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Damian shuddered, sweat running down his brow. He pressed his face against the pillow and curled up as much as the pain allowed him. He held his stomach, not too tight, it hurt too much for that.
Every breath was nauseating. Each pulse felt like a throb. Damian licked his sore lips and clenched his eyes shut at a spike of pain. His throat was dry, jaw aching from tension.
It hurt.
The pain was unlike any he had ever felt before.
Damian was an assassin. A warrior. A soldier. He has been through torture since before he could walk. He had been cut and shot at. His fingers have been crushed under heavy weights. Ninjas had strangled him into unconsciousness. Damian was used to the sensation of burning skin. Knew how to fight blindfolded. He had ingested poisons until he grew used to their effects. He had lost more blood before the age of ten than most people did their entire lives.
Although he had grown soft in Father’s care in the past few years, Damian was still trained. He still maintained his abilities through Robin. Richard might have tucked him into bed but Damian still remembered what being electrocuted by his mother felt like. Alfred makes him tea when his throat is sore but Damian knew how long it took for his own broken bones to heal.
Damian knew pain.
But not… not this pain.
This pain was revolting. It was violating in a way that hurt more than the actual injury itself.
Damian ached in a way he didn’t know he could.
He thought he knew all pains, he was wrong.
His breaths came out short. Panting through the thoughts melting into each other. No matter how he shifted, the hurt sharpened itself, screeching through his body. He long wished to ignore it, but there was something so intimate about it that he couldn’t.
Grateful for once that as it had been a school night and Robin was not expected on the streets, Damian had gone to bed early, claiming sickness when offered dinner.
It was not a lie, Damian couldn’t fathom eating any food. His mind was too preoccupied in disgust.
He laid in bed. Foolish. Stupid. Pathetic. Yearning for earlier in the day when he hadn’t known what this hurt felt like. He was an idiot. He should’ve done something. Fought harder.
Why didn’t he fight harder?
Damian quickly bit down onto his bruised lip, cutting off a gasp when needling pain shot up higher than he had anticipated.
In the darkness of his room, another tear slipped out of his eye. Damian rubbed the side of his face into the damp pillow.
He was pathetic.
The Manor’s old floorboards creaked. Father was back from patrol.
Panting from exertion and anxiety, Damian tensed, muscles stringing tight. He was strong. He was brave. He was an Al Ghul and a Wayne. He could beat this on his own.
He didn’t want to be on his own.
What other option was there? There was an instinct, a sense of urgency to call out and beg for his father. For the comfort he annoyingly gave out to anyone who wanted it, or even to those who didn’t. However, Damian was better than that. He was better than a measly snivelling brat who called for his father at the first sign of inconvenience. What would his mother say? The woman who had raised him to bear any form of pain?
That being said, she never prepared him for this. Never mentioned it. Mother had not warned him that there was such a feeling as horrid as this, and she wasn’t one to hold her tongue when it came to the darkness the world had to offer.
The footsteps began to grow more distant, Father passing by his room towards his own. Ready for bed after a long night of patrol. He was going to leave Damian to rot with this disgusting feeling.
Damian was unable to prevent it. It was impossible to fight the sound scrambling up and out of his throat.
“Father?”
The footsteps passing by ceased, before turning back around, coming closer and closer to Damian’s room.
Fool! He thought and clenched his teeth. Wishing he could turn back time. He didn’t need Father. He couldn’t afford to look like such an idiot in front of Batman.
There was nothing he could do but lay there as his bedroom door creaked open, Father poking his head through the gap. Damian squinted against the dim light from the hallway.
“Damian?” Father stepped in, leaving the door ajar and coming closer to switch on the bedside light. “Hey, hey.” He crouched down next to the bed.
Damian squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face back into the pillow. Father’s voice was too kind, he was probably as stunned as Damian by the fact that he was called.
He tensed at a heavy hand laying itself down in his hair. The fingers moved, carding through, blunt nails scraping his scalp lightly. Damian felt his muscles relax despite his tornado of thoughts.
“Alfred said you weren’t feeling well this evening.” Father spoke softly. “An upset stomach?”
Damian hummed quietly.
“Have you taken any medicine for it?” Father asked.
He shook his head once.
“Okay,” Father’s voice sounded nice. It was soothing. “You’re in pain, son.”
Damian whined, cutting it off as soon as it started. But Father heard it. The tut Father made in response was proof of it.
“Where are you in pain, Damian?” Father pried. “I can fetch you some antacids. Or shall I find Omeprazole, instead? Where are you hurting, son?”
“No…” Damian managed to mumble. That wasn’t right.
“No?” He heard the frown in Father’s voice. “Where are you in pain, Damian. I can only help if you tell me. I’m here for you.”
Damian shook his head, expression twisting in distress. He felt exposed under Father’s analytical gaze. Damian kicked for the sheet by his foot, reaching a hand down blindly to tug it up.
Only to still abruptly, a sharp slice of pain racing up his spine.
“Okay,” Father soothed. “It’s okay, son, here.”
Damian felt the hand in his hair pause momentarily, the blanket being pulled over his body. Father laid it down, tucking it around Damian’s shoulders. The child was quick to remove his face from his pillow, burrowing into the cover instead. Promptly, the hand resumed the repetitive movement through Damian’s hair, the only part of Damian that was sticking out of the blanket.
“In through your nose,” Father reminded him.
Focusing on his breathing helped to calm the throbbing pain in the base of his back.
Father shuffled closer, “is it your spine?” He questioned. “Is it acting up again?”
Shaking his head once more, Damian focused on the light tugs in his hair. On the cool bedding beneath him. The air entering his nostrils. The slow rise of heat under the cover. Anything but the disturbing sensation.
“Help me to help you, son.” Father pleaded quietly. “I don’t like seeing you in pain.”
“Go away.” Damian finally managed to say. His chest tightening. It was a mistake calling Father.
“I will after I give you something for your pain, Damian.” He promised. “I’ll find some acetaminophen but not if I can’t give you something specific instead.”
It was no wonder Father was concerned. Damian rarely found himself curled up in a pathetic ball in bed. Hiding like a weakling after his own failure.
A dull throb brought him back to the present.
“It’s…” he hesitated.
Father didn’t speak, letting him take his time.
He was grateful for the covering over his warm face.
“…my rear.” He muttered.
“Okay,” Father said easily. His hand not pausing in its calming movement, fingers scratching his scalp. “Thank you for telling me. Have you used the bathroom recently?”
Damian frowned deeply, shaking his head.
“I just want to know if your stool is loose or not, it sounds like you might be having some constipation? Dulcolax might help.”
A sudden whine broke out through Damian’s throat and he pressed his face uncomfortably hard into the mattress.
No. Father misunderstood.
“Did I get it wrong?” Father whispered. “Damian, talk to me, please.”
He couldn’t. He didn’t want to say anything. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. But how could he admit why it hurt?
Father pushed, “do you not want Dulcolax? We could try—”
The child found himself shaking his head aggressively, “no, it’s not that. He—”
Damian cut himself short. His muscles seizing as they tensed. Heart twisting abruptly and unforgivingly. Biting his own tongue to punish it for slipping.
The hand that had not paused in its movement since Father arrived had finally stilled.
Only for it to resume once more, lighter and more uncertain, but there.
“Damian,” Father’s whisper was softer than a breath. “Son, sweetheart, did someone… did someone hurt you?”
Focus on breathing. In through the nose. Feel the warm air flowing—
It didn’t work and he cracked. Damian fell through. His next breath caught in the lump lodged cozily in his throat. A torn sob forced itself out.
He tried to catch it but it fell away. Followed by another and another. Instantly, Damian found himself gasping in as tears steadily spilled out his eyes.
Faintly, he could feel the pressure in his scalp grow heavier and more solid.
His cries sounded foreign to his own ears. The sheer pitch and volume alone so alien to his silent resolve. Richard had taught him how to cry, but even then it was never as sharp as the sounds currently flying out through his grinding teeth.
His body twisted under the blanket, nails digging into his palms and feet kicking lightly, pressing hard as they rubbed against the bedding.
Only for the sharp pain to return and demand his attention.
He choked on a cry. “Hurts.” Damian coughed, spittle flying out.
“I’m here.” Father’s whisper returned. It was different still, gruffer than it had just been. “Right here.”
“Hurts.” Damian repeated helplessly.
“I’m sure, son.” The hand cupped his head, a solid presence. “It must hurt so much.”
Somewhere in between Damian’s tantrum, the blanket had slipped off his face. He felt the cool air on his cheeks, red from both excessive warmth and emotion. He opened his eyes into a squint, seeing Father in blurry vision.
“I’ve never—” Damian coughed again. “I’ve never felt it before.”
“No,” Father said and Damian’s vision grew clearer. Father was looking straight at him with such fierce warmth. He seemed in distress, anguish clear in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Damian sniffed, chest shuddering violently as he managed to tamper down his cries.
Father’s face twitched, his lips turning downwards. “My Damian.”
The boy swallowed thickly. The lump remained settled in his sore throat.
“Can I hug you?” Father asked quietly before quickly saying, “you can say no. It’s completely fine to say no.”
Damian frowned in confusion. Shuffling backwards on the bed to make space, moving through the ache. “Why are you asking?”
“Because you can say no.” Is all he said matter of factly.
“You are behaving oddly.” Damian pointed out, voice raw.
“Sorry,” Father apologised again. He lifted himself up, hand coming away from Damian’s head. “I can climb in?”
“Obviously,” Damian spat. His chin wobbled immediately and a hitched gasp ripped through his ribs.
In response, Father joined him on the bed. His arms, despite their urgency, telegraphed their movement as they came around Damian.
This was something he was used to, Damian knew how this went.
Chest still jumping in sobs, he allowed Father to pull him in, shifting closer when for some reason, Father stopped. He let himself be laid into the crook of Father’s arm, having slept in that space numerous times. Damian’s head fell onto the solid shoulder and he turned it, burying his eyes into Father’s shirt.
“Hey,” Father comforted. “Hey, son. You’re going to be okay now.”
Damian shook his head.
“Okay,” Father’s hand returned to Damian’s hair where it belonged. “You need some painkillers. I’m going to call Alfred for some acetaminophen and a hot water bottle. Okay?”
“No,” Damian bit his lip. “Then he will know.”
Father hesitated. “He will only know what we tell him. We can tell him nothing.” He frowned. “Or I could go ge—”
“No!” Damian shouted, loud enough to make himself jump.
“Alright. I’m not going,” the arm around Damian tightened. “I’m not leaving you alone, okay, son?”
“Why…” Damian breathed through a twinge. “Why a hot water bottle?”
“Ah,” Father’s fingers tugged at a tangle. “I’m going to assume you’re sore, darling. That you might be cramping a tiny bit. A hot water bottle will soothe that feeling.”
Damian wiped his face with his sleeve, only for Father to reach into a trouser pocket and retrieve a wad of tissues. With care, Father dabbed away the mess on Damian’s face.
“I can’t lay down right.” Damian admitted with a hoarse voice. “It aches and I don’t… I don’t understand this ache.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Father hushed, cleaning the last of the mess on Damian's face. “Can I ask you about your pain?”
Damian shrugged a shoulder.
“I want a yes or no here, son.” Father demanded, voice still light.
“Yes,” Damian frowned. “You’re being weird again.”
“I’m sorry,” Father smiled down at him but it didn’t look right. “Just a few questions, is there bleeding?”
Damian squirmed uncomfortably, face contorting at the question. Father allowed him to shift away somewhat, simply choosing to observe.
“There was… bleeding. But it stopped. I think.” Damian whispered. He’d spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to clean himself despite the biting pains. The blood hadn’t seemed too bad after the shower.
“Thank you for telling me.” Father said, acting as if Damian could not see the way his eyes twitched. “It must have hurt a lot. Can I find you some medicine and that hot water bottle?”
“If Pennyworth grows suspicious then what will you do?”
“I will remind Alfred what he already knows, that you are entitled to your privacy as long as one of the adults in this family knows your pain.” Father said, with the tissues in one hand, he used the other to pull out his phone.
Damian bit his lip as Father texted Pennyworth. Humiliation settling deep in. He pulled the blanket back over his face, hiding behind it.
Father allowed it, letting them lay in the silence.
Damian was the one to break it. “I’m sorry.”
He felt it when Father’s muscles stiffened, “whatever for?”
Damian didn’t reply, burrowing his nose into the surface beneath him, which happened to be Father’s arm.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Father stated sternly but quietly. “None of this is your fault. I might not know what happened but I know you were hurt, and that is not your fault.” Damian felt when something pressed the top of his head - a kiss. “You have nothing to be sorry for, son.” Father repeated, voice choking.
The younger boy felt his own throat close up, curling into himself as much as was possible. It was then he heard someone else enter the room. Damian kept himself hidden, shutting his eyes tightly as if to will himself away.
“In case it is of any use, I have prepared a mug of herbal tea, Master Bruce. I know, Master Damian tends to prefer it when he is feeling poorly.”
“Thank you, Alfred. I really appreciate it. Have a good night’s rest.”
“I am but a call away, sir. Do not hesitate. And Master Damian, I hope you feel better soon, dear.”
The door shut behind Pennyworth but Damian didn’t relax.
“Here,” Father whispered. “The bottle will feel nice. Against the small of your back. Can I put it there? Beneath the blanket?”
Damian whined. Pathetically.
“Son?”
He sniffed, Father was being particularly irritating tonight. “Yes.”
“Okay,” Father slipped the bottle under the blanket and against Damian. The child felt the subtle warmth through the rubber material. “Can you lift your head up for some medicine?”
With a huff, Damian pulled the blanket down, revealing his agitated face. He shifted upright somewhat, gritting his teeth at the pain.
“Good job,” Father mumbled, helping Damian to swallow the pills with some water. “Tea?”
“I do not want to sit up for longer.” Damian said as he laid back down to his earlier position. “Later?”
“Of course.” Father agreed easily.
Damian frowned, trying to lean into the warmth of the bottle to hurry along its effect. “I cannot believe people do this… willingly.” He taunted.
Father cringed, eyes flickering away. “It’s not everyone. But it’s different. When the participants are older. Bodies change, adult bodies can withstand these feelings better.”
Damian scowled up at him questioningly.
Father sighed, fiddling with the tissue paper. “There is preparation involved in order to make it less painful. There is lubricant. There is patience. Time and effort goes a long way in making it enjoyable and not painful.” He wiped another stray tear that escaped Damian’s eye with the tissues. “Your body, Damian, your mind, it’s too young. You weren’t ready. There are many reasons why people who hurt kids are monsters.” Father’s gaze softened. “You didn’t deserve this.”
Damian looked away. “Not everyone’s an adult.”
“No, but I suppose older teenagers also count.”
“Indeed. Timothy does it. He’s not an adult.” Damian pointed out.
Father’s face contorted. “I… was unaware.”
“How?” Damian asked genuinely. “The Kryptonian follows him around like a lost puppy.”
Father startled. “Tim and— no okay, I’m getting sidetracked.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a breath. “Consent, Damian, matters a lot. I know you’re aware, we’ve talked about it already. But it is important that sex is between two consenting… individuals above legal age or near it. Anything else is… assault.” Father sighed, “there’s a reason your pain is so strange. You were never meant to experience it.”
Damian winced, remembering the stinging ache. The heat and distraction had helped.
“You are not… interrogating me.” Damian said under his breath.
Father sighed, letting go of the tissues to bring his hand up to thread through Damian’s hair once again. “It isn’t urgent. I want you to feel better first, love.”
Damian just frowned, having expected Father to ask question after question on who Damian had let… his face scrunched up and he squirmed at a vivid memory. Father pulled back slightly, giving Damian a little space.
While Damian avoided meeting Father’s eyes, through his peripheral vision he caught Father glancing over to the messy pile of uniform thrown haphazardly under the desk. The unusual placement and obvious carelessness was unlike Damian’s typical pride in his belongings. He felt it when Father quietly sighed against him.
“What will you do,” Damian had to know, “when you find out?”
Still avoiding looking up at Father; Damian felt rather than saw his presence grow bigger. Like a wall between Damian and the bedroom door. Between Damian and who hurt him.
“Make him pay.” Father stated, voice low. “Make him regret ever even thinking about you.” While his voice was firm, his hand stayed soft. “You are my son. I’m not letting him get away with this.”
Damian bit his cheek, glaring with wet eyes at the bedding.
“I promise, Damian.”
He shifted uncomfortably, freezing with a wince. Father responded by reaching for the water bottle, pressing it closer to Damian.
In a whisper, Damian admitted. “I don’t want to say.”
Father only nodded, “then I don’t want you to either.” He reassured. “How would you feel about questions, though? Simple yes or no questions?”
Damian considered that. It didn’t seem so horrible. He gave a small nod.
“Now?” Father asked and Damian responded with another nod.
“Okay,” Father’s voice had lost its harshness. Settling into something hushed and private. “It happened today?”
That much was obvious, Damian thought with a nod.
“Alfred picked you up from school and you came straight to your room. From my knowledge, you didn’t leave the premises for Robin today. So it happened at school. Is that right?”
Damian’s fingers picked at the bedding. He nodded.
“Alright,” Father whispered. “Did a teacher touch you, Damian?”
The boy’s face twitched. That wasn’t right. Not at all. He shook his head once, the tight ball rebuilding itself slowly in his throat.
His answer had Father pausing. “Was it someone from your school?”
A nod.
Father’s gaze morphed into something more analytical. Watching Damian closely. “But not someone who works there. Not anyone principal or janitorial. Not someone from reception or medical either.”
Damian gritted his teeth. Father was getting closer and it increased the pressure in his chest. He shook his head in agreement.
“It wasn’t an adult, was it?” Father asked quietly.
Damian’s fiddling grew faster and less coordinated. He bit onto his lip to stop it from quivering pathetically. He shook his head.
“Was it a student? An older student put his hands on you?”
A stupid sob slipped out and Damian raised a hand to rub it harshly against the tears that forced their way out. He nodded frantically, trying to seize the sounds clawing through his throat.
“Baby,” Father hummed and pulled Damian closer to his chest. It didn’t sound mocking. “I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” Damian managed to say through the hiccups.
“Don’t be.” Father planted his lips in Damian’s hair. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I could— I could’ve fought better.” Damian argued. “It was just some stupid senior who— who I could’ve fought but he— he said—” he cut himself off, twisting to bury his face in Father’s warm shirt, muffling the louder cries.
The grip around him tightened. “He threatened you.” It wasn’t a question.
“He had forged pictures.” Damian admitted through gasps.
He felt more than heard the rumble in his father’s chest as he growled. “I’ll fix it.” He swore with a voice of steel. “I’m going to fix it. You’ll see, son.”
“I don’t want—” Damian was unable to finish, shaking his head desperately.
“I won’t look at them. I won’t see anything. But I will get rid of it all. And he will pay.” Father reached for the hot water bottle that had slipped away, holding it back in its place.
For all his childish behaviour, not once did Father reprimand him. Rather, the man hummed, his hand returning to play with Damian’s hair. Almost as though wordlessly encouraging his son to cry. Not hushing him as emotions ripped themselves out of Damian’s trembling chest.
It was warm and stuffy, the heat from the bottle; the blanket and Father’s woollen sweater near unbearable, but Damian didn’t even try to shift away. Unable to fathom being alone in any way.
Even though it was foolish. Even if he was better than that.
He just wanted Father.
“It was…” Damian’s fingers twisted in the fabric of his father’s shirt. “It was disgusting.”
“Dami…”
“It was so gross. And horrible.” He gagged, heaving through his tears and memories. “It was vile. I was vile.”
“You are not vile.” Father chided in that firm tone that left no room for argument. “My son is not vile or gross or disgusting or anything like that. That bastard is vile. My Damian is strong.” Lips touched his hair again. “He is a fighter and a protector. You are capable of so much. And I know you’re hurting, baby, I promise I know it hurts. But you’ll get through this. It won’t hurt so much one day.”
Childishly, lungs still hysterical, Damian heard himself asking, “when?”
“One day.” Father reassured him. “Not today. Today we’re going to drink this tea and rest.”
Damian whined, forcing in a shaky deep breath. “Then what happens?”
“Today is rest. We’ll talk about tomorrow in the morning.”
“No,” the boy moaned.
“Okay,” Father hushed. “Tomorrow morning we reassess. I’ll find some more medicine that will help with the aches. Osmotic laxatives that will ease your pain—”
Damian wanted to throw up at the implications.
“—and we’ll take some more acetaminophen. Another hot water bottle if needed or maybe an electric blanket. We’ll get some breakfast in you and discuss the extent of injury when you’re ready. See what we can do.” He brushed Damian’s fringe away from where it stuck to his forehead. “After sometime, I’ll arrange a few tests we can do down in our own Medbay or we can get done somewhere else. Tests that keep you safe, Damian. Nothing that you don’t want will be done. Everything is with your say so. The rest I will deal with.”
Damian felt himself going limp in Father’s arms, still burrowed into the space he had made for himself. “That’s a lot.” He muttered pitifully.
“I’ll take care of it.” Father promised. The back of his middle finger moved towards Damian’s face, softly running it between Damian’s brow and down to the tip of his nose. Repeating the motion over and over. Damian felt his heavy, wet eyelids flicker. The swollen weight behind them pulling his lids shut. His body helplessly shuddered. Overwhelmed and exhausted.
The tension and pain in his lower back had miraculously lessened. The comfort bringing attention to Damian’s tiredness. The uncomfortable overbearing warmth was still welcomed. The mere idea of going without the grounding feeling of the blanket and arms sending him into a panic.
“Step one is sleep.” Father hushed above him. Finger still dragging between Damian’s brows lightly.
“Wha’ abou’ tea?” Damian asked. Feeling heavier and heavier.
Lips touched his hairline delicately. “That can wait for later. Sleep, sweetheart.”
Damian didn’t think there was any other option.
He still ached. The hurt pulsed faintly in a place where Damian knew it shouldn’t. Repulsion sat heavy in his gut. A taunting voice reminding him of what exactly he and done wrong in his life to deserve this.
But Father was here. Father was holding him. He hadn’t let go yet and he said he wasn’t going to leave. So far, Father had kept all of his promises. So Damian trusted him. If Father said he was allowed to sleep, to temporarily forget and to just feel safe, then Damian was inclined to listen.
Father was here.