Work Text:
“Spoiler?” Damian calls, patting her cheek gently, his face tight, “Can you hear me, Spoiler?”
When she doesn’t respond, he tuts, moving a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and takes a steadying breath.
Stephanie lies on the ground, in a pool of blood– her blood. Damian kneels next to her, a hand on her shoulder as he shakes her shoulders gently, careful not to jostle her head and neck, calling out her name over and over again, like he’s been doing for the past twenty-one minutes.
And Damian knows protocol, he knows that you can’t let people with severe head injuries fall asleep, he knows damn well about comas and memory loss and paralysis and death.
His little heart races at the memory of Stephanie forcibly shoving him out of the way, to spare him from Killer Croc’s attack. He shakes as he remembers the sound of her skull cracking violently against the wall, at her eyes going impossibly wide behind the domino, and– not blinking shut afterwards.
Cassandra’s visceral scream had managed to snap him out of his stupor and run to Stephanie’s aid immediately, while Cassandra snarled and charged at Killer Croc with everything she’d had. It had only taken a few minutes to effectively end him– and Damian hadn’t bothered to check if he was still breathing, hadn’t had the time to worry for the monster who’d just slammed his sister against a wall and possibly kill–
“N-no.” Damian breathes out, a fine tremble audible in his tone. “You’re going to be okay, Spoiler. I promise. Orphan will be here soon.”
Cassandra had gone to get help– Damian had suggested they drag Stephanie out of the sewers themselves, but Cassandra had been quick to remind her shaken, little brother that it would’ve been extremely dangerous to move Stephanie in that condition, that they couldn’t risk giving her– or worsening– a brain haemorrhage, or damaging her cervical spine any further.
So Damian had been left with Stephanie, unconscious, her breaths shallow and slow, skin clammy, ashen. They were approximately ten miles from Gotham– Killer Croc had been on the run for a couple of days, and they’d been sent to investigate by Bruce, but didn’t plan on engaging in battle.
But when Damian had pulled out the bō staff that Tim had been teaching him to wield, Killer Croc had charged, and– it hadn’t ended well. None of them had been prepared to fight.
“I’m sorry.” he mutters to Stephanie, a hand still shaking her shoulder lightly, reflexively, “I shouldn’t have even thought about attacking without consulting you and Orphan first. That was a poor choice. I’m– I shouldn’t have disregarded protocol.”
He almost laughs at his own words. ‘Poor choice’ is a bit of a euphemism, actually.
“If you could wake up, it’d be greatly appreciated.” he says, low, “If you don’t, Cai– Orphan is going to want my head on a golden plaque.”
Stephanie remains still.
“I have already expressed my utmost disgust towards the deer head that Father has up in his studio– even if it’s a simple reproduction, it’s still upsetting.”
Not even a twitch.
“Admittedly, I think nobody would complain if my head was up there instead, but I would not be lying if I told you that I’d rather leave the deer head, than have Todd and Cain–” he doesn’t bother covering for his slip-up, “–admire mine on a plaque, with a pleased grin.”
Damian glances at Stephanie, who’s getting paler by the second. He gingerly reaches out and delicately, oh-so delicately brushes a strand of blond hair away from her face, his hand trembling.
“Brown, I’m begging you,” he whispers, voice cracking, “I need you to wake up and be alright. I promise to– to watch that stupid superhero show with you, what was it, ‘The Boys’, right? As long as we don’t tell Gordon, I’m watching that show with you. Twice, even. I promise to volunteer to go up against Condiment King, and–” he pauses to think.
“I’ll be your sidekick. I’ll do your laundry for a year– we don’t even have to tell Pennyworth.”
She lies unresponsive. Damian shakes.
“I’ll– I’ll be the flower boy at yours and Cain’s wedding, if Grayson doesn’t beat you to it.” he says, an edge of despair in his voice, the grip on Stephanie’s shoulder growing painfully tight.
“Just please, please wake up, Brown.”
And Damian realises how childish he’s being, he realises that he’s losing his composure, that he’s letting feelings take over, that he’s going against protocol by using real names on the field, that he’s letting anxiety cloud his judgement and thoughts, but he can’t– Damian can’t lose a sister.
So, he continues to try to wake her up, shaking her delicately but insistently, grip firm, digging almost too deep into her flesh. He adjusts his cape on her body, checking that she’s tucked in properly– it’s not nearly long enough to cover her whole length, given their height difference, but her chest and thighs are covered at least, and Damian knows that warm armpits and groin help to keep the whole body such.
“I wish I had something to cover your shins and feet. You’ll have to forgive me for my lack of useful supplies.” he breaths out, half-jokingly.
And then– Stephanie lets out a faint sigh.
Damian beams.
“Brown! Are you alr–”
When Stephanie jerks and begins to convulse, Damian’s heart skips a beat.
“Damn it, no–” he grits out, two fingers immediately pressed against Stephanie’s carotid as she spasms and chokes, full-body shudders wrecking her whole form, head twitching.
Damian shoves a gloved hand under it, trying to prevent Stephanie from hitting her head too hard against the dirty pavement and subsequently worsen her injury.
He’s counting under his breath, eyes fixed on Stephanie’s face as it twitches and trembles, taking everything into account.
“...nystagmus, tachypnea, interictal epileptiform…” he mutters subconsciously, then “...thirty-two, three, four…”
He feels helpless as he watches Stephanie's body shake uncontrollably, pain etched on her face.
Damian feels a lump forming in his throat as he continues to count. He prays silently, begging whatever higher power may be listening that Cassandra returns at once with proper medical supplies and Bruce.
Because– because Damian needs him there, he needs his father to tell him that everything is going to be alright, that Stephanie’s going to be up and about after some rest, ‘as fit as a fiddle’ as Dick would say.
And Damian needs, wants to tell Stephanie that he’s so fucking sorry.
“...fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…” he counts, for the fourth time around. “Come on, Brown, come on.”
She spasms incessantly under his gentle one-handed hold, strong enough to barely hold her down, to prevent her from rolling over– given her head and neck injury, even a minor movement could severely compromise her condition, and Damian would never be able to forgive himself for letting Stephanie injure herself under his watch, not when she’d ended up in this situation because of him in the first place.
Her unmasked eyes roll aimlessly in her skull, blood soaking through the sodden makeshift bandage, chest spasming against Damian’s shaky fingers.
And finally, after two-hundred thirty-six seconds, the seizure begins to subside. Stephanie’s body slowly relaxes under Damian’s fingers, the time between each twitch and spasm getting longer. After another moment, she lies still once more. Damian’s own chest doesn’t rise as he waits for hers to. He watches, wide-eyed, when it doesn’t– for one, two, five seconds, her chest doesn’t move.
Tears pool at the corner of his eyes, behind the domino, as he readies himself to administer CPR, fingers intertwined, barely two inches above her chest.
“Fuck, no, Br–”
Then, a breath. Choked, shallow.
Another one follows. And one more.
Damian falls back on his heels, hands in his lap as a full-body shudder makes his spine twitch almost agonisingly. He swallows, thick. Stephanie’s still breathing. She’s still alive.
He observes her chest rise and fall with each inhale and exhale, unblinking, scared that the moment his eyes fall shut, even for half a second, Stephanie’s going to–
“..obin!” a voice calls, gruff.
Damian blinks, and a second later, two sets of footsteps become distinctly audible even to his ringing ears. Batman and Orphan approach him– he’s holding a large duffle bag, and Damian vaguely spots a back board sticking out.
Bruce skids to a halt, and immediately starts assessing Stephanie’s condition, while Cassandra cards a hand through her matter hair, avoiding the drenched dressing and the wound, then moves to add another layer of thick, padded bandage.
“Robin,” Bruce calls, firm, not prying his eyes from Stephanie as he works to stabilise her neck and head, “Nightwing is waiting for us at the Batcopter, half a mile South-East from the nearest gate. Warn him to be ready for an emergency extraction.”
Damian nods, almost frantic, then moves to stand– he collapses back on all fours when his knees buckle helplessly under his weight.
“Robin!” Bruce shouts, eyes wide behind the lenses, momentarily taking his eyes off Stephanie– the neckbrace is already in place, anyway, and blood hasn’t started to soak through the new dressing yet.
“Injured?” Cassandra says, low, eyebrows furrowed, “Where are you hurt?” she adds, signing.
He shakes his head, then tries to stand again, bent over, hands on his knees as he takes a few shaky, shallow breaths. “M’fine.”
Cassandra blinks, then looks at Bruce. “I’ll get Steph. You get him.”
The man nods, and he and Cassandra change positions, her resuming the stabilisation, and Bruce approaching his son. He runs both hands up and down Damian’s arms, squeezing the flesh, then does the same to his legs– it takes longer than Damian would like to admit to realise that his father is actually checking for injuries.
“Father,” he calls, weak, “I’m alright. It’s– just m-my head.”
Bruce’s hands still. “You hit your head?” he asks, urgent.
“No, I meant– I appear to be going into shock.” he mutters, shaky, “I’ll be fine. Please tend to Brown first.”
“Oh, kid.” Bruce sighs, then wraps his arms around Damian, barely for a few seconds.
Then, he lets go– and Damian’s chest feels hollow at the sudden lack of warmth. But Bruce’s back is to him now, hands outstretched behind, towards Damian.
“B-Batman?”
“Climb up,” Bruce says, calm, “I need to help Orphan carry Spoiler, but I also don’t want you to stumble and injure yourself. This is our safest option.”
Damian blinks. He supposes that, if it prevents him from being even more of a hindrance to the whole mission, including the rescue, he can allow that. So, he crawls the short distance between him and his father, slinging his arms around the man’s sturdy neck.
He watches as Cassandra plants a long, soft kiss on Stephanie’s clammy forehead, then one atop of her head, avoiding the injury. His heart clenches.
Once he’s settled on Bruce’s back, the man stands, a hand under Damian’s bottom, the other holding half of the weight of the back board as Cassandra grabs at the other side of it.
“Let’s get going.” Bruce says.
Damian allows his eyes to drift shut.