Chapter Text
Of course this is how he would die.
Not in a burst of glory, not defending a helpless group of citizens in dire danger, not even fading out of life in his own bed surrounded by his weeping family. No.
Robin, sidekick of the great Batman, was going to bleed out in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of nowhere at the hands of Harley Quinn of all people. Not only that, but from an axe wound - he had no idea how she had managed to hit several vital organs and completely mangle his rib cage into a crooked mess of cracking bone that dug into his flesh with every minuscule movement with one flimsy axe scratch.
It was ironic in a way; just another way in which he was different to the other (better) Robins. They had all died at the hands of the Joker - he died at the hands of someone who didn’t even want to kill him.
Was it worse?
Was it worse that his killer had skipped away merrily with her blood drenched hands, singing about Batman coming to save him with a scowl and firm fists ready to punch?
Was it worse that his killer didn’t mean to, that she would go to his funeral not out of mockery but out of guilt?
(Was it worse that he couldn’t even imagine a funeral being held for him?)
No.
It was worse because Red Robin had watched it all go down. Said vigilante was crouched beside him now, naked panic obvious even through the mask as he pushed down on the ever widening axe wound currently drenching his chest in blood and bore his distorted rib cage out for the world to see. His gloves were stained a red that Damian knew would take days to get out as fingers dipped into his flesh accidentally, sinking in until Red Robin yanked them out with a gag.
The other had already vomited, but looked dangerously close to repeating it, limbs shaking as he watched the dying boy beneath him. It was only after a few minutes of unfocused watching that Damian realised Red Robin had been mumbling softly to him, clearly trying to keep him awake as he scrambled around the floor for his com - it had apparently fallen out mid-battle, but Damian couldn’t find it in himself to comment on it.
Blinking groggily, he tried to focus on the other’s words, body subconsciously turning slightly as if to lean into his touch, as if the other would want to touch long-cursed skin, as if there was a relationship between the two beyond jealousy and hatred.
“Robin, oh god, you’re going to be okay. I won’t let you die, you can’t die, no more dead robins, oh god oh god oh god-“
Grumbling, Damian found himself mentally berating the other for wasting his time by muttering silly words meant to comfort a child. He had wasted his energy, only to listen to Red Robin of all people to die with and at this rate, his death was going to be at the hands of listening to this absolute nonsense.
Beginning to pant heavily with the strength that staying awake required, he kept his hearing focused on the other, unaware of how his breath started matching the other’s pace and he leaned into the words hungrily, glad for the company. He was so caught up in listening that he didn’t notice slender fingers coming up to wrench his mask off his face, green eyes staring down at him; Red Robin had apparently taken off his mask as well, black hair covered in blood splatters and white skin far too pale to be a product of their fight.
Even with a blurred eyesight, Damian could see how Red Robin’s eyes swam with guilty tears, blood dripping down his chin from a cut on the side of his head and he vaguely thought about how it would get infected if the other didn’t cover it up soon. The thought made him frown, but he couldn’t force his mouth open as tears began to fall on his face and Red Robin began to shake more feverishly, breaths coming out in short pants as the boy began to push harder on the wound, clearly trying to accomplish the unaccomplishable.
Damian forced his arm up -ignoring the stab of pain as he agitated the wound- in order to hold the other’s face reassuringly, tears welling up in his own eyes. Trying to smile, he pressed down slightly, unable to see how anguish crumpled Red Robin’s face and his hands began moving more desperately. He didn’t hear how a sob was torn out of the other’s throat nor feel how he nuzzled into Damian’s hand like a child seeking his absent mother’s comfort, only able to focus on how the world began to descend into a starless night around him and his heart began to slow down into a weak murmur in his ears.
Taking in a deep breath through punctured lungs even as he fought the urge to begin shrieking and rip the wound even more open until he could pull out his lungs and just bite until the pain was gone, Damian’s grim smile widened as he forced his last ever words out of his mouth, “I don’t want to die.” Alone proved too much for his last shreds of pride left to let out of the cage he had tightly built around himself, the boy’s arm falling back to the ground as the last of his strength seeped out of him like water escaping its crumbling confines.
Tim began to sob properly and uncontrollably, still hovering over the dying boy with his arms now cradling Damian’s head affectionately. Leaning into the touch, Damian wondered foggily why he hadn’t sought more physical affection from the other, suddenly wondering what his brother’s arms would feel around him in a hug.
And while he was coherent enough to know the pair had never hugged, he wasn’t aware enough to realise that this was the first time he had referred to the other as his brother.
Damian’s breath hitched as Tim’s hands left his face and the other forced himself onto two feet, unfocused eyes trying to ask him a silent question; whether he had caught on or not was unknown as Tim simply sobbed out, “I’m going to get you help, Robin.” before running out of the warehouse, gone within an instant. His cape was visible for a few seconds before his brother had disappeared fully, leaving behind a broken (unloved) body still yearning out for him.
Damian watched, smile only widening as his suffocating mind slowly caught on to what the other was doing, recognition attempting to light up vacant, glassy eyes. Of course. And then, the boy wonder threw up, bile starting to choke him as he found himself incapable to move from his position on his back, muscles tensing and shaking as the sparkle in his eyes began to fall dim and the sensation in his limbs slowly faded to a numb nothingness.
The only thing that Damian could taste was his own vomit intermixed with the iron pang of blood filling his mouth, frothing at the lips. Tears beginning to race down his cheeks, Damian thought about all of the people that he had held his sword to their neck, wondering if they too had felt this alone. Or maybe, his mind gripped onto the one last dilemma that he would ever get to think about, maybe they knew that they would get to see them again.
While he had always scoffed at the tales of resurrection, Damian couldn’t help but wonder if he would be given a second chance with everyone that he let down, with his parents, with his best friend, with his brother, or if he would be sent straight down to the fiery pits of hell, unworthy of a trial like the sinner that he was, unworthy of yet another chance to mess up. Had his library of scars marked him to burn for all of eternity or was it his blood that coursed through him like the tentacle of a demon, tainting him before he could even be born?
His mind strayed and without warning, he found his mind full of questions, all of which brought more tears streaming down his cheeks. Because after all, he was Damian Wayne-Al Ghul. His brothers didn’t trust him, he was forced upon his father like a bad cough, his hands were covered in blood thick enough to act as paint for the artwork that his family saw as beneath them. Even now, he could still hear their voices telling him that no they couldn’t take a day off their work, saying sorry that they had missed the art gallery and claiming they were making it up to him by forcing him to socialise with people that would never see him as one of them, that only saw him as an attachment to his father - or rather a liability.
Unaware of the bile slowly choking him, he managed a stifled laugh, slowly numbing mind providing him with pictures of an abandoned grave, left untouched by even the press, empty of I-love-yous and we-miss-yous. After all, who would want to remember an unloved Robin?
Who would want to remember the unwanted, who would want to remember the killer, who would want to remember the failed?
Who would want to remember the one who couldn’t even get his brother to hold him as he bled out?
He wasn’t going to be buried with the deceased Wayne’s like the others; he was going to be left to rot at the bottom of a ditch. Strangely enough, the idea amused him enough that he smiled at the dark figure moving to walk before him, pain having been replaced by humour at his pitiful situation. Looking up at the cloaked figure, he watched with half-closed eyes as it swung its scythe down with a whistle of wind.
And as the inky darkness finally enveloped the boy’s eyesight like a flood flowing over a paralysed dog, there was only one thought left on Damian Wayne-Al Ghul’s dying mind:
I want my brother.