They started talking about constellations and planets. Damian looked away from Dick for a split-second, connecting gazes with his father. The content smile on his face had him staring. That was different than the tense expression he’d been wearing earlier.

“Isn’t there a meteor shower that’s predicted to occur soon?” Tim joined in.

“I completely forgot about that,” Dick said.

“Well,” Bruce interjected, dabbing a napkin over his chin, “we’ll have to see that we prepare for such an event. I imagine smores and a campfire would be mandatory.”

“Oh, count me in,” Dick chimed. “I’m unoccupied for the next two weeks.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Tim said, “but I can try to make it.”

Jason didn’t say anything when everyone glanced his way, determined to stay out of the conversation, but Cass was willing enough to stay for stargazing.

Damian’s heart was lightened at the idea of witnessing this so-called ‘meteor-show’ and watching the stars while he was at it.

It was a privilege he could never have afforded in another time or location.

Dick stuck around like he promised, and Damian found he had another companion to spend time with. Father temporarily took a step back from garden-walks to have some alone time, and Dick took over by rolling Damian along familiar pathways. Damian found his company enjoyable, mostly because Dick sought out his opinion on almost everything he talked about, and when Damian didn’t have an opinion, or anything to say for that matter, he was never offended.

When the walks were over, Dick introduced several new cartoons for him. He even disappeared one afternoon to buy him a pile of comic books, and while turning the pages were tiresome, Damian liked reading about superheroes. They were able to accomplish great feats and overcome their weaknesses. He found such traits admirable.

They ate together at mealtimes, in both his bedroom and in the dining room.

When Dick was occupied, he made sure Damian had a friend. He’d given him a stuffed animal. A bear, with white fur. Then he gave him another storybook that accompanied the bear, and Damian spent all evening re-reading the book by himself. The story was fanciful, claiming that his stuffed bear would get up when he was asleep, and wander around to clean his room and defeat evil shadows.

But he liked it.

That’s all that mattered.

Father was in a better mood because of Dick’s company. Damian’s was too. It even showed in his body. It became easier to turn the pages of a book. It also became easier to untie knots and to color in empty coloring pages. Alfred was pleased with his progress. Damian was too.

When the day of stargazing arrived, Damian was deposited in his wheelchair and moved outside. Alfred was his driver this time. He steered Damian’s wheelchair until it stopped in front of a campfire, and Damian was utterly entranced by the flickering flames. He’d never seen a sight so consuming. While fire was not unfamiliar to him, he’d never seen them so free before. So open and alive.

His attention was only taken away when Dick attempted to teach him how to smoke a marshmallow.

“You’re going to burn it that way,” Tim complained.

“It’s better if it’s a little burnt.”

Tim was not amused and leaned towards Damian. “Don’t listen to him. Cook it like this, see? Not too close, but not too far.”

When Tim offered him his own stick, he grabbed hold of it with every intent on obeying his instructions. The stick wavered in the air, however. He struggled keeping it up, and his face twisted with frustration.

Tim stopped cooking his marshmallow in a rush to help him steady it. His hand gripped Damian’s and his strength lifted it. “Let’s do this one together,” he proposed.

Father watched them from afar, sitting in a camp chair next to Alfred. Cass was nearby, leaning back as if asleep. Damian wondered if that was the case.

Dick glanced Damian’s way every-so-often, but he trusted in Tim’s ability to take care of things.

Once the marshmallow was done, Damian had his first smore.

He couldn’t remember that last time he’d eaten something so rich and sweet. He could barely take more than one bite, and Dick quickly intervened to make sure he knew everything was okay. He didn’t have to finish anything. Not if it made his stomach upset.

“Maybe some other day,” Dick said with a smile. “It’s the cooking part that’s fun anyways. I think that outweighs the taste.”

Tim was roasting another smore when Dick turned his attention towards the sky.

Damian followed him and it happened.

He saw hundreds of stars shoot across the sky.

The sight was other-worldly. How could such a thing happen? How was it possible? It was like magic. He could find no other reason or explanation for it.

“Oh,” Damian whispered, “wow.”

“I think we should take a photo to mark this occasion,” Alfred said. “I want the whole family in it.”

Father shook Cass awake, who was disappointed she’d dozed in the middle of the meteor shower, and Dick straightened his appearance out. Tim stood up and gripped the bars of Damian’s wheelchair before pushing it into position. Damian blinked in surprise. It wasn’t often that he got to participate in something like this, and, if he was going to be honest with himself, he didn’t think he would even be included in this photo. He hadn’t been here for long and—

“Looking great, Damian,” Dick assured as he stood next to Tim.

Father joined them and placed a hand on Cass’ shoulder. Alfred set up the camera and—

His swift walk to join them was almost comical.

“Everyone look like they’re happy to be here,” Father demanded.

Dick laughed jovially and Tim smiled. Damian didn’t realize he should make his own face different until the camera went off, but when Alfred inspected the picture, he didn’t say anything about it. He seemed more pleased than anything else. When he showed the results to the family, they didn’t seem to find any fault either. By the time the photo was show to Damian, he realized why.

He was smiling.

Father put Damian to bed that night, settling him back into his mattress. Damian was used to this, allowing the man to move him whichever way he liked so that every limb was tucked under the blanket.

Then he did something to his head. After running a hand across his hair, he leaned down to press a kiss on his crown.

“Good night, Damian,” he said.

Damian probably should have returned the saying, but instead?

“Damian??”

Father’s eyes were blown wide as tears ran down Damian’s face. Damian couldn’t stop himself and sniffled and wept and used his blanket to rub the tears away. His cries were near-silent, but there was something that wanted to come. Something deep down, hidden in his chest.

“Son,” Father said, “what’s wrong?”

Damian didn’t answer him because he didn’t know how to. Nothing was wrong. His father had kissed his head. That’s all that happened.

But no one had ever kissed him on the head before.

Only his mother who he hadn’t seen in years.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Father insisted.

The deep thing in his chest ballooned out when Father wrapped his arms around him, and then Damian’s cries were vocal and loud. He tried to get a breath in between cries, but it was hard to do so. He hadn’t had a good cry throughout his entire childhood, and now it was all coming out. Everything was slipping away from him. His fear, his hope. Turns out, he had been scared of something else after all. Being abandoned and alone again. Believing that this all might be a dream, not his new reality.

“It’s okay,” Father repeated, running a hand over his upper-back, “it’s okay.”

Damian clung to him and cried until there was nothing left.

And his father held him the entire time.

Damian never joined the vigilante business.

Even after improving, he was still weaker than the average person. He required a cane to walk everywhere, and his hands occasionally failed him. Even should he have been in top-condition, he imagined his father wouldn’t have wanted him to become a vigilante. His brothers and sister would have been against it too. They’d become mighty protective over him within the last six years. He couldn’t do much without someone fretting over him.

He did what he could with his limited physical ability. He frequented the public library and gave Barbara his company. He learned to play the violin and to paint. His skill in the arts had impressed his father greatly, so he signed Damian up for several programs. Through those programs, Damian made a few friends of his own. He’d met a few bullies too, but those people didn’t last long. He didn’t know how, but his family were excellent at rooting out people who mocked him.

He found loyalty from his family. From his animals too.

Damian sat with one of his animal companions at this very moment. Titus sat at his feet and yawned. Damian was sitting at the end of the stairs. Waiting. He tried to stay up as long as he could, but his fatigue had never truly faded. Once 11:00 rolled around, he had fallen asleep without meaning to.

“He was worried sick about you.”

Voices stirred him.

“Hn.”

They whisper and he can’t hear much else. But he can feel the shift of his weight. The whine in Titus’ voice.

He cracked open his eyes as Father lifted him up and into his arms. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform yet, but his cowl was down. Damian hadn’t just been sitting on any stairs. He’d been sitting on the stairs within the cave.

Damian attempted to say something, but his voice came out muddled and undecipherable.

“It’s alright. I’m just taking you to some place warmer,” Father promised.

Alfred carried Damian’s cane as they all traveled up the stairs. Damian could hear Alfred quietly scold Titus for trying to walk between his legs even though he was a large dog with lanky limbs.

Even though he didn’t need to be carried like this anymore, his father still found the opportunity to do so. Damian could remember a time where this was a frequent occurrence, back when he couldn’t do much on his own. He imagined his growth wasn’t making this any easier, not since he was heavier than he used to be.

Yet his father never protested or complained.

Maybe he would have complained for him.

But as his father carried him back to his room, Damian couldn’t.

He was too warm.

Too safe and secure.

Submitting himself to his fate, he closed his eyes. 

A peaceful end indeed, to a life of pain and endless hurt.