Chapter Text
37 hours without sleep and minimal sustenance. Damian’s eyes narrowed from his position in the cave. The twelve-year-old crept closer, squinting as he peered at the screen of the Batcomputer. Drake was absorbed in a missing person’s case, his fingers flying over the keys with mechanical precision.
Despite running on little more than sheer will, Drake kept working. Damian’s gaze sharpened, the edges of his thoughts sharpening with it. Grayson had made it clear that skipping sleep or meals was unacceptable—yet Drake did it without consequence, working tirelessly as though it were simply the expected standard. The contrast gnawed at Damian, a bitter sense of injustice beginning to take root. Did Grayson view Drake as more competent than me? The thought flickered briefly through Damian’s mind, but he rejected it almost immediately. It was absurd. He had already proven himself worthy of the Robin mantle, had fought tooth and nail for it—faced enemies in ways no one else could, survived the League of Assassins’ brutal training, and even earned his father’s grudging respect. No, he wasn’t inferior to Drake. He couldn’t be.
Yet, the nagging thought remained, coiling in his chest. Maybe Grayson simply didn’t care as much about Drake. That would make sense, in a way. But even as the thought lingered, it seemed uncharacteristic of Richard. Richard, who had always insisted on compassion, who had spent countless hours guiding him, teaching him the things the League never could. The very same Richard who had embraced Damian when he thought no one else would.
Damian's mind refused to settle, the unease creeping in, tightening around his chest like a vice. Was this… a test? The more he considered it, the more it made sense. A test, yes. But what was the purpose? What would it prove? His mind flickered back to his upbringing in the League of Assassins. Everything had been a test there, a brutal, relentless series of trials meant to prove worthiness, and the cost of failure was never small. The threat of being discarded, of being deemed “not good enough,” had been a constant presence, a shadow that followed him through every lesson, every fight, every interaction. If I fail, will Father do the same to me?
In the League, failure hadn’t been an option. It was how they forged warriors, how they turned the weakest of children into killers. There was no mercy, no second chances. Damian’s mind churned with the echo of those lessons, the harsh truths ingrained in him from a young age. And now, even in this family, even here with Bruce, he couldn’t shake the suspicion that it was the same—just a different kind of trial. Was this a test? Another gauntlet designed to separate the worthy from the weak, to prove who truly belonged and who would be discarded.
The thought wormed its way deeper, creeping into the corners of his mind where doubt had never dared to tread. If Bruce, if the family could do this to Drake—push him past his limits until he shattered—what was stopping them from doing the same to him? He had fought for his place in this family, had earned it through blood and sweat, but in the back of his mind, the fear lingered: Would they discard me too, if I fail? If he wasn’t enough; if he couldn’t meet their expectations, would they just let him burn out like Drake? Would he be the next one they pushed too far?
Drake’s tireless work, his relentless sacrifice of sleep and food—was this part of the test itself? Was this how they determined who had the strength to survive, to earn their place in the family? What if Father was already weighing them, already deciding who stayed and who went? The thought burned through Damian like wildfire, his chest tight with the suffocating fear that he might not be good enough, that he might fail where Drake was somehow succeeding. The weight of the thought was suffocating now, a question he couldn’t shake off—was he truly enough for this family? It was that paralyzing fear—the fear of rejection, of being deemed unworthy—that gnawed at his mind and pushed him to this conclusion.
Damian knew Drake had no idea what was happening. To the older boy, this was all about proving himself, about showing that he could carry the weight of the world. But Damian understood the real stakes. Drake wasn’t being tested for his competence—he was being tested to see how far he could be pushed before he broke. It was a cruel experiment, and Damian couldn’t stand by and watch him crumble. If they could treat Drake this way, could he be next? Could he be the next one to fall victim to their silent judgment?
The thought twisted in Damian’s gut, and with it came a burning sense of responsibility. He wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
And if that meant sabotaging Drake’s coffee, then so be it. Without hesitation, Damian slipped Slthe now crushed sleeping pills into the mug. It was a disturbingly easy. Drake’s exhaustion was practically a given now. His alertness was non-existent, his focus a fragile thing. How is he still functioning?
But Damian’s plan didn’t unfold as expected. Instead of drifting into the deep, unconscious sleep he had anticipated, Drake’s head dropped suddenly onto the console with a dull thud. Damian approached him cautiously, inspecting the screen where Drake had been working. His frown deepened as he read the last paragraph—a jumbled mess of repeated sentences. Had Drake been that far gone?
Damian’s stomach twisted. He knew with certainty that Drake wouldn’t last much longer at this rate. He was slipping, not just in his performance on the field, but in every aspect of his life. His reports, now that Damian thought about it, were probably riddled with mistakes. The signs were all there—he was burning out, and fast.
Damian studied Drake’s unconscious form, his eyes lingering on the teen’s gaunt frame. Drake had grown thinner, his once youthful face now marked by the hollowed-out look of someone who hadn’t seen proper nourishment in days—weeks, perhaps. Dark circles were etched beneath his eyes, replacing the usual brightness that had once defined him. His hair, once immaculate, now hung in brittle strands. He looked… sickly. Damian felt a pang in his chest, a sharp, unfamiliar feeling he couldn’t quite place. How didn’t he notice this?
Was this Drake’s idea of passing? To throw himself entirely into the mission, to sacrifice everything—his health, his well-being, his very existence—just to prove he was worthy? There was a twisted nobility in it, Damian thought, a perverse reflection of the ruthlessness he had learned from the League. But it wasn’t noble. It was self-destructive. Even my grandfather wouldn’t have expected this from his men.
He couldn’t let Drake continue down this path. He couldn’t allow him to prove that this was what dedication looked like, to surpass Father’s expectations in such a brutal, unhealthy way. A good night’s rest, Damian decided, staring at Drake’s fragile form. That would be the first step. He would ensure it, even if it meant taking matters into his own hands.