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As a rule, Damian Wayne did not panic. He could be concerned, he could be alarmed, he could even be frightened on occasion. But none of that was enough to warrant the indignity of panicking.
That being said, he acknowledged that falling from the sky without a parachute or other means of survival was a fairly acceptable reason to lose his shit. As a little treat, perhaps.
...He still wouldn’t, but he understood that he could have.
It was all somewhat funny, because he liked skydiving. As he’d learned more about his actual desires, he’d come to understand that he was something of an adrenaline junkie. It was likely a result of the high stakes nature of his formative years: It could be hard for him to find excitement in activities that didn’t pose some danger to the continuation of his life.
But this wasn’t skydiving, this was being shot out of an airlock because he’d failed to account for the fact that Maxie Zeus was unhinged enough to risk killing a number of assembled crime bosses joining him on his sky yacht, just to get rid of one mouthy vigilante. It was somewhat flattering, really--comforting to know he was a respected adversary.
The impending doom, however, was not so comforting. The electrical discharge from one of Maxie’s ridiculous “Lightning Rods” had managed to cook his communication setup…and also his backup communication setup. Experiencing the discharge was also quite painful, and he was sure he’d suffered some burns under his armor. The psycho had been a little shock-happy that day. Maybe that counted as torture, actually. Damian felt that Maxie probably should have just continued along that path until his heart gave out, it would have been much smarter than letting gravity decide his fate.
But the man pretended to be Zeus, what rationality could be expected?
…Though, in defense of the madman: With no way to signal for help, and an emergency parachute that refused to deploy (perhaps the mechanism had melted from the aforementioned excessive electricity), it was likely that death was imminent anyway.
Generally in this situation he’d have called an ally that could fly fast enough to intercept him, Jon or Conrad were generally the best options, and considering how far from Metropolis he currently was, Conrad was the smarter choice, what with the teleporting cutting down on the time required to find him.
Thinking about them was a mistake, actually, because the possibility of not seeing them again crossed his mind, and poked at his composure a bit. Those two idiots managed to harass him even then. They’d be upset. Jon would wilt, and Conrad would likely kill Zeus and anyone even remotely connected to his airship event, before going on to discard every value and principal and dignity in an attempt to return him to life yet again. Even if he succeeded, it would all be ruined, tragedy would have made a home in both of their chests, and nothing would ever fit properly again, so warped would their love have become.
…Actually, that may be important.
Their shared bond allowed the Lantern to do some amazing and occasionally uncomfortable things, such as being aware of Damian’s distress, or exactly where he was whenever they were within…it had to have been at least fifty miles by that point. The radius had been steadily growing over their time together, and Damian had almost considered finding out a way to hide himself from Conrad’s awareness. Not because he didn’t want Conrad to know where he was, he trusted him and Conrad never abused that. But the tension between needing control and wanting that to be someone else’s responsibility made him itch, and sometimes he felt his father’s paranoia seep into the equation.
Either way, perhaps that wasn’t going to be helpful here either, Conrad wasn’t on earth, and if he would have been able to sense Damian’s peril, he would have already shown up. Why hadn’t he already popped up, actually? Early in their relationship Damian couldn’t have a moment of self-doubt without “randomly” bumping into the bad liar he claimed as his boyfriend.
Then he realized what the problem was.
As a rule, he did not panic. For the minute he’d been falling, he’d been generally relaxed, focused instead on the problem at hand rather than his feelings about it. He needed to get upset, and quickly.
He went through the list of things that upset him: Bad media takes, general incompetence, Drake, Drake the rapper, the thought of dying alone, the fear that everything he understood was a large illusion or dream that he hadn’t noticed yet. Maybe he was trapped in a Black Mercy and none of this was real, no one actually loved him, he was still…himself, he supposed. Just himself.
But that wasn’t enough. It hurt, but it didn’t move him to active distress. He needed something worse. The memory of his grandfather wishing to turn him into a shell and slither into his being. The moment he realized he was about to die the first time. Hell.
No, not fresh enough. He was running out of time. He needed a recent trauma, something he hadn’t managed to completely repress yet.
Then he knew what it had to be, and it flooded his mind instantly. He’d forgotten…and for a breath he almost wished he’d just accepted his fate instead. The visceral horror of seeing Conrad twisted and broken in a heap, chest caved in, ribs visible and splintered---it gripped him by the throat and threatened to crush a sob out of him. He was sure Conrad could only barely remember it, a small mercy thanks to the fact that he was likely so injured that he couldn’t have felt most of it at that point. And it was because of him. Maybe not literally, maybe it was nothing he had done. But Conrad accepted that fate out of love…for him. So it was still his guilt to hold.
That ache was less settled than he realized.
He didn’t get the chance to change his mind, to accept the death he deserved, because he suddenly stopped falling. All of his momentum had been completely negated, and he was mostly motionless in mid-air. He’d squeezed his eyes shut in response to the memory, and only opened them when he felt his weight rest on a pair of decently well muscled arms. When he did look up, he found Conrad’s creased brow and tight lips aimed down at him.
His beloved seemed to be stunned and attempted to speak a few times, but nothing really took. Damian could feel it in the way his chest heaved, the way his hands shook just a little: It was the adrenaline wearing off. He’d come so quickly that he hadn’t even processed the implication, ready to go without question or consideration. Now he looked to be working through his anxieties all at once.
Damian Wayne didn’t panic…but sometimes Conrad Bishop couldn’t help himself.
Damian offered the warmest smile he could manage. “Hi.”
Conrad managed a weak smile back. “Hi.”
"I…actually don’t mind you holding me like this, but if you’re trying to get a kiss, you'll have to take me out first.”
Conrad stared down at him for a beat before it clicked, and he laughed in spite of himself.
“...You…remember. The exact words even.”
Damian scoffed. “Of course. How could I…eh...if…if I had to approximate a specific moment…that would be when I…when you infected me.”
Conrad raised an eyebrow. “I infected you?”
“Yes. With your…sentiment. I live with it everyday now, it’s almost a disability.”
Conrad shook his head and sighed. “Love you too, Birdie…but you can’t scare me like that.”
“I’m sorry.” He was.
“Why were you falling out of the sky, and why…why are you covered in burns? They look…bad. Don’t they hurt?”
“Very much. But that means I’m alive, so, you know. Trying to hold onto gratitude.”
“Your eyes are watering.”
“No they’re--you can’t even…are you looking through my mask?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Does privacy mean anything to you?”
“...Damian.”
“Have I hacked your phone? Maybe. But I don’t trust you to be safe online, and It’s better that I do it than Drake--”
“Damian.”
“I can’t believe you have a folder of porn actually titled ‘Porn.’ Who does that? I thought people were supposed to hide that stuff, though I suppose you have no shame--”
“Damian--”
“Also, you have one titled ‘nudes’ but it’s just empty. Do. Do you…am I supposed to start--”
Conrad’s jaw set, and his aura burned a bit brighter. “Damian: Who did this. To you.”
Damian winced. “...Ooowww…I’m…oh it hurts…you should focus on my agony before you do anything morally dubious...ahhh….”
“I hate you.”
Damian nodded sagely. “I get it.”
Conrad huffed. “...Ugh! Fine! I’ll take you home and fix you up, and then you’re going to describe to me who I need to hurt. And hey, maybe I’ll even give you a shot to convince me to let them live.”
“Before or after you kiss me?”
Conrad smirked. “Why would I have to choose? You can’t escape.”
Damian laughed quietly. “You do realize that to anyone else you would be incredibly intimidating, right?”
“You do realize that if I wasn’t you wouldn’t take me seriously, yeah?”
Damian pretended to think about that. “I…might.”
Conrad looked like he’d stopped listening, instead focusing on scanning over Damian’s body. His neck tensed. “These…are electrical burns.”
“Well, I mean, I suppose so yes--though I do think there is some melted costume in the mix too, so plastic burns as well.”
“Fuck. I’m going to need to cut that off of you before I heal you.”
“I know.”
“It’s going to hurt. Bad.”
“Mmmhm.”
He made a sour expression and looked away. “...If I start crying and you make fun of me, I will bring you back here and drop you myself, got it?”
Damian managed to keep himself from wincing as reached up to gently pat Conrad’s cheek. He could feel blood from the wound he’d just agitated soaking into his undershirt.
“I would never.”
Conrad kissed his forehead gently, then seemed to decide that he’d had enough banter and light bent around them as they started heading towards Gotham at a ridiculous pace. Damian let him have his silence, he knew Conrad well enough to know that if he stopped talking, it was because he needed a moment to walk himself back from “The Cliff.”
When he did speak again, his voice was tight. “You weren’t afraid.”
The sudden accusation startled Damian out of his own wandering thoughts. “...What?”
“I wouldn’t have felt it if you were just afraid. You were…something hurt you. It was…it was despair. Serious enough that the ring actually made it a priority alert.”
Damian cringed. “...Oh. Um. I just...upset myself to get your attention. I promise I won’t make a habit of it.”
Conrad shook his head. “I’m not mad at that, if you need me, you need me. I just…what was it? I don't think I’ve ever gotten a vibe that bad from you before.”
As he realized that he did not want to explain any of that, to share that bleak memory with anyone ever again, he started rushing to figure out an explanation that Conrad would buy. There weren’t many, actually, and as Damian accepted that he’d have to explain himself…
…He started to panic.