Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time Damian died, he was four years old and scaling up the side of a mountain. It was Ra’s Al Ghul’s idea of an adequate training exercise. At first, Damian had only tumbled, breaking his wrist at the mishap, but still pursuing forward. Unbeknownst to him, he had obtained a head injury that made itself fatal once he reached the top.

Talia, his mother, had found him dead and upon taking him back to Nanda Parbat, was shocked to see him come back to life. To Damian, it felt as though he was just waking up, albeit in terrible amounts of pain. Somehow, he was still able to realize that he had just died.

Even in the present, Damian was unsure of the science behind it. Mother made the very intelligent decision of keeping Damian’s ability a secret, however, that also limited her resources in seeking scientific help. She suspected it had something to do with prolonged exposure to the Lazarus Pit as an infant but it was only a theory. 

Grandfather would have said that Damian’s ability was a blessing. Perhaps while Damian was still young and naive, he would have blindly agreed.

Now, Damian was eleven and convinced in every way that he was cursed. 

The only person who knew about his infinite resurrection ability was his mother. Talia sent him to Batman in an attempt to not only keep him away from the League of Assassins but to also prevent them from discovering his power. Damian had made sure to keep the secret away from Richard and especially Father. He had to try hard enough to be worthy of receiving the title of Robin. If Father found out that he was a Meta, he would kick Damian out of Gotham like he had Superman. 

That was certainly not an option. If Damian was not Robin, he was nothing.    

Luckily, his ability was easy enough to keep hidden. All he had to do was not die. Everyone else living on Earth completed the task every day. Why couldn’t he? 

Of course, it came with faults as well. Damian suspected that one of his problems was routed from particularly how many times he had died; it must have been a lot because he was unable to remember all of them. His time at the manor taught him that League training was cruel and Damian inferred that he had probably died from multiple training exercises before. 

It was obvious that there were many things his mind protected him from. Sometimes Damian would scan his body and mull over every scarred line of white painting his skin. He found that there were enough scars he could count twice on his fingers that he did not remember obtaining.  

It was notably horrible whenever Damian would remember a way he had died. 

Once, he had gotten back from patrol, covered in dust and soot. A building had exploded, courtesy of the Riddler, and Robin had been in charge of digging for civilians. As a result, he was covered in the remnants of the crumpled building. 

The most pathetic part of it all was that Damian was not triggered by the collapsing building, but instead terrified whilst in the shower once they all returned to the cave. 

That was how he had discovered, in vivid detail, that he had drowned at five years old and met his fate at the bottom of the ocean. At least he didn’t have a scar from that one. Even still, he had a panic attack on the bathroom floor.

Afterwards, Damian looked so ghastly that Father had asked him if he was feeling alright. A worthy heir did not complain about such frivolous things, so he nodded and walked off with a quickly typed-out report. That had been weeks ago. 

“Damian?” A knock on his door.

Damian was not startled by the noise. It was only Father.

“Come in,” Damian offered from his balled-up position on his bed. He felt safer when his knees were touching his chest.

Father slowly opened the door and peeked in. “Are you feeling okay?”

Damian furrowed his brows. He hadn’t had a new memory about death lately, nor had he fallen ill, so he was unable to deduce where Father had even come to that conclusion.

“I’m fine,” Damian assured.

“Is there another reason you’re not in the cave then?” Father asked, voice still gruff but not quite a growl.

Damian sorted through each file in his brain that stored away information and dreadfully realized that it was time to patrol and he was supposed to be suited up in the cave around twenty minutes ago.

“I–” Damain cleared his throat. “I must have lost track of time. I will get ready.”

Father absently nodded and followed him down to get suited up himself.

The wind threaded gentle hands through his unkept hair as he grappled to the next roof. Damian would never admit it, but he loved it when it was just him and his father during patrol. The rest of his intolerable allies always found ways to insult him. When it was just Batman, it was peaceful. Sure, the work was harder but Damian would never complain when fighting enemies.

Tonight, Batman and Robin were working on finding three children who had been kidnapped by their father. Just by glancing at his criminal background, he was a horrid man. Father found a lead earlier in the day and Damian had agreed that it was worth investigating. 

They arrived at the man’s workplace. It looked halfway toward decomposition and Damian partly wondered why the people of Gotham didn’t put buildings like that out of their misery. The building was used as an illegal weapons dealer. It wasn’t serious enough to warrant Batman’s intervention but still very much illegal.

Damian loomed behind Father like a well-trained dog and waited for his release command. Batman didn’t bother glancing back at him, instead crashing into the window. Damian deftly followed.

Two men were inside and guns were instantly aimed at them. Batman threw two Batarangs, successfully causing the guns to backfire. The men faltered, not surprised in the slightest. One of the men lunged for Robin, probably under the assumption that he was an easier target as opposed to Batman. 

He was pathetically wrong. Damian was not only a trained assassin but quite literally immortal.

He pivoted to the side, grasping the perpetrator’s head and roughly slamming it into the adjacent wall. There was a sharp sound at the impact but no crack. Damian was smart enough to not kill him. 

The man still cried out in shock and brought out a knife he had tucked away in the inside of his jacket. His arm flailed as he swiped for Robin. Damian thought about faking a yawn just to be petty but then instantly pictured that as something Todd would do and the appeal was gone. 

After a well-practiced jab to the shoulder, the man was disarmed and the knife clattered to the floor. Damian kicked the weapon away, grabbing the man’s jacket and throwing him beside his comrade. 

Batman loomed over top of both of them, looking so intimidating that even Damian would have gotten chills.

“Where is Ronald Young?” Batman growled. 

The men flinched back and Damian smirked.

“I’ve no idea w-who you’re talkin’ about!” one of them gasped.

Batman threw a Batarang that impaled itself right beside the perpetrator's head.

“ Where, ” Batman ground out once again, much more aggressive than the last.

“The–the warehouse on the edge of Crime Alley!” the other admitted. Damian wouldn’t have been surprised if he wetted his pants. 

Father only grunted and Damian interpreted that as their cue to leave. The men were left trembling on the floor while Batman and Robin grappled off into the night. 

It seemed Father fully believed that they had told the truth, proved by the speed at which he was flying toward the warehouse. Damian dutifully followed. On the way there, he prepared himself for whatever condition the children were in. They would probably need medical help. At the very least, some comfort.

There was one singular glow coming from one of the warehouse windows. How the building had power, Damian had no idea. Father glanced at him and Damian nodded. The sight was promising. 

Batman kicked down the door closest to the window and stalked in. When they both arrived in the well-lit room, they caught sight of two malnourished children. They didn’t have any obvious visible injuries but both had tears streaming down their faces.

Damian could see the relief on Batman’s shoulders but the only thing he could think about was the lack of the third child. The room had nothing in it, therefore nowhere to hide. Nor was Robert Young there, meaning he had taken the last child and ran.

As Batman crouched down and inspected the children with gentle hands, Damian eyed the exits available. There was a strip of plywood leaned up against the wall, sloppily placed. Robin carefully examined it and found an opening behind it. 

The perpetrator had escaped that way and it was Damian’s job to save the last child. Without telling Father, he slipped through the exit and began the hunt.

“Robin!” Father yelled, effectively startling the children. Damian knew that his father would not leave two victims alone so he was able to proceed alone.

The ground was muddy due to the copious amounts of rain Gotham received. The idiotic man had left footprints, leading Damian to his location. They were fresh. Perhaps his comrades at his workplace had warned him that Batman was on the way so he took one of his children and ran. 

The path led to a graveyard of storage containers. A quiet clang echoed across the space and Damian bounded toward the sound. As he got closer, he could hear distressed whimpers coming from a child. 

Robin found Robert with a knife to his child’s neck. He crept as close as possible until the man flinched and the knife drove deeper into the child. There was not enough pressure to elicit blood but Damian had no way of knowing if it would lead to that.

Robin reached into his utility belt, discreetly pulling out a smoke bomb. He quickly threw it to the ground and made his move in the confusion. He grabbed the perpetrator's wrist and bent it as far as he could. Damian heard a satisfying crack and kicked the man off to the side. 

He grabbed the child who lashed out at the contact. Damian was not good with victims. Thugs, he could deal with. Helpless victims were not his forte. In his short-lived panic, Robert had gotten up without Damian’s knowledge. A sharp pain dragged across his arm, causing blood to instantly pour out of the wound.

Robin did not hiss at the pain, nor did he stop to inspect it. He let go of the child for a moment and knocked the back of the man’s legs down. He collapsed to the floor and Damian lunged. He whipped the man’s face, knocking him out cold. 

When he turned back around, Batman was behind him with the three children who had hugged upon seeing each other. Father did not speak to him but Damian could tell he was not happy with his actions.

They returned the children to Commissioner Gordon with the hopes of them finding a nice place to stay. Batman minutely talked to Gordon but moved away just as fast. Robin followed obediently.

Damian did not get scolded until they had arrived in the cave. His arm was still dripping with blood, staining the most colourful parts of his suit. He wasn’t often scared by blood but the sight was unsettling. 

Pennyworth grabbed his arm to treat it while Father glared.

“You could have died,” his father began, voice laced with fury.

Damian had to suppress a scoff at the irony. If only he knew.

“I didn’t,” Damian fought.

“You could have,” Father growled and Damian didn’t oppose the statement.      

Damian stayed silent. Anything he said could reveal his secret or only make things worse.

“You are so reckless,” Father began. “I don’t care if you are a trained assassin. You are not invincible.”

Damian clamped his mouth shut, not only to stop himself from biting back a remark but also to quiet the whimper of pain from the needle running through his arm. His hand had a slight tremble to it and Pennyworth must have noticed because he paused to rub his shoulder in a soothing motion. 

That seemed to cause Father to pause because his lips parted for just a moment as he stared at his son’s bloodied arm.

“Don’t do that again,” Father weakly threatened, ending the lecture.

He walked over to the computer to type out his report and Damian thought about writing his later as he thanked Pennyworth and stumbled up to his room after he had changed. Titus was on the floor next to his bed. He gently smiled at the sight of his dog.

He crawled into bed, patting the empty space to invite Titus on. The dog lept up quickly and lay down next to him.

Damian was glad he had never died from a dog attack. Or at least if he had, he didn’t remember it. Titus helped him tremendously when he discovered a new death. 

His dog took up more space on the bed than Damian but he didn’t mind. Sometimes the large size of the mattress made him feel too small and helpless; it made him feel like a child. Despite the thought, he brought his knees to his chest and scrunched up even smaller. 

Without knowing he had fallen asleep, Damian shot up from sleep, ridden with bone-shaking terror from the remnants of a nightmare. 

One minute he was training with an assassin in the League and the next a sword was driven through his gut. He remembered the ear-splitting pain that spread throughout his body like a virus. There was blood; a lot of blood. At that age, he had certainly seen that much blood before but never his own. 

Damian remembered freezing with his mouth open, dazedly eyeing the wound. It looked wrong, seeing the way the rest of the sword was hidden in his stomach. He was unable to look behind him but was sure it had gone all the way through his torso. 

Damian remembered realizing he was about to die as soon as the pain stopped. At that point, Mother was there, cradling him in her arms. It was nice, finally being held. Sometimes, Damian wished he got hurt like that more often because only then did his mother hold him and quietly whisper comforting words. 

Mother’s fingers grazed across his cheek, smearing his own blood across his face unknown to Damian. His world faded into black.

Damian was six when he died for the third time. 

Damian, at eleven years old, lifted up his shirt to inspect where the sword had entered. There was a muted scar running across his abdomen.

It only confirmed that it was not a nightmare, but a memory.

Chapter Text

Damian had school the next morning and despite being shaken by his nightmare, it was nothing he couldn’t handle.

School was never fun. The majority of the things he had to learn, he had already known. It didn’t help that everyone was afraid of him. Grayson assured Damian that the students attending Gotham Academy were not very friendly when he had attended so he assumed that it wasn’t worth attempting to make friends. 

He must have looked more exhausted than usual because Father stared at him for a long while when he walked down for breakfast. It was only confirmed when he spoke. 

“I thought I told you to go to bed early?” Father commented, sipping at his coffee.

Damian scowled. “I did.”

His father only grunted and Pennyworth tutted at him like he was some insolent child. Damian’s frown grew on his face. 

Breakfast was dull and silent like it usually was. Father was never a morning person and although Damian didn’t mind it, he wasn’t one for small talk. That was more of Grayson’s thing. If Drake was here, the silence would be filled with sharp insults and Pennyworth’s disappointment.

It wasn’t long before Damian was dropped off at the hellscape they called “school”. Out of all of his classes, English was by far the most boring; all of the language classes were. It wasn’t that Damian hated the subject but it was the agony of listening to the degenerates around him try to spell out the simplest of words. His teacher constantly complimented his writing for how “advanced” it was.

Math class was fairly easy. Damian found it somewhat therapeutic, solving the easiest of equations that the other children suffered with. Science was much of the same.

Damian’s favourite, however, that medal went to art. His art teacher was very understanding of his artistic talent and let him veer off of the curriculum to create things that would keep him challenged.

While the other kids were watching a step-by-step tutorial on how to draw butterflies, Damian was creating a very detailed shark drawing with various pencil crayons. It was the one class where his classmates looked at him with envy. The other classes were full of dirty looks Damian couldn’t quite decipher. 

Every once in a while, a phantom pain would twist in his gut at the memory of the sword driving into his abdomen. It was pathetic with the way he had to brace himself on his desk and meticulously take in strangled breaths. Damian was used to it. It happened every time he had another nightmare memory. 

Thankfully, Damian got through the rest of the school day without getting picked on.

He stomped into the entrance of the manor, relieved to finally be home. The house was silent apart from–footsteps. Not Father’s or Pennyworth’s but someone else; someone he recognized.

Richard stumbled into the entryway and lit up at the sight of Damian. He was practically glowing, charging at Damian like an overexcited dog. 

“Grayson?” Damian said to voice his surprise. 

He was not informed that Richard would be visiting so either Father had failed to mention it to him or his older brother was aiming for a surprise visit.

Grayson scooped him into a hug. It was relaxing, like the pressure of a weighted blanket draped over your chest. Damian would never admit it, but he secretly enjoyed the complicated feelings he experienced while hugging. He used to think it made him vulnerable, letting someone so close to him, but it was nice to be comforted. 

“I missed you, Little D!” Richard squealed whilst still trapping him in a tight grip.

He didn’t relent until Damian decided he had enough and began to squirm away from the contact. Grayson let go, thankfully. He was pushy but he made sure to respect Damian’s boundaries. 

“How was school?” Grayson asked as they both walked to the kitchen.

Damian chuffed. “It was a waste of time as usual.”

Grayson pouted. “Make any friends yet?”

Damian had to suppress the frown that began to smear across his face and instead hid it with a deft roll of eyes. “The fact that you think I would want to be friends with any of those rabble hooligans is offensive.” 

“I hope you don’t say that to their faces,” Grayson winced.

Damian was quick to reassure. “I have refrained myself thus far.” 

“Good…that’s good.”

The air grew thick and uncomfortable. Damian was unsure where he had gone wrong in the conversion. Not much could make Dick Grayson out of place but apparently, Damian was well trained in the art. He sensed that there was to be more said, however, Grayson did not continue on. He simply rummaged through the pantry for a snack. He eventually landed on a plate filled with crackers and assortments of cheese.

Father then entered. “How was school, Damian?”

“It was efficiently boring,” Damian grumbled, grabbing a cracker off of his brother’s plate and shoving it into his mouth. Richard slid the rest of the plate toward him. 

Father did not chide him for the comment and instead, simply sighed. It didn’t make him feel any better. Damian almost wished he did get mad at him for hating school. His father had been extensively passionate about Damian needing to make friends. 

Least admittable of all, Damian craved the attention.

It was something he was unequivocally unfamiliar with. During his time with the League, no such thoughts plagued him and if they did, he would have repressed them, shutting them down immediately. 

It was similar in the way he almost wished to die so he could receive a gentle touch from his mother.

Ultimately, Damian wished he could lie to himself to prevent such draining thoughts yet it was almost impossible for him. He was selfish. Damian was a boy who wanted too much without giving anything in return. 

He couldn’t even give his life.  

Damian clutched his stomach, where the scar of the stab wound lay. Father squinted at him at the movement. It was enough for Damian to hastily let go.

“Are you hurt?” Father asked.

“No. I am unharmed,” he muttered in response.

Grayson turned toward him and studied his hunched-over form. “Do you feel sick?”

“No–”

“Are you sure?” Grayson cut in. “You haven’t touched any more of the cheese and crackers.”

Deep coiled frustration untangled from his chest and heaved out of his lungs with a hearty sigh. “I’m fine!”

Damian quickly stood, slamming his palms onto the counter. It made a loud sound and the slap echoed in the shocked silence. Humiliation burned at his cheeks and to attempt to spare himself any further embarrassment, he stomped up to his room.

He did not slam the door, nor did he scream in fury. Damian simply huddled into his bed and began to sketch on an empty page in his sketchbook. It was nothing worthy of someone seeing, just rough sketches of various animals. His anger dissipated at the soothing activity. 

Dick was over the moon at the thought of seeing his little brother. Damian was always in a better mood when Dick was at the manor according to Bruce and he didn’t doubt it.

Only, when he arrived, Damian was quickly angered. It wasn't like that behaviour was unusual for him, however, a reaction that big was typically due to another unknown factor.

He turned to Bruce who was sadly eyeing the doorway Damian stormed out of.

“Do you think something happened at school?” Dick asked.

Bruce tilted his head slightly. “I haven’t gotten any phone calls.”

Dick glared at Bruce. “That doesn’t mean nothing happened. Kids can be mean, especially to someone who’s different.”

“And you think Damian was the target in this situation?”

“Bruce, he’s eleven. He’s the sweetest boy when you actually spend time with him. Words can still hurt him,” Dick bit. He was constantly frustrated with people assuming Damian was emotionless or something of that nature.

“I’m not denying it. Something is obviously going on,” Bruce reasoned.

Dick mulishly nodded, slightly letting a frown tip his smile downward.

“You said he was being reckless?” Dick asked, suddenly bringing up the conversation that had brought him here in the first place. 

“It was different than the other times. It was almost as if he didn’t care for any discipline whether that was getting hurt naturally due to his actions or receiving a temporary ban from Robin.”

“I’ll see how he is when I go on patrol with him tonight,” Dick said, defeated.

Bruce nodded, taking one more lingering look at the doorway before pivoting around and walking away.

The cheese and crackers were left uneaten on the counter.

By the time someone knocked on his door, it was minutes before Damian had to patrol. Of course, as if there was a possibility of it being anyone else, Grayson walked in. The knock was far too cheerful to be Father.

Damian closed his sketchbook, tightly pressing his lips together to prevent him from saying something he didn’t mean. Richard carefully maneuvered onto the edge of his bed, easing down onto it.

“Want to go on patrol, Dami?” 

Damian rolled his eyes at the gentle tone. He hated being pitied, especially when he was the one to cause the problem in the first place.

“Tt, that is a useless question, Grayson. Of course, I want to go,” Damian argued, huffing at the stupidly happy look Grayson had on his face. 

As they got suited up, Damian felt a particular part of him get excited at the thought of patrolling with his brother. Despite Father being a great partner, Damian was a lot more comfortable when fighting alongside Richard. They complemented each other's fighting styles and worked like a well-oiled machine.

Most of all, Damian felt safe with his brother. He usually got the same effect when he was with Father, however, occasionally his mind would be so occupied with the thought of being a worthy heir that the illusion of safety vanished.

Truthfully, it didn’t quite matter if he felt safe or not. If he died, he would simply come back. Damian was expendable for that very reason.

As they grappled across buildings, Robin followed dutifully behind Nightwing as he did unnecessary flips to compensate for the loss of speed. They were moving fluidly within the confines of gravity before a shrill scream echoed from behind them. Damian was the first to spin around and change directions.

Nightwing quickly copied the movement and they had a wordless conversation to check where the sound of terror had originated from. Of course, they were led into an alley, where the most crime happened.

A woman was swinging a small knife around in an attempt to scare off the three men crowding around her. She looked like she lacked fighting skills but at least she had a weapon. The men didn’t look deterred. In fact, some of them were cackling and joyfully boasting when the knife barely slipped past them.

Robin quickly sprang into action, hooking his legs around one of the men’s legs and sending him tumbling into the ground. His clothes were soaked by the unknown substances drenching the streets of Gotham. Damian sneered.

He kicked the man in the ribs, earning a sharp yell from him. Just as he was about to do it again, arms closed around his neck. At first, Damian was prepared to easily slip out of the hold, however, his brain blanked for a moment and he was suddenly back at the League.

As the gritty hands gripped his throat, a startled choke strained out of his lungs as he tried to breathe.

At the League, he had been ordered to kill a bird. Damian was around seven at the time if he remembered correctly. As soon as the order was said, a blood-curdling chill settled in his bones. This animal was innocent. The only thing it had done was exist and he was being ordered to kill it.

When he questioned why, there was no concrete answer. Damian was ordered to kill an innocent being for no real reason and he refused. He remembered the way he stamped down a foot and told his grandfather no.

He received a glare of pure fury at the rebellion and with a quick flick of Grandfather’s hand, Damian was lifted off of the ground and choked.

The hands were so big, his neck so small, that there was no possible way of trying to fight out of the hold. Damian’s big childish eyes sparkled with tears as he attempted to gasp for a strangled breath.

He did not succeed. 

The hand choking him did not notice the loss of a pulse on the heir and only let go when ordered to.

At seven years old, Damian rose from the dead with a thick purple bruise wrapped around his neck like a cursed piece of jewelry.  

As he came back to the present, Robin had a startling thought that he was about to die again. Except this time, the hands did not completely cover his throat and he was bigger than he used to be; stronger.

Most importantly, he was not alone.

A flash of blue grabbed the back of the man’s jacket and threw him against the wall, earning a deep groan. When Damian glanced around, the woman was gone and Grayson was crouching down in front of him.

“Are you okay, Robin?” Nightwing asked, reaching out for him.

Damian did not protest the contact and attempted to rebut back. “I am fine,” he choked out, voice coming out much weaker than he intended.

Robin tried to sit up, not realizing that he had collapsed after he was released, but a hand held his chest down.

“Hold on, bud. Just breathe for a minute,” Grayson soothed, still pressing down on his chest to check if his lungs were expanding.

Damian dutifully obeyed, slowly taking in as much air as he could and releasing it. When he looked back at Richard for approval, he received a soft encouraging smile and a nod. 

He had to admit, that letting himself breathe with the company of someone else was much better than stuffing his face into his pillow to muffle his cries after a memory of death. After a few minutes of following his brother's instructions, Damian looked to the sky and noticed a plume of smoke billowing into the dark Gotham sky.

“There is a fire…” Damian muttered, absently happy that his voice was no longer strangled. 

“What?” Grayson turned in the direction Robin was looking. Determination set into his brows. “Stay close to me, Robin.”

And just like that, they quickly grappled to the nearest roof toward the smoke.

Adrenaline took over and Damian was no longer needing to heave through breaths. He was just as fast as Nightwing, keeping up the rapid pace.

The fire looked huge as they got closer. The flames licked up the sides of the building in a fluid motion, crackling and furious in every way. Damian analyzed the building and quickly came to realize that it was an apartment complex, meaning there were probably people still trapped inside.

As if noticing what Robin was thinking, Grayson gripped his wrist with a vice grip. “Robin, no–”

Damian slipped out of the hold and sprinted into the building.

Heat instantly enveloped his body. It was almost too much to bear but he managed; Damian always managed.

Every gasp caused him to rattle out rib-shaking coughs that hurt his chest. To try and get away from the thick of the smoke, he crouched down to the floor. It was thinner and easier to breathe. 

He reached into his utility belt, digging around for his rebreather. His heart dropped to the pit of his stomach when his pocket was empty. He was without a way to breathe, meaning this excursion had to be quick if he wanted to save anyone before he himself died. 

He didn’t matter, only the civilians did. Damian would come back to life anyway.

A call for help was subtly heard in the background but all Damian could make out was a muffle. It was coming from one of the higher floors, likely the top or one below. 

His legs ached as he trekked up the stairs, briefly glancing around every floor to make sure there wasn’t anyone else to save. So far, he still only noticed the person calling for help on the higher floor. 

It became increasingly harder to breathe as he bounded up the final steps. When he reached the top, something snapped in his heart. Damian was unable to hear the voice anymore. It was as if he had been too late, all because his body could not make it up the stairs fast enough–

“Help!” It came from behind a closed door. 

Robin marched toward the noise, gripping the handle and reeling back at the temperature. It was hot. There was very obviously a fire behind it. He hissed, shaking off the heat that had melted the skin away on his palm. When he looked down to inspect the injury, he could feel his hand beating with pulsing of white-hot pain. The damaged skin was red and angry, close to blistering. 

Damian clenched his teeth and reminded himself it was okay to die. He had done it before, he could do it again. 

Damian bit his cheek so hard, that a pool of blood filled his mouth and soured his tastebuds as he reached for the handle. He suppressed a scream but couldn’t hold back a whimper at the pain. 

The door swung open and he was met with the sound of someone coughing and a flame taller than him. 

“H-hello?!” the voice managed to yell.

“I am here to help you,” Damian assured, slightly raising his voice to speak over the crackling flame. 

A large plank of wood broke off from the ceiling, crashing to the floor in front of him. Daman scrambled back before noticing it had tamed the fire in front of him, temporarily suppressing it. He took his chance, leaping over the lingering flame and rushing over to the victim. 

“Robin!” They had pure hope in their voice.

Damian wished desperately that he could put a rebreather on the victim's face but alas, he somehow lost his. 

He looked around the room, trying to calculate what the best move was. The flame that had been blocking the doorway was growing larger by the second, proving to be the least viable option. The only other possible exit Damian could think of was the window. 

It was very dangerous, but perhaps their only chance at making it out of here alive. Well, Damian had as many chances as he wanted, the victim, however, well…

“We are going to go through the window,” Robin calmly instructed.

“What?! This is the top floor!” the victim yelled, coughing into their elbow after the strain of their voice. 

“Don’t worry, you will not fall.” Damian felt as if he was being suffocated by the smoke, trapped in a–

Another memory sprang on him and suddenly, he was in Nanda Parbat but not at the League base, no. He was inside a box, so small that it could just barely fit his body. It was placed in the desert, under the blaring heat of the sun during the day and the ice-cold nights.

Grandfather had put him there without any food or water. Damian remembered being tucked so tightly in a ball that he was suffocating in his own body heat. It was as if each breath was tainted with the musky air filled with his sweat. 

Damian had been left there for a week and died of dehydration.

He was eight.

“R-robin?” The voice snapped him back into the present. 

A wave of panic washed over him as he reached for a nearby blanket and wrapped it over his knuckles. Damian smashed his hand against the glass so many times until his fingers ached and he finally got a crack in the window.

With one final smash, shards of glass sprayed everywhere as it was shattered. Damian heaved the new gust of fresh air into his smoke-addled lungs. He swept the edges clear of any shards and grabbed onto the victim. He reached for his grapple, shooting into the nearest building’s fire escape. Hands wrapped around his body and held him tight.

Robin jumped and wondered if he would go deaf from the shrill scream stabbing into his eardrums from the victim.  

The landing was hard on his ankles but he completed it without tumbling over. Medics instantly grabbed the victim out of Damian’s damaged hands and he finally let himself collapse.

“Robin!” Damian would recognize that cheerful voice anywhere.

Nightwing cradled him in his arms as Damian weakly coughed and spat out the blood that had been in his mouth. Grayson was looking at him with worry. 

Damian blinked and they were alone on a roof.

“Hey, Dami, look at me,” Grayson pleaded, scrambling for something in his utility belt.

“Codenames,” Damian rasped. 

“No one else is here, bud. It’s just me.”

Something covered his mouth and Damian had little time to panic before a rush of oxygen filled his lungs. He greedily sucked in the air as if it was a drug. 

“Just breathe. That’s it, Little D,” Richard comforted. 

Damian opened his mouth to speak but was quickly shushed. He scowled.

“You’re okay, it’s okay. Just focus on breathing.” Grayson ran his hands through Damian’s hair, soothing him to no end. It reminded him of his mother. Only, Damian wasn’t on the verge of death this time. 

“B said you were being reckless but that was–buddy, that was more than reckless. I don’t know why you think you’re invincible but you’re not. You need to understand that,” Richard admitted. 

Damian huffed. “Father–” He began coughing before he could finish his sentence. It was going to be something along the lines of ‘Father doesn’t know what he’s talking about’. 

“He’s coming, Dami. He’s almost here.” 

Oh, fantastic. Damian was looking forward to a lecture.

Grayson suddenly gasped and Robin latched his gaze back onto his brother. 

“Oh bud, how did you hurt your hands?” Richard asked despite knowing he would get no answer. 

Someone landed on the roof.

Batman was here.

“Nightwing, report,” Batman ordered, already rushing over to Damian to inspect his condition.

Damian tuned out the report as well as the hands inspecting his various injuries. It was all to prepare for the inevitable lecture he was going to receive from his father. 

He came back to himself when he was suddenly wrapped in Father’s arms. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it would have been had they have been in casual wear but this was still enough. It was more than enough.

Soon he was being carried into the cave and Damian limply allowed it after the tiring ride in the Batmobile. 

Father and Grayson quietly conversed by the computer while Pennyworth patched Damian’s wounds. He could just tell they were talking about him. It wasn’t like they weren’t making it obvious with the way Grayson’s eyes kept flitting over to him. 

“Master Damian, I hope injuries like this won’t become a habit,” Pennyworth chided, gently soothing his burn. 

“I don’t intend for that,” Damian assured.

However, Damian was also sure it was already a habit. 

And habits were hard to break. 

Chapter Text

Frankly, Damian was very sick of the incessant coddling. He would have expected it from Grayson, seeing as his heart could barely fit inside of his chest with how large it was, but certainly not from Father.

Thankfully Grayson had to leave to get back to work in Bludhaven and only Father and Pennyworth were left in the manor. Damian naively believed that they would spare him from the torture of interaction yet alas, he was far too hopeful.

It had been a few days since he had run into the burning building and severely damaged his hands. They were scarred beyond belief but it wasn’t anything Damian wasn’t used to. His body was practically a canvas of scars.

However, he had never been burned that badly before and discovered the consequences when he had attempted to draw in his sketchbook but was unable to even grasp the pencil due to the searing pain that boiled in his palms. That was a rough day. 

If Damian thought that was as bad as it could get, he was wrong. See, Father did not coddle –well, not really–more like awkwardly stay in your peripheral. Apparently this time, Richard had rubbed off on him because Father was currently sitting down next to him, trying to have an emotional conversation.

Damian was not having it. 

“I’m sorry you can’t draw, Damian. Would you like me to read to you?” Father miserably attempted to soothe.

Did he think Damian was five?!

“I am perfectly capable of reading on my own,” Damian huffed, turning his head away. Father let out a sigh.

“Would you like to do anything?” his father asked, lifting his hand as if he were about to comfort him before pulling away.

“Not in particular.”

Father sighed again and Damian was getting sick of listening to his dramatics. A deep pause washed over them.

“We need to talk about what happened, Damian,” his father cut in through the silence.

Damian tried not to cringe. “I disobeyed Grayson. I am aware of my faults.”

Father did place a gentle hand on him this time, right on his arm. “I think something’s going on with you, buddy. You’ve been acting–”

“Reckless?” Damian blurted, a certain fire attached to the word.

“–like you don’t care if you get hurt,” Father concluded, powering through his son’s interruption. 

He fell silent because it was unequivocally true. Damian refused to meet his father’s eyes, studying the blankets draped over his legs. That was all he thought, running into that fire. If he got hurt, it wouldn’t matter because he would spring back to life as if it had never happened. 

Instead of saying that aloud, he deflected like he always did. “Contrary to popular belief, Father, I am capable of risking my life in favour of someone else’s.”

Father frowned as if Damian had spoken the wrong words. Knowing him, he had. 

“I know, Damian. You’ve been doing such a good job lately so this change in behaviour was just very sudden,” Father affirmed although it didn’t make Damian feel any better.

“My actions were to save the lives of others,” Damian muttered, picking at his nails. It was a new nervous tick of his. All it did was make his hands look more mangled.

“I can see that, Dami. I know what you are trying to do but you need to think about your own safety,” Father explained.

A frustrated scowl masked his face. He was sick of trying his best and it being nothing more than subpar. Even though giving up his life did not mean forever, it had to mean something. To give his father the benefit of the doubt, he did not know that Damian was knowingly risking his life with the certainty that he would easily come back to life. 

“I would like to be alone,” Damian managed to grit out before tears sprang to his eyes. Father had not seen him cry yet and this was a horrible time as any. 

“Okay, bud. Just come find me if you need me or ask Alfred to,” Father assured, patting him once on the arm before getting up and quickly departing.

As the door to his room opened and Father left, Titus walked in. Seeing the dog was a relief but for some strange reason, it only made him more sad. Damian understood a lot of things. He could eliminate a gaggle of assassins with minor injuries.

What Damian did not understand were emotions.

Titus lept onto Damian’s oversized bed and curled up beside him. Damian grabbed one of his pillows and ignored the sting in his hands.

His sobs were muffled by the fabric.

Over the next two days, Father did not stop fretting over him but on the bright side, his hands felt significantly better. He could lightly sketch if he desired and just to be petty, he very obviously read in front of Father to prove that he did not need to be treated like a baby. 

His father, to Damian’s surprise, did not miss one meal with him. That included breakfast which he had become accustomed to eating alone due to Father’s lack of energy in the morning. The reasoning had to be Grayson’s doing. 

This was hardly the worst injury Damian had received and he had not nearly been coddled this much before. 

He picked at dinner, not because it was gross, but because he wasn’t feeling particularly interested in eating. The thought made him ill. 

“How are you feeling?” Father asked, breaking the silence.

Damian paused, looking up at him before returning his gaze to the mound of food on his plate. “My hands do not hurt as much.”

Father nodded. “That’s good,” he supplied, opening and closing his mouth as if he were thinking about saying more.

Damian was getting sick of how emotionally constipated his father was. Despite how bothersome Richard could be, he was not nearly this painful to be around. 

“You haven’t asked when you could patrol again,” Father blurted. It was not a good topic choice.

Damian pursed his lips. “I was under the impression I would be benched until I was healed.”

“You are. Just–normally you ask when I will allow you to go out again,” Father pathetically supplied. 

Damian did not think to respond. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to be Robin, he sincerely enjoyed it, but begging to get hurt again did not appeal to him. Besides, if he could hardly manage sketching, Damian didn’t see how he could best someone in combat. 

Therefore, he said nothing and instead looked at his uneaten food. 

“Is something wrong…?” Father gently prodded. The idle tap of cutlery on his plate rang through his ears.

Damian clutched his fork so tightly that a section of his palm turned white as the blood drained out of his flesh. He was slightly worried he would break the fork and ruin Pennyworth’s cutlery set. 

“You haven’t touched your food,” his father commented sadly. 

Damian let go of the fork and it clattered on the table as it made an impact. The middle was minutely bent, just barely looking out of place but certainly noticeable. He stood up so quickly that the chair he sat on threatened to tip over. He walked out silently.

Damian’s food went cold.

Damian went without dinner but it did nothing to cause him discomfort. Night approached quickly and he refused to spend another insufferable night in the confines of his room. Father’s gentle words were making him wish to rip his own hair out and not care about the horrendous result. 

Not only did Father seemingly say all the wrong things, but every time he spoke the air became increasingly more awkward and Damian might very well explode if he had to bear any of it again. 

It was a huge mistake to bring up Robin. Before, the thought hadn’t really crossed his mind. He had no desire of frolicking around rooftops. Now, however, it was taking every bit of emotional strength to hold himself back from escaping through the window into the Gotham night.

His emotions were not very strong.

Despite his former beliefs, as soon as the feeling of wind whipping through his hair was bestowed upon him, Damian’s former thoughts of not patrolling were ignored. The absence of Batman’s company was refreshingly freeing and suddenly it was obvious as to why Grayson left.

For once, he felt as though he was doing it for himself instead of trying to live up to all of the Robins before him. Tonight, he had no intentions to fight any enemies but he wasn’t against attacking someone if they were causing harm. Damian was particularly more fond of sitting on the ledge of a roof as opposed to seeking out crime at this very moment. 

He chose the tallest building he could find and perched at the top. It had stone gargoyles, perfect for settling onto and analyzing the city below him. He wondered if Father had realized he had left yet. It wasn’t likely, mostly because he left Damian alone most of the time. 

By now, Damian had learned to tune out the shrill wail of ambulances and other emergency vehicles as well as the echo of gunshots. It was a normal occurrence in Gotham. However, in a similar way, when he was Robin he had learned to pick apart noises and determine whether the problem needed Batman to be solved. 

That was also the reason he heard heavy gunfire in the distance and knew he had to act. It was most likely the operation of gang violence or a weapons deal that went askew. Whatever it was, Damian didn’t care as long as he was there to stop it. 

He lept off of the roof and didn’t suppress a grin at the exhilaration pumping through his veins at the action. It was so thrilling to fall with no risk.

He grappled, not too late nor too early, and hissed at the sharp sting in his hands although you could not hear it over the wind rushing past his face.   

Absently, he thought about the consequences of fighting without backup but he had done it in the League many times so to not do it now would be seen as pathetic. The gunshots grew louder as he neared. Damian made sure to stay high and quiet like a true assassin despite that not being his position anymore. 

By the time he arrived, most of the people being shot at were dead. It was a horrific bare reality that he had to face. Even still, also not knowing which side was the correct one, Damian jumped into action to protect the losers. There were two men and one woman left standing against the opposing group who were armed with much heavier weapons. Both groups were startled when Robin joined the fry but as soon as the fists went flying, the group of three were letting Damian defend them.

A bullet whipped past his ear causing Damian to hellishly grin at the attempt. He gripped the hilt of the gun, tilting it upward and twisting it out of the man’s hand despite multiple shots being fired. He could feel it in the heat of his palm. 

Robin slammed the barrel into the man’s face, sending him reeling to the ground. Two other men sought to defend him, charging at Damian as if they could beat him with their measly weapons and flimsy shots. 

He tripped one of them and couldn’t bear to hold in the laugh that boasted out of his chest. When one of the guns was easy to snatch, he grabbed it, hooking it around the other man’s neck and strangling him. Blunt nails scraped against Damian’s still-aching hands but he ignored it, finally letting go when he felt the body go just about limp in his arms.    

He had double the work to do without a Batman companion, Grayson or not. Yet even still, he bested them almost too easily. 

When he turned around, the three people from before, the two men and the woman, were gone. Damian chided himself for being so careless. Yes, he saved them, but they were still a part of the crime. They had to be taken down as well. 

It was a good thing Damian was just as good at tracking people down as he was fighting them. 

Unfortunately, the scent led him into Crime Alley. Now normally, Damian wouldn’t care. He didn’t particularly worry about Todd killing him. It was impossible. However, as he stepped into the border, something utterly wrong settled into his stomach. It suddenly became unsettling moving around in the dark following criminals. 

Damian was not a coward and Robin certainly wasn’t either so he pursued. 

“Why d’you think Robin helped us?” the woman asked.

Damian paused, freezing in his precarious position on the roof.

“No fuck’n clue. It was stupid, that’s for damn sure. ‘Specially ‘cause I didn’t see the Bat. We all know what happens to birdies on their own,” one of the men replied.

They die. That was exactly what he had implied and Damian was not keen enough on lying to himself to suppress the thought. 

“Let’s just sell this shit,” the last man urged, waving the others along with a hand gripped around a plastic bag filled with powder.

Robin identified it as a very hard-to-track drug going around Gotham. It was getting people addicted and killed in a matter of months. 

That was the last time Damian did anything nice for the losing team.

It wasn’t even a decision in itself when he leapt down from the roof and landed on the shoulders of the woman. She flailed, scraping at his thighs with her disgustingly grown-out acrylics as he choked her. He dug his shoe into her chest, minutely winding her before sending her pummeling into the ground. 

He ducked as one of the men tried to punch him. His fist crashed into the wall and broke away with a satisfying crunch. His hand was most definitely broken. Damian took advantage of that, grabbing one of his already-hurt fingers and dislocating it. The man screamed, clutching his wrist close to his chest. 

Robin smirked, ready to strike again as he lunged forward–

Something choked the next breath he was prepared to take. It was a sharp, halting pain draped around the side of his neck like a scalding metal sheet. 

Damian could not breathe. He could not breathe. 

The last man, one he had failed to account for, had stabbed him in his neck. The vast amount of blood was nothing he had never seen before but it was horrifying all the same. 

And suddenly, Damian knew he was going to die.

And for once, it did not come as a surprise. He did not try to scramble onto his next breath and keep his eyes from closing. He just accepted it.

As he watched his skin become covered in crimson blood, he absently reminded himself to take out the knife. With it gone, he wouldn’t have to risk dying again once he was revived after the first time.

He gripped the hilt of the blade, clenching his teeth with so much pressure that he hoped they did not break. Damian tugged at the knife and swallowed nothing but blood when it ripped out of him with a squelch. He collapsed onto his knees, uncaring as his pants became soaked in Gotham’s dirty water. 

He knew he was going to die; it was inevitable. Even still, he pressed down on his wound and spit out pools of blood as if it would do anything. It was almost as if it was a reflex and instantly, a memory clawed at his brain and a disgusting wave of deja vu pulled him under.

He had just turned nine and Grandfather announced that he had a present for him. At that point, Damian was not so naive that he believed it would ever be good.

It was not.

A sword drove into his thigh. It was not a deadly injury unless you did not receive any medical treatment, lest you bleed out or get a horrendous infection. Grandfather locked him in a room with nothing but the clothes on his back and instructed him to stop the bleeding. 

Damian clutched onto his thigh, ignoring the pain and trying to think of something to do. His tears streaming down his draining cheeks did not help, nor did his darkening vision. Damian tried to stop the bleeding with a ripped section of his shirt but it seemed like the blood would never stop. He was covered in nothing but red and felt sticky. It was disgusting.

The room smelt of iron and made him sick. He held onto his thigh for a long time, too long to count.   

Damian died without his mother’s comfort for the first time at nine years old.

At eleven years old, blood streaked down the side of his cheek and Damian died without his mother for the second time. 

Jason was absolutely done with the drug going around the streets. Of course, Bruce was less than competent in the matter so it was up to Red Hood to prowl around the streets and keep people from fucking dying. 

He found the aftermath of a gunfight just outside of Crime Alley. There were dead bodies strewn across the concrete as well as injured. Jason slapped them around a few times but they were less than helpful.

Because obviously, Jason had to do everything his fucking self. 

The trail led him into Crime Alley, as he originally suspected. It wasn’t called Crime Alley for no reason. Batman was thankfully not out tonight so he didn’t have to worry about any unwanted guests. Jason was so close to solving the drug problem and Bruce's meddling never helped.

He found three people and stalked them from behind. The woman was holding her neck and rubbing at her chest. She looked like she was in pain. One man was gripping his hand while the other held a bag of drugs–bingo–and wiped off blood on his pants. Jason narrowed his eyes but sprang into action.

The idiots were already injured so it wasn’t hard taking them down. Jason grabbed the bag of drugs, pocketing it. He looked down at the muddied street and paused at the sight of blood.

There was a trail of it as if the man with the drugs had stepped in a pool of blood and didn’t care to wash his shoes off. Jason figured, just because he was in a moderately good mood, that he would go and find the body just to make sure the victim wasn’t struggling to hold on. 

He followed the footsteps, readying his weapons as the alley narrowed and grew darker. The smell was awful, but that was how it always was in Gotham. 

He arrived at the scene and froze at the sight of a body lying in a pool of blood. It was curled up sadly, not moving a muscle. It was a child. 

Jason’s heart shattered at the sight and he contemplated running back to grab the man who did this and cave his head in. 

The child–apparently still alive– whimpered and that thought went out the window. As Jason approached a horrifying realization dawned on him as he noticed the colours.

They were different, not the same as his, but still Robin’s. His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach as he rushed over while eyeing the sky for the big bad Bat.

He did not arrive and that only made him feel worse. 

“Hey, kid,” Jason greeted, analyzing where the blood was coming from. 

Damian’s mouth was streaming blood quickly as he choked on the substance. Jason grimaced and only then did he notice the neck wound. It wasn’t deep, not enough to kill someone unless they were left to bleed out.

Either this kid had nasty internal bleeding somewhere else or he had just bit the inside of his mouth freakishly hard. Things were looking slightly better but still awfully worrying. 

“Jesus, fuck. What happened?” Jason said despite Robin being passed out.   

He lifted the boy into his arms, his body feeling much too small and much too light. Jason wondered if he had ever been this small. He wondered how anyone could ever hurt someone this small.

Jason was going to kill Bruce.

But first, he had to fix a little birdy. 

Chapter Text

As Damian attempted to pry open his eyes, he found the light too bright and his head too heavy. He expected to be still splayed out on the streets of Gotham, exposed to the dangers of the alley. Instead, the surface he was on did not feel hard like concrete at all. In fact, it was quite soft, although, not soft enough to be his bed at the manor. 

So he came to the very obvious and alarming conclusion that he had been kidnapped. 

Damian strained his ears, trying to decipher the number of people in the same room as him. It was awfully silent. Either he was alone or whoever in the room had Batman-like stealth skills. 

Damian took a risk, bringing up his hand to meet the wound on his neck. It was covered in bandages that felt recently changed. Whoever took him cared whether he lived or not. Worse came to worse, Damian could simply slit his own throat and trick the kidnapper into dumping him somewhere to which he would just spring back to life soon after. 

Finally, he slowly flicked his eyes open, squinting at the light searing into his sensitive pupils. He very meticulously looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was on a couch, one that looked old but wasn’t dirty. Neither was the apartment. Despite the varying damage on the items within the home, it was fairly clean. 

He eased himself up, feeling for his sword. As expected, unless his kidnapper was an imbecile, it was gone. That was no matter. Damian was just as good fighting with his fists as he was with a weapon.

“Funny if you think I’d let you keep the sword, Demon Brat,” a voice remarked from behind him.

Damian’s heart stuttered in panic as he whipped his head around. He had been so sure he was alone in the room. What would happen to him if he had to keep doubting himself? If he was unable to listen to his instincts, he was as well as dead–

Todd.

As Damian took in the man’s appearance, he was suddenly aware as to why he hadn’t heard anything. Jason Todd had just as much Bat in him as Damian did. Not biologically connected, obviously.

“Todd,” Damian bit, trying to voice his disdain, however, his throat was damaged, therefore his speech came out raspy. 

“Don’t try to speak too much. Your vocal cords are damaged and it would be a shame if you couldn’t talk anymore,” Todd quipped, relaxed on the other side of the room.

“Tt, I can do whatever I please you insolent whelp,” Damian snapped, cringing at his scratchy throat.

“Whatever. I’m sure it would make everyone’s life better if you couldn’t talk anyway.” Todd rolled his eyes.

Damian scoffed because he couldn’t deny it. It was true. 

Todd looked him up and down, searching for something. Damian pretended he was a statue although, it only made him feel like he was an animal in a zoo. 

“Are you hungry?” Todd asked.

Damian considered that the food could be poisoned but Todd had helped him and patched him up to prevent him from dying so very clearly, he didn’t want him dead. Finished mulling it over, he nodded. 

“Alright, here’s soup,” Todd began, placing the bowl on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Eat slow.”

Damian eyed the soup suspiciously. He supposed the threat of poison wasn’t too dire seeing as he would revive moments later. He scooped a spoonful into his mouth and suppressed a hum when the flavour hit his tongue. It was almost as good as Pennyworth’s. Todd looked pleased that he was eating.

Damian mentally rolled his eyes at that. Grayson had told him that Todd leaned toward the motherly side of things, always pressing you to eat and things like that. Damian had been hesitant to believe him until now.

“Where was Batman?” Todd blurted, although it didn’t seem like he had just said it out of nowhere. He had been thinking the idea over.

“That is none of your business,” Damian croaked, sipping on another spoonful of soup. It was just the right temperature to soothe his aching throat. 

Todd’s face darkened. “You could have bled out and died patrolling without B. Believe me, it’s not fun.”

Something akin to fury coiled around his heart. He was tired of Jason Todd being able to use that excuse a plentiful amount of times.

“Oh please,” Damian scoffed, “you’ve only died once, Todd.”

Todd looked deathly amused at the remark as if he was surprised by the cruelty of the statement but humoured by it as well.

“Oh yeah? As opposed to what? You, who has died multiple times?” he joked, barking out a dry laugh. 

Damian usually praised himself on his ability to lie. He was very good at it, even when talking to Grandfather. So perhaps it was his recent death or the fact that frustration burned inside him, but he was unable to think of a retort.

Damian clamped his mouth shut and lost eye contact only for a few seconds. When his gaze returned, the joking look on Todd’s face had morphed into something closer to weary shock. 

“Demon Brat…have you died before?” Todd asked. He sounded–gentle–maybe a little more stern and serious. His voice was breathy, the same way Grayson’s got when Damian would share something about his training.

As a final attempt to prevent his biggest secret from being revealed, he spoke. “Tt, of course not.” It came out flat.

Todd did not believe it for one second.

His face formed into a horribly broken expression; a mix of emotions, some anger, some sadness. 

“Holy shit, kid. Does Bruce know?” Todd wondered. 

That was what Damian was most afraid of. If Father found out he was a meta, he would be instantly banished from Gotham and shipped back to Grandfather. His grandfather would then find out about the ability and use it for bad–

Damian did not want to be a weapon again.

“There is nothing for him to know! It was a joke, Todd!” Damian’s voice rose. 

“You don’t joke,” Todd retorted. 

“What if I do?” Damian challenged. His throat was throbbing.

Todd only scowled, not impressed by the answers. “When did it happen?” he pressed.

“Drop it, Todd,” Damian growled.

A fist slammed down on the table, a deep green illuminating from the eyes in front of him. It didn’t scare him.  

“Just tell me,” Todd ordered.

Damian got up so quickly from his perch on the couch that he threatened to tumble over. The soup, now cold, knocked to the floor and shattered when he bumped into it. He did not care.

“I said drop it!” Damian yelled, effectively straining his vocal cords to such an extent that he felt a sharp pain stab at his throat.

Todd did not look startled at the motion, nor did he look like he would back off. Damian analyzed the room, quickly calculating where he could flee without Todd grabbing ahold of him. It seemed the bathroom was the best option, also because it had a lock. 

Damian clenched his fists, using the stinging pain of his nails digging into his burn wounds to ground him. As soon as the first hint of blood trickled out, the pressure ceased. Grounded, he lunged for the bathroom, narrowly missing Todd’s arm which had shot out to grab him.

Todd yelped, trying to chase after him, but Damian was too quick. He was an assassin after all. As soon as he made it to the threshold of the bathroom, he pivoted, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. A loud bang barreled into the door, very clearly caused by Todd smashing into it. 

Damian backed away from the door, heaving in strained breaths. He had to figure out a way out. There was a window in the bathroom but it was small. Even when Damian was a child, he wouldn’t have been able to fit through it. 

He began to think through the schematics. Todd did not have a good relationship with Father, therefore, out of all of his brothers, Todd was the best option to be the one to find out. Hopefully–and Damian was not often a hopeful person–Todd would not share his newly discovered secret with anyone. 

His legs shook as he gingerly sagged down to lean on the side of the bathtub while recalling his injuries. The most prominent one was the stab wound in his neck. The next was the reopened burn wound scabs that he had recently inflicted. 

“Kid, open the door,” Todd said, voice muffled from behind the door. Damian ignored him.

He rifled under the sink, finding a bundle of gauze. He dabbed at his bleeding scabs, biting his lip to distract him from the pain. So far, the bandage on his neck looked fairly new so he doubted he would have to change it anytime soon. 

The sudden silence was unwelcome but still apparent. Damian wondered if his father had noticed him gone yet. By the looks of the small shimmer of light peaking through the window, he guessed it was almost morning. If anyone found out he was gone, it would be Pennyworth. If Father knew he was gone, it was probably due to Pennyworth informing him. 

Damian heard shifting footsteps outside of the door until they retreated. He then heard the sound of glass being picked up, and then the noise of a vacuum. Todd was taking it upon himself to clean up the mess Damian made. 

The footsteps returned and Damian briefly wished he hadn’t taken the silence for granted. 

“I don’t want your stab wound to get worse. I want to keep an eye on it,” Todd reasoned. Perhaps he thought that the statement would convince Damian to leave the confines of the bathroom.

A sigh, then the sound of a thunk against the door. Todd had sat down just outside of it, leaning up against the wood. His shadow was cast across the bathroom floor, clashing with the disgustingly bright white tiles. 

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Damian didn’t think Todd could get any more infuriating. He didn’t give him the satisfaction of replying.

“Who knows about you dying?” Todd asked as if he thought Damian wasn’t two seconds away from forcing himself out of the freakishly small window.

To voice his anger without straining his throat, Damian picked up a shampoo bottle, hurtling it at the closed door. It hit with a sharp noise that echoed throughout the room. The shadow under the door minutely jumped.

“Alright,” Todd soothed. “I get it. No talking about death.” 

Damian huffed, pleased that he correctly gave Todd the right hint. 

Todd didn’t try to talk to him after that yet still sat at the door. In fact, he stayed for so long that there was a big stream of light directed at Damian’s face, letting him know that the day had begun. Father was probably looking for him or obsessively calling his phone until he realized Damian had left it in his room. 

His father would find the Robin suit gone as well as his sword and deduct Damian had gone out on patrol alone. It wasn’t long before he began to ask for help from the other Bats. 

Finally, startling Damian out of his stupor, Todd spoke again. “You hardly had any soup. You must be hungry.”

Damian did not reply but he could not deny it. His stomach was rumbling, now used to the constant meals he received from Pennyworth. Even still, he refused to give in to Todd. Damian had been suppressed food before, he was perfectly capable of doing it again. 

“Do you want to come out and eat?” Todd tried to lure him as if Damian was a starving animal. He did not take the bait, and apparently, Todd doubted he would anyway.

“I’ll slide something under the door,” Todd sighed, accepting his defeat. 

A plate of oatmeal slid under the door minutes later. Damian scowled at the sight of it on a plate instead of a bowl but he supposed it was unable to fit under the door if not sitting on a plate.

It was also oatmeal. That hardly counted as food. 

“I wanted something that wouldn’t irritate your throat but my food supply is pretty slim-pickens right now,” Todd said right after.

Damian shovelled an agonizing spoonful into his mouth. It wasn’t bad, certainly not the worst thing he had eaten, but it wouldn’t have been his preferred meal. Todd took the same spot he was in before behind the door. 

Damian was utterly confused as to why he had stayed with him for that long. It had to be boring just sitting on the other end of a door. However, It wasn’t very fun for him either. The bathroom was dreadfully boring but Damian would be an idiot if he exited. 

Truthfully, at the back of his mind, he noted Todd could kick down the door easily. He tried not to think about it too much.

Once he finished the slop Todd called food, he aggressively slid the plate back under the down, smirking as it hit Todd on the way out.

“Thanks,” Todd said with an odd tone. Damian couldn’t put a pin on it.

Todd rose to put the plate into the sink and soaked it in water. Damian could hear his every move. 

Todd continued to keep a relaxed routine, waiting by the bathroom door then getting up and doing something else around his apartment. Soon enough, despite Damian being without the time, the sun had very clearly almost disappeared judging by the quickly darkening sky. Damian prepared to nestle down in the bathtub to try and sleep.

“Kid, I really need to check your wound,” Todd’s voice cut in, sounding with only a hint of desperation. Damian was satisfied with the thought.

There were a few seconds of frustrated silence before Todd was sighing awfully loudly, getting up to leave. Damian finally got into the empty bathtub, content with being left alone. His eyes fluttered. His bones ached, undoubtedly uncomfortable, but he had slept on worse before.

It took around thirty minutes to finally attempt to fall asleep. Damian’s pathetic anxieties were ringing repeatedly in his head, like an alarm, preventing him from fully sleeping. It must have been another ten minutes before a new sound echoed outside of the door.

Silence…and then–

“Hey, Dami,” a voice greeted. 

This voice was not Todd. It lacked the grumble and accent. Instead, this voice was someone painfully familiar to Damian and one he could hardly ignore. Todd must have called him as a last resort.

“Richard…?” Damian whispered, just loud enough to be heard outside of the door.

Todd sounded exasperated when he spoke next. “Oh, so he talks instantly for you. I’ve been trying to get him to speak all day. ”

Grayson sounded like he either ignored him or they had a silent conversation that Damian could not be a part of behind a closed door.

“I heard you got hurt. I know you’ve probably done a good job making sure it doesn’t get infected but I’d feel better if I could look it over,” Grayson praised, trying to lure him out of the bathroom. It almost worked.

“I am fine,” Damian ground out, more against his will than not. His throat was still sore.

Damian wondered if Todd told Richard about his habit of dying. Technically, Todd had only assumed he had died once so his whole secret wasn’t revealed yet. He could still save this. 

“Can you open the door so I can see for myself?” Richard asked in nothing but a sweet tone. Surprisingly, it didn’t make Damian sick.

He decided he was going to have to come out of the bathroom eventually and now was a better time than later in the night. He slowly stood, wincing at his cracking joints. Damian twisted the handle, slightly pausing at the two hitched breaths as he opened the door. 

When Damian saw him, Grayson knelt on the floor, just now practically level with his own height. 

“Thanks, buddy,” Richard said, reaching out for him to look at his injured neck. Todd stood behind him like a statue, as if he was afraid he would shift and Damian would scurry back into the bathroom. 

“Looks fine still. That’s good, Dami,” Grayson affirmed, glancing back at Todd causing the man to take careful steps back. 

Grayson led Damian over to the couch he had woken up on from this morning. They both sat down, Todd taking a nearby armchair.

“What happened? Why would you think patrolling without Bruce would be a good idea?” Richard asked.

Damian broke eye contact. “Does Father know?” he blurted.

Richard looked nothing but sure of himself, not surprised by the question in the least. “That you went out on patrol by yourself? Most likely. That you’re in Jason’s apartment? No.” 

Damian then looked to Todd, trying to decipher how he should proceed with the situation.

“Todd, did you tell Grayson that–that I–” he stuttered through the question, unable to finish it.

Todd understood nonetheless. “Yeah, kid. I told him.” He sounded resigned, almost guilty.

Grayson seemed to take that as the signal to start picking at Damian for more information. Damian didn’t blame him. It was confusing to most people if they found out he had died before. It was certainly even more strange because he was so close to Grayson. 

“Please tell me this isn’t true. Have you–” Richard sounded wrong . His voice was shaking oddly. “Have you died…?”

Damian slowly nodded, suddenly afraid of lying. Something in his chest pleaded with him to confess everything. The feeling was tight, almost as if his ribcage was suffocating his lungs. 

Grayson let out a wounded sound and Todd choked. 

Damian braced himself. “I have–I have not been totally truthful with you, Grayson. As well as everyone else, including Father,” he began, taking in a shaky breath. “I have somehow gained the ability to d-die and–and come back to life. I have had it since I was a child and only Mother knows about it.”

It felt as though a weight was lifted off of his chest, finally able to tell someone. He trusted Grayson enough to not do anything. 

“Oh my God–” Richard gasped, getting cut off by Todd.

“What the actual fuck? Holy fucking shit–”

Their shocked reactions made his stomach swirl, momentarily sending him into a panic. Todd looked angry and Damian wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or not. Grayson looked…upset. His palm was cupped over his mouth in horror. 

“I am…sorry I did not tell you–” Damian apologized, curling in on himself. He wrapped his arms around his torso as if they would become an adequate protective layer.

“No, Dami…buddy, you have nothing to apologize for,” Richard began, inching closer to him. “You are so brave. I’m–shit–I’m so sorry you have had to go through that.”

He soaked in the words of affirmation like a dry sponge, desperate for any kind of moisture he could get. Grayson slowly bundled him into his arms. Damian’s head fell against his brother's chest, rhythmically stuttering up and down as his lungs inflated. A stray tear ran down Damian’s cheek causing him to hide his face in Grayson’s shirt. It was already humiliating being caught injured by Todd, he didn’t need to witness tears. 

“How many times?” Todd asked, hesitant. His voice was quiet, just above a whisper. 

Damian swallowed and let himself be tucked deeper into his brother’s chest. “I don’t know. I forget lots of the time, however, the memories–they come back.”

“How many do you remember?” Todd pressed, still nothing but gentle. Damian wasn’t used to the tone.

“Many,” Damian whispered, “so, so many.” 

Both of his older brothers’ breaths hitched.

“When was the last time?” Grayson asked, voice hushed.

Damian closed his eyes and tried to stop imagining the blade being driven into his neck; the feeling of blood flooding his lungs and bubbling out of his throat. It was disgusting. Damian wished to never be stabbed in the neck again.  

His silence spoke volumes. 

“It was last night wasn’t it…? Kid–” Todd ground out, pained.

Richard held onto him tighter as if he attempted to squeeze out all of the hurt. 

“Yes,” Damian confirmed, a frown painting his features.

“Oh, Dami, ” Richard quavered, threading his fingers through Damian’s matted locks.

The feeling of a hand running through his hair was wonderful. Even despite the stressful situation, Damian doubted he had ever been this comfortable in his life. His saliva felt thick with every swallow, consisting of every overwhelming emotion he faced.

“We have to tell Bruce,” Todd muttered.

Damian flinched out of the relaxing hold, scrambling away. Richard tried to grab him but either failed or didn’t try hard enough. That was exactly what Damian hadn’t wanted to happen. He thought Todd would keep his infinite revival a secret.

“No,” Damian denied, tucking his knees to his chest. It made him feel further protected.

Unfortunately, to his utter dismay, Grayson agreed with Todd. “Bruce needs to know, buddy. Especially if…if–”

Damian furrowed his brows. “If what?” he snapped.

Grayson sadly met his gaze, eyes devoid of happiness. “If the deaths happened in Gotham.”

He made sure to let the exasperation show on his face. “I have only died once in Gotham. The rest were with the League,” he reasoned.

Todd chuffed. “That you know of.”

Damian’s features darkened.

“I would remember if they were to happen in Gotham. I only arrived a year ago.”

Grayson frowned, trying to inch closer to Damian’s curled-up form. At the slightest hint of movement, he flinched away, pressing his legs together tighter.

“Even still, Dami. Bruce has to know. He’s your dad, bud. He wants to protect you,” Richard reasoned. 

Damian felt a wave of nausea weigh into his stomach at the thought of Father knowing. It was bad. Damian would have nowhere to go. He would live forever, utterly alone and terrified. Despite being skilled in the art of lying, it was only now that he accepted that his fear was the problem. It was the simple truth. 

Damian was scared every second of every day. For all eleven years.

“I–I really do not wish to return to the League, Grayson. I am–I am scared.” His shoulders hunched as he said it, as if the words were painful to get out. With the way his throat tightened, they were.

Richard looked upset. His eyebrows were furrowed so deeply that you could see every wrinkle he had earned upon stress, or perhaps his smiles. 

“You’re not going back to the League, Damian. Never, buddy.”

Damian’s chest stuttered, hitching with every pathetic breath, just to let everyone know that he was seconds away from crying.

“But I am a meta,” he whispered, so ashamed to admit it out loud.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Grayson whispered. “Bruce won’t care about that. You’re his son, he will love you no matter what. He’s not going to kick you out, just like he didn’t kick you out after you disobeyed the ‘no kill’ rule.” 

Damian processed the words while his lip quivered. He had meant to respond, yet all that came out was a broken sob and fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. Grayson made a concerned sound at the back of his throat at the sight.

“Can I give you a hug, buddy?” Richard asked, opening his arms.

With his throat in pain and his unstoppable sobs, Damian could only manage a meek nod and grip on his brother as he was tucked into his chest in an octopus hug. There was nothing said, either because Damian was incapable of speaking or the fact that if Grayson spoke, he would start crying as well.

A ringing echoed throughout the room and Grayson reached for his phone upon habit. It was his phone’s ringing of course. Damian could not see the contact but Grayson’s face looked apprehensive as he turned to look at Todd.

“It’s B,” Grayson said, causing Damian to tense. “Will you hug Damian while I take this?”

Todd looked hesitant but ready to obey. Damian was neither. 

“I do not need Todd to hug me–” he began to fight before he was quickly soothed by Grayson. 

Richard handed Damian over to Todd as if he were a ragdoll and picked up the phone. Damian could only hear the words “Hey, Bruce” before Grayson went into a room and the noise was muffled.

Todd held onto Damian stiffly, slowly rubbing at his back. If he was stronger and less exhausted, he would have fought his way out of the hold. 

“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” Todd said whilst rocking.

Damian refused to admit it was soothing. 

They stayed in the same position while Grayson talked on the phone. It wasn’t very long, at least, not enough to make him more worried than he already was.   

 Soon enough he came out of the room, gently smiling.

“Let’s go home, Dami.” 

Damian was warmed by the statement more than anything else.

Chapter Text

When Dick got the call, a spark of fear shot through him. Thankfully, he was off duty for work as well as the superhero business. See, Dick savoured every time Jason called; which was not often. In fact, it was almost never unless something was wrong and he needed help. He would always resort to calling Dick instead of Bruce any day.

This call was quite early in the morning and Dick was thrumming with anxiety. He prepared to rush down to Gotham to prevent Jason from dying yet again.

And then he found out it was about Damian.

Damian, who had been patrolling alone without Bruce knowing. Damian, who had been stabbed in the neck. Damian, who had locked himself in the bathroom once Jason found out that he had died before.

But that was just it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Hearing the words, “Damian has died before” struck his heart enough to cause a tear full of blood. Dick ran to his car and sped on the way to Jason’s apartment and even then, he didn’t consider it fast enough. 

His poor little brother had died and no one knew anything of it. The kid had been through enough with all the League training and the very obvious issues he ran into. Damian did not deserve it. He didn’t deserve any of it.

When he arrived, Jason met him at the door and spoke quietly. He gestured over to the bathroom door; very obviously shut and locked. There was light streaming under it, clearly showing that there was someone in there.

“I think I scared him,” Jason whispered, frowning at the same time.

Dick sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. “How long has he been in there?”

Jason swallowed. “A while. I’m worried about his stab wound.”

Dick nodded and transformed into big-brother mode. He sat down at the door, just for when Damian came out. He didn’t want him to feel overcrowded. 

Dick got him talking in seconds, much to Jason’s annoyance. 

When he saw Damian, his heart shattered, broken pieces flying around his chest, cutting into the flesh. He looked horrible. It wasn’t the kind of ugly horrible but it was sad. This poor kid looked terrified and so tired. All Dick wanted to do was wrap him in his arms and never let him go.

After the much-needed comfort, Bruce called and Dick quickly answered the call. He made sure to leave the room just in case something he said set Damian off. The last thing he needed was for him to panic again.

“Hey, Bruce,” Dick answered.

“ Dick,” Bruce began, panicked. “Damian is gone. He went out on patrol alone and has not returned–”

“I have him. He’s okay–well, mostly.” Dick didn’t want to disclose the location because Damian needed time to calm down before he faced the scrutiny of Batman but he was sure Bruce was already tracking his whereabouts.

“Thank God. Do you want me to come get him?”

“No,” Dick calmly answered. “I’ll take him to the manor. But, B…you have to prepare yourself, it’s–it’s pretty bad.”

Bruce made a choked sound, one that was worse than panic. “What do you mean? What happened?”

“We’ll explain when we get there. But, Bruce, you can’t do that thing where you freeze up. Damian needs you to be there and talking and loving. I need you to show something for once. ”

Surprisingly, Bruce didn’t fight him on it. “Okay, I will. I promise.” 

“Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

“I love you, Dick,” Bruce said, hanging up before Dick got to respond.

He smiled gently on his way out to see Damian snuggled up to Jason.

Despite how much Dick begged, Jason refused to accompany them on the way to the manor. In all fairness, it was valid, not wanting to talk about death if you’ve experienced it. But sometimes Dick was selfish, and selfish brothers wanted their siblings home. 

Dick didn’t beg for too long, overly aware of Damian’s scrunched-up hands, balled into tiny fists. The poor kid was stressed.

The car ride was stiff. It wasn’t quite awkward but more…pitiful. Damian seemed like he couldn’t get far enough away from Dick even though at the apartment, he was clinging onto him like his last hope. But hey, if it made him more comfortable to curl himself into a ball and stare out the window, Dick was fine with it. 

They were only a few minutes away when Dick decided to break the silence. 

“You know you’re not in trouble, right?”

Damian didn’t respond and Dick found out what Jason felt like when trying to lure the kid out of the bathroom.

“Bruce won’t be mad. He’s so worried, Dami.”

Damian cupped his palms over his ears, not frantically as if he had heard an eardrum-shattering sound, but almost slowly. Not carefully. He was very clear in making the move intentional and Dick took the hint for what it was. Time to shut up. 

They pulled up to the manor, parked, and got out of the car.

Well, Dick got out of the car. Damian was still hunched in the front seat, staring at the doors of the manor as if they would swallow him whole. Dick opened the car door and gently reached out to his little brother. He didn’t flinch but was concerningly malleable. 

It was as if he were made out of noodles, moving wherever Dick placed his hand. Considering the situation and Damian’s lack of aversion to touch, Dick scooped the boy up and into his arms. His head rested just under Dick’s neck and he could feel Damian’s stray hairs tickling his chin. His hands were clamped on the back of Dick’s t-shirt. 

Dick slowly carried him into the manor, subtly rocking him up and down as if he were a baby. In Dick’s eyes, he was a baby. 

Bruce met him at the door, Alfred not far behind. Dick tried to smile but the sight of Damian being held without putting up a fight caused a stricken frown plastered on Bruce’s face.

Dick took a deep breath and reminded himself to not throw himself into his dad’s arms.

Damian did not particularly enjoy being carried, however, he lacked the energy to despise it at the moment. Richard just felt so safe and Damian probably wouldn’t have left the car if he hadn’t been picked up.

The smell of the manor hit him as soon as they walked in. It was inevitable and out of his control when his brain connected it to home despite living here for only a year. 

Damian’s head was tucked into Grayson so he was unable to look around but he could sense two other people in the room. It was obvious who. 

It was silent and Damian was fairly certain that Father and Richard were having a silent conversation. He still refused to meet anyone's eyes, satisfied with hiding in his brother’s shirt. Pennyworth was the one to break the silence.

“Why don’t we sit down and eat,” he suggested. Damian could feel Grayson nod. He was grateful for the avoidance, not quite being forced to speak yet.

Grayson carried him into one of the living rooms, sitting down on the couch with Damian instead of dumping his body on the surface. Even still, Damian crawled out of his brother’s hold. This conversation with Father was supposed to be serious and he could not accomplish that if he were curled up with Grayson like an infant. 

He wanted to look as noble as possible if Father banished him from Gotham.

Speaking of his father, he looked terrible. It was worse than when he had had a tough patrol. The bags under his eyes were bigger than ever although, what startled him the most was the gentleness of his eyes. Father rarely looked at him like that.

Pennyworth arrived with various snacks. Damian appreciated the effort but his stomach did not have room for anything but anxiety. To his surprise, Pennyworth stayed in the room, taking a seat himself. Clearly, this was something all of the residents of the manor were taking very seriously.

Damian decided to chalk up his fear and spit it out as something akin to being blunt. 

“Did Grayson tell you the details over the phone?” he tried to sound brave.

Father didn’t break his gaze once as if doing so would cause Damian to vanish from thin air. 

“He didn’t. He said you have something to tell us?” Father carefully said, his hands neatly tucked into his side.

Damian swallowed the vomit back down his throat. “I–yes, I do.” He looked to Grayson who sent him a small smile. “I don’t–I can’t–” he pathetically stuttered.

To his surprise, Father did not look frustrated or anything even close to angry. He looked patient.

“Start wherever you like, Damian,” his father instructed. 

Damian took a deep breath, just once to ground him, and then another to fuel his next sentence. He decided to begin similar to how he did with his brothers. 

“I have been withholding a secret from you, Father. From everyone frankly. Only Mother is aware of this lie and no one else until today.”

His father nodded, urging him to continue. He didn’t look eager but interested.

So Damian continued. “I have the–the ability to come back to life after death.”

Almost instantly, it was as if a plume of smoke washed over the room, choking everyone and suppressing their words. The silence was disgusting. It settled in the room like a blanket–a suffocating one. 

The look on Father’s face was worse. It was horrified. 

Damian couldn’t tell if it was because he had just realized his only biological son was a meta and all he could feel was shame, or if the look was pity, one that he had held for another son not long ago. 

“When did it happen…?” his father finally asked, voice rough.

Damian swallowed something thick. “When I was four,” he whispered, looking at his socked feet.

Father made a distressed sound at the back of his throat, similar to Grayson’s. “Oh, sweetheart–” he sympathized with a cracking voice. 

Damian felt a flame light his heart that pumped bravery into his bloodstream. His next sentence was as hard as stone, devoid of emotion.

“And when I was five,” he began, “then when I was six, then seven, then eight, and then nine.” He paused soaking in everyone’s expression. This was information Richard had yet to know, what ages he had died that was. 

“But those are only the ones I remember,” Damian finished, biting his lip.  

Father looked as if he was about to be sick. Now that Damian looked around the room, so did Pennyworth as well as Grayson.

“Damian, what… ?” Father gasped, apparently too astonished to say anything else.

“And eleven,” Damian tacked on. 

“Eleven…” his father whispered for his own sake. It was as if the age was incomprehensible to him. Or maybe that dying at that age was the problem. 

“But you’re eleven now,” his father muttered, then repeated, “You’re eleven now, Damian.”

Damian pursed his lips together, watching his Father’s expression crumble into dust. Damian’s silence was a sentence in itself.

“ When?” his father asked, broken.

“Last night,” Richard answered instead. 

Father choked.

“The bandage on your neck?” his father asked.

Damian nodded once again, voice lost.

“My boy…” Pennyworth frowned. 

Father rose from his spot on the couch and walked over to Damian. The boy braced for impact as if he expected Father to strike him. He did not, nor had he ever. Instead, he crouched in front of Damian, reaching up a gentle hand to gingerly tuck a stray hair behind his son’s ear. He cupped his face and Damian just…stared. He was unable to think. 

“I am so sorry,” Father said, now rubbing his thumb back and forth on Damian’s cheek. “You are so strong, Damian. I am so proud of the progress you’ve made over this past year and I am grateful you told me this secret you’ve been keeping inside for so long.”

Damian blinked, one singular tear running down his cheek.

Father brushed it away and continued. “You have suffered a tremendous amount at such a young age and for that, I am so sorry. I need you to understand that you should have never learned about this ability in the first place because you should have never died. Son, you should have never been put in that position once , let alone multiple times.”

Damian knew the words were true but somehow, it was the first time he had ever heard them. As his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, Father tucked him into his arms. Damian accepted the comfort, instantly grabbing on.

Father sat down beside him and pulled his child into his lap. Damian hid his face in his father’s shoulder and sobbed. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” Father said, running his hands through his hair. “You are so brave.” 

His chest was unable to stop convulsing with sobs to allow him to speak. All he could do was tremble in his father’s grip. 

“I am not brave, Father. I am scared. I am scared e-every day,” Damian choked out in confession. His father held him tighter in response.  

“You are brave, I promise,” Father began, repeating it in a whisper, “I promise.” 

They sat together in silence, basking in each other's comfort. Grayson eventually snuggled close while Pennyworth stayed in his respective chair. Amongst the unequivocal solace, Father’s touch rocked him to sleep. His eyes fluttered closed, swollen and red, but heavy nonetheless. 

Damian fell asleep.

The blissful stray of sleep slowly left him as he pried his eyes open. Damian was still curled into Father’s lap with Grayson beside him, however, Pennyworth was gone. He slightly stirred, no more than a minor tilt of his head but Father noticed, instantly tucking his hair behind his ears.

“Hey, buddy,” Father greeted softly, speaking in such a soothing tone that it alone almost caused him to fall asleep once more.

Damian hummed in greeting, not quite sure how dreadfully his voice would rasp and wanted to prevent the embarrassment. 

“How are you feeling?” Father asked. 

This time, Damian had to answer with words. “I am…content.”

Father nodded. “Good.”

Damian did not get off of his father’s chest, nor was he pushed off. He lifted his head and noticed Grayson’s eyes tightly shut. He looked as though he was having a bad dream. 

“I’d like to talk to you a little bit more if you’re feeling up to it, Damian.”

He didn’t necessarily want to talk about his agonizing and extremely painful deaths but the conversation was going to come up again later and Damian would rather have the talk now, while he was being held.

“Okay.”

Father took a deep breath and Damian rose with his chest. “You said you could only remember some of your deaths? Sometimes the memories come back to you?”

Damian nodded once more. “Yes.”

Father looked as though he was holding back a grimace. “It must be scary when you suddenly remember them.”

“It is terrifying,” Damian said. He spoke nothing but the truth. 

“I think it would be…beneficial to track each memory and know how many times you have died, just in case we need the information sometime in the future. Do you think that sounds doable?”

Really, it sounded unassuming and frankly nauseating but Father was right, knowing how many times he had died could come in handy.

“That sounds reasonable. How do you expect me to do it?”

Father rubbed up and down his arms. It provided a thick warmth he hadn’t felt in a long time.

“Well, there are a few options. You could track them on the Bat Computer, but that might be too public. I would suggest a notebook. It will only be for you. No one will ever look in it unless your life is being threatened or something of that nature. I’d like you to add a tally every time you have died and potentially write about the experience if you feel comfortable.” 

“Okay,” Damian whispered.

Father sighed. “I don’t want this to be uncomfortable for you. You’re allowed to say no.”

He shook his head in response. “No, I agree. I will do it.” 

“Thank you,” his father said. 

He only hummed as a response. His eyes were already tempted to close shut at the feeling of utter safety. Damian was not used to this affection. Growing up, it was only his mother who comforted him when he was dying and now, only Grayson hugged him occasionally. He was never bundled in someone's arms for so long, nor had he ever felt so secure.

Father seemed to notice his drooping eyes. “I think it’s time for bed, huh.”

His father did not wait for an answer, slowly rising from his spot on the couch with Damian in his arms. Grayson awoke from the movement but he seemed to realize what Father was doing because he did not speak up. Damian allowed himself to be carried up to his room.

He was asleep before he was under the covers.

The next day, Damian awoke from a dreamless sleep to the smell of breakfast. He was usually up before breakfast began but it seemed he was more exhausted than he had anticipated.

Damian dragged his feet down the stairs, oddly nervous about the way his family would react. All he did during the confession was pathetically cry. There was no room for further discussion, however, now there was.

He hoped Grayson had stayed. It was a stupid wish, one that only children would hope for but he let himself think it anyway.

His heart grew, just the same as that green man in the Christmas movie Richard had forced him to watch when he saw Pennyworth handing breakfast out to Grayson as well as Father. 

“Master Damian, good to see you awake,” Pennyworth greeted, placing a plate of food in his usual seat. Damian mutely sat on his chair and ate. 

Grayson ruffled his hair, messing it up further than it already was from sleep. Father took a sip of coffee and smiled at him. It wasn’t fake but it wasn’t real either. It was more of a reassuring smile. Damian didn’t mind it. 

Breakfast was slow, nothing eventful, just as it usually was. The air was quiet, maybe a tad awkward, Damian couldn’t tell. He was horrible at reading emotions. It was probably due to the fact no one had any idea how to interact with someone who had died before. Take Jason Todd as an example. 

Grayson’s phone rang and Damian whipped his gaze over to the contact. Speak of the Devil. It was Todd.

Grayson answered the phone, either too tired to leave the room or uncaring.

“Hey,” Richard said, rubbing at his eyes. Damian could not hear what Todd was saying obviously, but he tried to piece together the conversation.

“It was fine. Absolutely heartbreaking, but fine,” Grayson said.

A pause and then– “He was good. Better than I thought actually.” Grayson glanced at Father and Damian reduced that “he” referred to Father. 

Grayson weakly laughed, sighed for a moment, then spoke. “Thanks, Jay.”

Soon after, he hung up. No one mentioned the call. 

The day went on like any other apart from Father staying home all day and Grayson staying at the manor as well.

Oh, also their incessant hovering. It was as if Damian was unable to be alone in a room. He had lived with the condition his whole life, nothing had changed when he finally revealed his secret. It was as if Father and his brother thought that Damian would drop dead. 

Eventually, Father came to him with a purpose.

“I got you a notebook,” he said, holding out the item. It was small and black, perfect for jotting down notes.

Damian gingerly took it, idly flipping through the pages. It wasn’t anything special. He didn’t really know what he had been expecting from a book that was going to hold every death he had experienced. 

“Thank you,” Damian responded, because he could use manners. 

After hesitantly escaping to his room, he sat on his bed, too big for someone so small, and held the notebook in his hands. His palm was still blotched with red and yellow as it recovered from the burn. 

Damian clutched one of his pencils in his hands, one he usually used for sketching, and began to write. First, he tallied his deaths, just to keep track of the number. Then he wrote. Damian wasn’t sure how he was going to feel about having his deaths written down but it was oddly freeing.

It was as if before, the secret was consuming him, sucking him into a black hole he would eventually become trapped in. Writing out his deaths and how they happened was therapeutic. Of course, there was always the risk that someone would read it and the rest of his time at the manor would be spent receiving pitied looks, but the reward was better than the risk. 

“When I was 4,” Damian wrote, “I was instructed to climb a mountain.”

The gleam of sun disappeared from his window and only then did he notice that he had been writing all day. Pennyworth had brought him food twice, once Damian assumed was lunch and then when it was dinner although he had been asked to eat with the family at first. Damian denied. 

His hand cramped from excessively writing but he had done it. Every death was described in detail on the paper and Damian felt as if his dinner was prone to come up. His chest no longer felt tight.

A single tear tracked down his face. Damian had cried enough tears of sadness. This was a tear of relief.

His pillow was wet when he fell asleep.

“Have you learned nothing?” Grandfather growled.

Damian was unable to respond, a frog in his throat. 

“Well?”

“I will be better,” Damian assured, looking straight into the flaming eyes.

“You will have some time to think about it in isolation,” Grandfather said, waving at an assassin to put Damian in the room. 

On the outside, his demeanour was calm, as if the punishment of isolation was nothing more than an inconvenience. On the inside, Damian was seething with anguish. He could feel the uneven thump of his heart against his tight chest as he obediently followed the assassin.

The room was empty when he arrived. It was nothing more than four walls and a floor. No bed, no windows, no anything. Damian retreated to the corner so he didn’t have to watch his back as well as having something to lean against. It was hot outside yet he had an uneasy thrum of cold rush through him. 

Mother was gone on an assignment and was supposed to return days later.

On day one, Damian clenched his grumbling stomach and smacked his dry tongue. He had the hope of the punishment being over repeating in his head like a mantra.

Two days later–supposedly, Damian was actually unsure–he was nothing but a dry mouth. Usually, he was at least given water during isolation so he would stay alive. Apparently, something about this time was different.

On day four, Damian wanted his mother. 

Damian didn’t make it to day five.

And suddenly, he awoke with a gasp and adrenaline so high that he physically shot up out of bed. His eyes were wide, taking in the lack of light around his room. Damian reached for water desperately, clutching his chest as if it were about to burst.

Someone handed him the water and he flinched.

“You’re okay, just breathe,” Father grumbled soothingly. 

Damian drank so much water that when he stopped, he had to quickly gasp for air. Father still stood far away, just out of arms reach. Damian wordlessly reached over and grabbed his notebook and a pencil.

He added a tally. 

“Oh, Damian, I’m sorry.” 

“How did you know to come into my room?” Damian asked instead of discussing the situation at hand.

“You screamed, sweetheart.”

“Oh.”

Father hummed. “Can I give you a hug?”

He nodded, even spreading out his arms in acceptance. Damian was enveloped in the hug, sighing at the smell of his father’s natural scent.

“I wish I could trade places with you,” Father confessed, mouth on Damian’s hair. 

“It is my burden to bear,” Damian reassured, despite it being nothing but.

“It shouldn’t be. My God, it shouldn’t be.” Only the air conditioning pattered as white noise in the background before Father spoke again. “But we’ll get through it. You’re going to be okay.”

And for the first time, Damian believed it.