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Dick sat back against the headboard, smiling as Damian climbed into his lap.
Five years ago, he had found him starving and feral in a basement cage, kept as a weapon, dragged out to terrify hostages. No one had known how long he’d been there. Long enough that some habits had sunk in deep.
Food had been the hardest.
Damian would eat like it would disappear. Always eating as much as he could, as fast as he could, making himself sick multiple times.
Now, at eight, he was brighter. Happier. Curious about the world outside the basement he’d once thought was the whole of it.
He curled comfortably into Dick’s lap, smiling up at him, his smile widening when Dick nudged his forearm into waiting hands.
Dick couldn’t feed him like this often. Definitely not every day, not even every week, but Damian preferred blood from the source over the synthetic bags. So, every once in a while, Dick let him latch on. A small treat.
Dick drew in a slow breath as Damian bit down, releasing it gradually as the sharp sting settled into something bearable. Damian hadn’t developed venom yet and probably wouldn’t for years, so there was nothing to dull the pain of fangs breaking skin.
Dick didn’t mind.
Almost immediately, Damian relaxed. His shoulders loosened; a pleased sigh left him, warm against Dick’s arm. Dick rested a hand at his side, letting his head tip back against the headboard.
After this, he’d get a few files done. Tim had sent over casework about an arms ring stretching between Gotham and Bludhaven. He hoped they could wrap it soon. He’d been enjoying his nights away from Nightwing lately, instead spending nights wrestling a vampire on the living room floor instead of rooftops, falling asleep with him draped across his chest.
He should call Bruce soon. Set up dinner. It had been a couple of months. Damian hadn’t seen his uncles in weeks.
And the fridge was running low on blood bags.
That could wait a few days. Damian wouldn’t need to eat again after this. Not for a few days.
Dick’s eyes slipped closed.
When he opened them again, something felt wrong.
Heavy. Blurry.
His arm was still cradled in Damian’s hands, but Damian’s grip had tightened. Small fingers kneaded hard into muscle.
Oh shit.
Damian was still drinking.
Too much.
Dick shouldn’t have let his mind drift.
Safe or not, Damian could still get carried away. Blood highs were harder to pull him back from.
That was Dick’s job.
He tried to pull his arm away. It barely twitched. His tongue felt thick and dry.
“Dam—” The name came out as a weak hum.
Cold crept through his veins. His head tipped sideways, vision narrowing, dimming at the edges.
The room folded in on itself.
And then there was nothing.
Damian bit down on his dad’s arm, sighing as the warm blood flowed into his mouth. He almost never got to feed like this, usually either blood bags or mugs filled with blood, just enough to quell hunger. He didn’t mind the bags, but he’d learned fast that blood straight from the source was better.
He let his eyes slip closed, hands gripping his dad. A happy haze settled over him, warmth spreading through his body. His dad’s lap was warm, and Damian curled closer, soaking it in.
The fog in his head thickened, creeping through his body like fire. Each gulp lifted him higher, every worry and ache drifting off, leaving a rare, pure warmth in his chest.
His drinking slowed to sips. Fingers pressed into his dad’s arm, feeling the pulse beneath the skin quicken. He noticed it, briefly—then the warmth and haze pulled him away. Drool slid from the corners of his mouth as the world began to tip, pressure pressing into his back. He tried to shift it off, but the weight only grew.
When Damian finally unlatched, vision still blurry, he pushed at the weight. Unease crawled up his spine. His dad’s body was slumped over him.
“...Dad?” He pulled himself free, sliding onto his heels. A hand touched his dad’s arm. No response. Just the bustling city below and his own quickening breath.
“Dad?”
His dad’s eyes were half-lidded. The heartbeat beneath his fingers was erratic, hammering against his palms. Ice shot through Damian’s chest.
He froze.
The happy haze vanished.
Tears stung his eyes. His hands shook, gripping his dad’s arm, then his shoulder, shaking him as hard as he could. “Daddy? Dad!” Sobs tore from his throat when his dad didn’t move.
He fell backward, panic surging, breath catching, heart hammering.
He hadn’t noticed.
He hadn’t realized he was taking too much.
Damian scrambled forward again, tugging at the arm. A loud wail broke from him as the reality sank in.
He’s dead.
He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.
His hands rubbed at his face, smearing tears only for new ones to fall. He slid off the bed, snatching his dad’s phone, fumbling at the passcode. Another sob rattled through him as he hit his grandfather’s contact, bringing the phone to his ear, gasping into the receiving before another sob broke out of his throat.
Bruce was splayed across his bed; covers pulled up to his shoulders. He had taken a heavy hit to the chest the night prior and had lost the fight against Alfred who insisted he rested for tonight, then returned to Gotham’s streets tomorrow night.
He rubbed his hand down his face, sighing and turning over. Just as he got comfortable, his phone started to vibrate on the end table.
Bruce groaned, reaching over to pull it in front of his face. He squinted at the contact, confused as he read Dick’s name. While it wasn’t exactly late, it was nine o’clock, so only half an hour after Damian’s bedtime. Bruce had never doubted Dick’s parenting, but he absolutely doubted his ability to get Damian asleep within the hour of Dick putting him down.
Bruce would know, he had babysat many times and by far getting Damian to sleep was the hardest part. Bruce swiped to accept the call, but before he could get a word in, he was cut off by a loud sob.
“Dick?!” Bruce asked frantically.
“Daddy’s dead!’ Damian wailed out in response, loud hiccups and sobs grating over the receiver, “Papa, Dad won’t wake up!”
Bruce felt ice rush through his veins, his heart dropping so hard it felt like it might not start again. He sat up out of bed and swung his legs onto the floor, slamming his bedroom door open and sprinting out of his bedroom towards the cave.
“Damian? What happened to Dick?”
He was only met by more crying. He could hear as Dick’s cellphone was set down somewhere, presumably on the bed based on the rustling, and Damian’s shrill cries getting further away.
“Wake up, please! Daddy, please! I’m sorry!” He screamed out, and Bruce felt his heart shatter.
“Damian? Sweetheart, please, you need to tell me what happened.”
As another hiccupping sob played through Bruce’s phone, he could hear as the phone rustled against something again and was brought closer to Damian’s face.
“I don’t know!” Damian cried out, “I— I was eating, and he stopped moving! I’m sorry Papa, I’m sorry!” He choked out, and as Bruce raced down the stairs in the Batcave, fingers gripping his phone so tight he feared it could possibly break, he made eye contact with Tim, who had been leaning back at the Bat computer, but was quick to look up when Bruce came thundering down the stairs.
Based on the fear-stricken look on Tim’s face, Bruce assumed he could probably hear Damian, who was no closer to calming down; his sobs only seeming to stop when he choked on them.
“Get a bag of A-Positive. Maybe two. I don’t know. Saline, IV catheters, blood tubing. Everything we’d use for a blood transfusion,” Tim paled, but was quick to jump to his feet, running off towards the med bay as Bruce grabbed his communicator, paging out S.O.S. to Clark before tossing it onto the desk, “Damian? Buddy, I need you to calm down, okay? Tim and I will be there soon.”
Bruce really wasn’t sure if Damian had heard him, and by the sound of it, if he had, Bruce’s words had not worked if the withering cries were anything to go by. Bruce could only assume that Damian had left the phone somewhere again, as his cries were slightly muffled, but still present.
Bruce had been trying to stay calm, but every second that his eldest son didn’t start talking, didn’t start soothing his hysterical son who Bruce had seen him drop everything multiple times for, he felt dread creep into his stomach.
As Tim rushed back, a cooler with blood and a bag of supplies in hand, the familiar whoosh of displaced air sounded, Clark appearing alongside it as he stopped next to Bruce.
“Bruce? What—”
“Bludhaven. Now,” Bruce interrupted, “Dick is hurt.”
At that, Clark was grabbing Bruce under one arm, and maybe if this were any other situation, hell even if the entire world started collapsing in on itself, Bruce would have argued or at least grumbled about being held like this.
But currently?
Bruce’s entire world was crumbling; more pieces falling every time Damian’s cries were picked up by the microphone.
Once Clark had Tim secured along with their supplies, he was jetting them across Gotham Bay and into Bludhaven. Clark dropped them onto the fire escape, the cold metal pressing into Bruce’s hand as he grabbed the railing, and immediately Bruce could hear Damian, and by the looks of it, so could Clark and Tim.
How not a single neighbor had called the police; Bruce wasn’t sure. Damian’s cries were raw and unfiltered, scraping against Bruce’s nerves, echoing through the thin walls of the apartment. How anyone could hear that and not think something was horrifically wrong, Bruce did not know.
Tim tried to open the window, and it didn’t budge. Clark, however, didn’t waste any time, his fist flying forward to shatter it, quickly forcing his way inside and bolting to the bedroom. Bruce and Tim were quick to follow.
The scene they were met with had Bruce faltering for a second. Dick was slumped over, head lolled to the side, skin ashen and while his eyes were partly opened, there were no signs of life. Damian had curled himself against Dick, hands fisted into his shirt, his head pressed into Dick’s chest as he sobbed. Sometimes, Bruce would forget how small Damian truly was. After years of malnutrition and neglect, Damian’s growth had been somewhat stunted, always lagging behind others his age, but Bruce never really noticed the boy’s stunted frame.
Right now, though, his stunted growth was obvious. He barely came above Dick’s waist normally, and now, legs curled up, he didn’t look much bigger than Dick’s torso.
Clark was at Dick’s side, hands hovering above him uselessly as he turned his head back to Bruce, “His heart is beating, it’s not super strong, but it’s beating.”
At that, Bruce was shoving forward, pulling the bag away from Tim, “Tim? I need you to take Damian to the other room, okay? Me and Clark will handle this.”
With a sharp nod, Tim slipped past Bruce, arms coming to circle around Damian’s middle to pull him into his arms.
Damian had yet to even look at them, but the second Tim tried to take him away from Dick, he began screaming, a loud, angry snarl filling the room before it was cut off by a sob.
“Come on, Dami. Dick’s going to be fine, okay? Papa and Clark are going to make him feel better. I promise. We have to get out of their way.”
Damian shook his head, hands tightening in Dick’s shirt, “No! No, I want to stay!”
“Damian, bud—”
“Tim,” Bruce said gruffly, handing a catheter over to Clark, who grabbed ahold of it as he pried the cooler of blood open.
“I know, B!” Tim said, taking in a sharp breath before hauling Damian off Dick and into his arms.
Damian let out a wail, arms reaching out for his dad as he fought against Tim’s grip.
“No! No! Stop, Uncle Tim stop!”
Tim spun on his heel, sparing one last glance at his limp brother before readjusting his grip on Damian, shushing the crying child on his way out of the bedroom.
Tim wrestled Damian away from the bedroom, flinching as small hands came flying down against his arms. More heart-wrenching cries leaving him as Tim marched down the hallway and into the living room.
“Damian, hey, it’s going to be okay, you need to breathe.”
Tim sat down on the couch, keeping his arms tight around Damian even as he pushed against him.
“No, no, no! Down! Let me down!” Damian wailed, hands fisted and weakly slamming onto Tim’s chest. Tim sighed, head dropping down on top of Damian’s.
“Damian,” Tim whispered out, arms circling tightly around him in a comforting gesture, “Damian you need to calm down. Dick’s going to be okay,”
Damian shook his head, sucking in a heaving breath, “He’s dead Uncle Timmy! I didn’t mean too!”
“No,” Tim said firmly, holding Damian through his sobs, listening as Damian choked on them, gasping for air every time another cry was forced out of his small lungs, “No, Damian, I need you to listen to me.”
Damian shook his head hard enough to knock it against Tim’s collarbone.
“No—!” Damian gasped out, “I killed him! I didn’t stop, I didn’t notice!”
Tim swallowed, one hand rubbing slow circles on Damian’s back; the other coming up to cup the back of his head.
“You didn’t mean to,” Tim said quietly, “This wasn’t on purpose, no one—,” Tim took in a steadying breath, “—no one is angry at you, okay?”
“But I hurt him,” Damian whispered into Tim’s chest.
“You did. And that’s scary and I’m sorry that this is all happening. But you were able to stop. You called Papa to help him. You didn’t kill him, okay? Clark said his heart was still beating.”
Damian sucked in a shaky breath, hands coming up to wipe the tears off his cheeks.
“You promise?” He asked quietly, voice quivering as he looked up to catch Tim’s eyes.
Tim tightened his hold on Damian, hesitating for just a second before answering, “I promise they’re going to do everything they can to help your dad. I promise. Dick is stubborn as all hell; he won’t go down without a fight.”
Damian gave a small nod, his cries slowing down into broken whimpers and hitching breaths. Tim pressed a kiss into Damian’s head, murmuring reassurances to Damian even as his hands shook, eyes burning as he stared down the hall and at the closed master bedroom door.
Bruce’s hands didn’t shake as he pulled away from the IV. He refused to let them until his son was awake and aware.
Clark had helped Bruce adjust Dick, laying him on his back once he was hooked up to the blood bag. Bruce took a step back, eyes watching as the blood dripped slowly from the hanging bag. He turned back to the supplies bag carelessly tossed at the foot of the bed, pulling out the portable heart monitor, slipping the finger clip onto Dick’s finger. Soon, fast-paced beeps rang out into the room, cutting through the previous silence.
Bruce let out a loud, heavy sigh, running a hand down his face before sitting halfway on the bed. A few seconds later, he felt Clark’s hand drop down onto his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“We got here in time. He’s already getting a little color back.”
Bruce grunted in response, his head dropping into his hands.
As time ticked on, both Bruce and Clark listened as Dick’s erratic heartbeat finally slowed down to a less-concerning pace. Without looking, Bruce reached a hand to his side, grasping Dick’s hand in his. When Dick’s fingers twitched weakly in his hold, Bruce’s breath hitched.
Bruce didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Clark hadn’t been on world, if Bruce and Tim would have needed to drive the half-hour drive to Dick’s apartment.
If Damian hadn’t called at all.
Bruce sucked in another breath, trying to calm his rapid heart rate, before turning to face Dick. Clark was right, Dick’s face and lips had regained just a bit of color, though it would probably take another hour for him to not look so close to death’s door.
Bruce looked over at Clark, who was staring sadly down at Dick, “Thank you. Thank you so much, Clark.”
“Anytime, Bruce,” Clark smiled, “You know I’d do anything for you and the kids. I know you’d do the same for me.”
“Of course.” Bruce responded, his gaze falling back to Dick.
Twenty minutes later, once Dick’s heart rate had settled into a regular rhythm, a little more color showing in his face, Bruce rose to his feet.
“I need to talk to Tim,” Bruce paused for a second, “and Damian. I need to update them both and talk to Damian about what happened. Could you watch him?”
Clark nodded quickly, shooting a reassuring smile to Bruce before taking Dick’s hand in his and settling on the side of the bed. At that, Bruce turned, slowly opening the bedroom door, stepping out and then closing it behind him. When he looked up, Tim’s eyes were boring into him, wide and red. Damian was curled into Tim’s lap, face pressed against his chest. He looked asleep, but as soon as Bruce started to walk over, he twisted around violently.
Damian looked terrible. His hair was ruffled, sticking in random directions like he had begun pulling on it. His face was red and blotchy, streaked by tears. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and while he wasn’t currently crying, Bruce could already see the tears getting ready to start up again by the sight of Bruce.
Tim’s eye contact only ceased when Damian began to shake again, tears falling down his cheeks the second Bruce stepped fully into the room, quickly walking over and crouching in front of Damian.
“Dick is stabilizing. I’d assume he’ll be awake within the hour, Damian—”
“I’m sorry!” Damian shrieked out, interrupting Bruce. He pushed off Tim, sitting up to face Bruce. His tears had started up again, and both Tim and Bruce listened as his breathing picked up.
“I didn’t mean to!” Damian cried out, chest beginning to heave again, “I promise! Papa, I promise!”
“Damian,” Bruce spoke out calmly, “You need to take a breath. I know you didn’t mean to. Dick is going to be okay.”
Damian’s crying didn’t cease, but he did reach out to Bruce, who pulled him into his chest, wrapping him tightly into a hug.
“It’s okay. I promise, Damian, it’s going to be okay. We aren’t angry at you. I’m not angry with you. When your dad wakes up, he’ll tell you the same thing. You did good. You called me. We got here in time.” Bruce soothed gently.
Damian continued to sob, arms hooked tightly around Bruce’s neck; face shoved into his shoulder.
Bruce stood, wincing as his knees cracked, carrying Damian up with him, and then sat down beside Tim. He rubbed Damian’s back, head tilting to look over at Tim.
Tim’s face was pale, but he seemed noticeably calmer after he had been updated on Dick’s condition.
“Thank you for watching him and getting him out of the room.”
“Yeah, ‘course,” Tim breathed out, “Dick’s gonna be fine?”
“Other than a sore arm and some dizziness for a day or so, he should be back at one hundred percent in a few days.”
Tim nodded, “Can I go see him?”
After Bruce nodded, Tim stood up, sparing one last glance at Damian, whose crying had slowed, only occasionally sniffling or sucking in an unsteady breath, before walking down the hall.
Bruce listened as the door opened and closed then addressed Damian, “Do you want to go see your dad?”
“No.” Damian sniffled out, and Bruce frowned.
“Are you sure? I know he would be happy to wake up with you at his—”
“No!” Damian said, pulling away from Bruce’s neck, arms unwinding and then dragging himself to sit on the couch instead of Bruce’s lap. His face hadn’t changed, still wet and blotchy, but he now had an angrier look on his face; eyebrows furrowed.
He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his head face down and sniffling again. Bruce brought his hand to Damian’s back once again, rubbing circles on it.
“Alright,” Bruce murmured, “Once he’s awake, we’ll go.”
Damian just shook his head, breath hitching once more, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his sleeves.
Nearly an hour later, Bruce and Damian were still sitting on the couch. Damian’s tears kept coming and going, a period of sniffling followed by loud crying, only quieted when Bruce had pulled Damian into his side, Damian shoving his face into Bruce's ribs.
Other than that small shift, neither Bruce nor Damian had moved. Bruce could hear Clark and Tim talking quietly in the other room and while Bruce would love to see how Dick was doing, he refused to leave a traumatized eight-year-old alone or to drag him into a room he did not want to be in.
A few minutes after another crying fit had finished, and Damian was sniffling sadly into Bruce’s shirt, the bedroom door opened and Tim came walking out.
“B? He’s awake, wants to talk to you two.” He said as he stepped into the living room, gesturing vaguely behind him towards the bedroom.
“We’ll be there in a second, I can explain what happened if you or Clark haven’t yet.”
“I’ll tell him you’ll be in there soon, I think Clark might have given a small summary but... I don’t think he’s said much. We’ll let you do it.”
Bruce gave Tim a small smile, “Thank you, Tim. We’ll meet you in there.”
Tim nodded, turning back around and walking back to Dick’s bedside. Bruce turned to Damian, whose face was peeking out to watch Tim.
“I know you said you didn’t want to go, but, Damian, I promise, Dick isn’t going to be mad. I promise.”
“No,” Damian whispered, eyes flicking up to look at Bruce, “No. I can’t.”
“Why not, buddy?”
“I can’t! I—” Damian’s eyes filled with tears once again, and after a quick pause, let out a loud, frustrated noise, “I can’t! Papa, I can’t!”
Bruce frowned sadly down at Damian, arm tightening once again. After a minute of Damian’s tears drying, Bruce brought his hand up to card his fingers through Damian's hair.
“Damian? Can you look at me, please?” After a few seconds, Damian peeked half his face out, “I know you're scared that it could happen again, but Damian? You won’t be feeding, hell, you don’t even have to touch Dick unless you want to. Until you’re ready. Me, Tim and Clark will also be right there, okay?”
The room lapsed into silence, then Damian slowly unfurled, “...Okay.” He said timidly.
Bruce stood up, helping Damian stand on shaking legs. Damian was quick to grab ahold of Bruce’s arm; fingers tightened around his wrist.
Slowly, Bruce began to lead them to Dick’s bedroom, walking slower as Damian lagged behind, halfway hidden behind Bruce’s leg. Bruce looked down when Damian’s breathing shallowed again, his steps slowing to a stop. Bruce reached to grasp Damian’s hand, but Damian pulled away instead, a broken noise tearing from his throat as his eyes darted down the hall. Before Bruce could say his name, Damian bolted forward.
However, instead of crossing the threshold into the master bedroom, he took a sharp turn into his own bedroom, door slamming shut behind him.
Bruce stared, quickening his pace to stand in front of Damian’s bedroom door, fist knocking gently on the door.
“Damian?”
No answer.
Bruce brought his hand up to the knob, slowly twisting until the locking mechanism stopped it from going any further. He knocked a few more times, ear pressed to the door. He could hear Damian shuffle some stuff around, plus a few sniffles, but even as Bruce called out, he received no response.
Bruce waited a few more minutes, knocking periodically, before letting out a heavy sigh. Damian had stopped making noises, but before Bruce could try to coax him out again, Tim stepped back into the hall.
His eyes looked between Bruce and the closed door, a knowing frown on his face.
Bruce looked back at the door, forehead resting against the door. He knocked once more, “Damian? I’m going to check on your dad. We’re all just down the hall. You don’t have to come out until you're ready.”
Damian didn’t respond, and Bruce hadn’t expected him to.
He turned back to Tim, hand resting across Tim’s shoulders as he guided him back into Dick's bedroom.
Dick was still laying down, but his skin was close to being the same shade as normal, a healthy flush forming on his cheeks. Dick had been quietly talking to Clark, but his eyes shot over to Bruce the second he walked through the doorframe. When his eyes clearly flickered past Bruce, angled downwards to look for Damian, a frown formed on his face.
“Dami?”
Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Dick’s hand in his.
“He just needs a little time,” Bruce said, “He’s in his room. He’s... scared.”
“I heard him slam the door,” Dick mumbled sadly, “That bad, huh?” Dick said wryly, sucking in a breath, pausing before speaking again, “Clark said he called you?”
“Yeah,” Bruce said hoarsely, “Yeah, he called me. When I picked up, he was already crying. He kept saying—” Bruce took a deep breath, feeling it hitch halfway through, “He kept saying you were dead.”
Dick’s face fell, his eyes closing while he sucked in a breath.
“Dick—” Bruce’s voice cracked, “I was so scared. So, so scared. I don’t think I’ve ever felt terror like that before.”
Bruce grabbed Dick’s hand, squeezing it tightly, biting his lip while he fought tears. When his shoulders started to shake, Tim’s hand came to rest on his back. Dick squeezed back, eyes opened again,
“Bruce... I’m sorry you had to hear that, and that Dames had to say it.”
Bruce shook his head, “No. No, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—neither did he. I’m just glad you're here. That’s all that matters right now.”
Dick shook his head, turning his head away, throat tight.
“No, Bruce. I was the adult in the room,” he said quietly, “I know how food is for him, that it’s hard for him to slow down. To stop. We all remember how he was when I first brought him home.”
Bruce did.
The once tiny Damian backing himself into a corner, tiny knuckles turning white from holding the blood bag so tightly, and a low warning growl he didn’t seem to be aware he was making filling the room.
“I should have been paying attention. I should have stopped him before it went too far. That’s completely on me.”
Dick exhaled, looking up at the ceiling.
“I remember a little bit before I passed out, I noticed everything getting heavy, that he was getting... carried away. I should have noticed sooner.
Dick turned back to Bruce, eyes glassy.
“He’s going to remember this.” he said bluntly, voice tight.
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“Yeah.” Bruce answered.
The room fell into silence again, only broken by the heart monitor’s beeping.
The silence stretched.
Clark had stood and exited the room, returning with two of Dick’s dining room chairs.
“I’m going to take my leave now. Do you want help taking out the IV?”
“I think we have it, thank you, Clark.” Bruce said, standing up to take the chair out of his hands. Clark smiled gently, hand reaching up to grab Bruce’s shoulder before turning to Dick.
Clark moved to Dick’s side, pulling him into a brief, gentle hug, “I’m glad you’re okay.”
He took a step back, glancing at Bruce, “If something happens, call me. I’ll be here.”
With a nod from Bruce, Clark left the room, and they heard as he slipped back out the window.
Tim, who had settled himself into the chair, looked up from his lap.
“Do you have garbage bags and tape?”
Bruce sent him a questioning look as Dick nodded, a look of confusion on his face, “Under the kitchen sink and in one of the drawers... why?”
“We broke the window coming in.” Tim shrugged, standing up and exiting the room.
Dick shook his head, smiling a bit before settling back into his pillow.
Half an hour later, Bruce had removed the IV, and Tim returned, mumbling that the window was covered for the night and that he could call someone to install a new one tomorrow.
At that, Bruce sat back down on the chair, eyes flickering between his son nodding off on the bed and the clock sitting on the end table.
By the time Bruce jolted awake from the sound of a door hinge squeaking, the sky had blackened fully, and the red numbers on the alarm clock read well past midnight. Tim had pulled his chair closer to Dick’s bed, and prior to Damian’s bedroom door opening, they seemed to have been talking.
Now, however, they both were watching Dick’s doorway. Bruce glanced over and a few seconds later, Damian appeared, half-hidden, hands gripping the doorframe. His eyes were still red and puffy, and he was curled in on himself as he stared past Bruce and Tim, focus lasered in on Dick.
“Hey,” Dick said softly, his lips pulling up into a smile. “There you are.”
Damian remained in the doorway, teeth biting down onto his lip.
“I’m sorry,” Damian croaked out, eyes glassing over, “I didn’t mean to. I promise. I should’ve stopped, I didn’t—”
“Hey,” Dick interrupted softly, “Come here.”
Damian quickly shook his head, taking a small step back.
“I’m sorry,” He repeated, “I won’t do it again, I promise.”
“Damian, that’s not what this is—” Bruce said, sitting up in his seat.
“Dames,” Dick cut in gently, “you don’t need to apologize, okay?”
“I do,” he said quickly, “I scared you. I scared Papa. I— I hurt you.” Damian’s voice cracked.
“You didn’t hurt me,” Dick comforted.
Damian’s breath hitched.
“But you almost—” he swallowed hard, “You almost died.”
The room was bathed in an uneasy silence, only broken when Dick pushed himself up into a sitting position, slowly opening his arms, waiting for Damian to decide what he wanted to do.
Damian didn’t move; feet planted where he stood.
After a few seconds, Dick lowered his arms slowly, face tightening before smoothing over quickly.
“I just want you to know something,” Dick said tenderly, “I love you. Nothing will change that. Not now. Not ever.”
Damian’s eyes flicked up, wide and uncertain.
“I'm sorry.” Damian whispered again, already angling back towards the door.
“I know, bud,” Dick said softly, “I know.”
“I’m really happy you came to see me,” Dick continued “so thank you.”
Damian hesitated, eyes flicking between Dick, Bruce and Tim, before turning and leaving, the sound of his bedroom door closing quietly behind him following soon after.
Dick let out a heavy sigh, falling back down into his bed, hands coming to cover his face.
Bruce reached over, hand grabbing Dick’s knee and squeezing it reassuringly.
When Bruce woke up, Tim was slouched over in his chair and Dick was lying on his side, facing Bruce and Tim. The sunlight leaked through the gap in Dick’s curtains. Bruce sat up, stretching and trying to calm the crick in his neck. With a look towards the end table, Bruce rubbed his hand down his face again.
It was half past twelve and how Tim was still asleep; Bruce did not know. Bruce stood, taking a step towards Tim to gently shake him awake. Once Tim was groaning, stretching and trying to shake away the sleep in his eyes, Bruce turned to Dick to wake him as well.
Dick was quick to wake, eyes popping open when Bruce’s hand made contact. Bruce gave him a small smile, face softening when Dick returned it.
“You need to eat something.”
Dick nodded as he rubbed his eyes, slinging his legs off the side of the bed after sitting up. Dick stood, Bruce’s arms shooting out to catch him when he swayed. Dick caught himself, forcing himself to push through his light-headedness to regain his footing, turning towards the door.
Tim started off first, padding towards the door and into the hallway. Dick started walking next, Bruce flanking him, arms slightly raised in case Dick stumbled again.
When they passed Damian’s bedroom door, Dick's eyes lingered, a sad frown on his face as he stepped off towards the kitchen.
Dick sat down in one of the remaining chairs, hands in his head.
Bruce came up behind him, placing his hand on Dick’s back, rubbing a few circles into it.
“You need to eat something.” Bruce said again
Dick nodded into his hands.
“I know, I know,” he mumbled, “I just... I need to check on D. There should be something in the fridge.”
Dick stood back up, and headed back down the hall, muttering to himself as he went.
As Tim pulled open the fridge and began rifling through it, Bruce listened to Dick knock on Damian’s door, followed by a tentative, “Damian?”
Tim pulled out a carton of eggs, setting them aside while Bruce listened, sighing in relief when Damian’s door opened. When it closed again, Dick’s quiet voice disappearing, Bruce could only assume he had gone inside.
“Um, B?”
“Yeah, Tim?”
“Should we warm up a bag for Damian? Or do you think he won’t want to... after everything?” Tim held up one of the bags in the fridge, a tiny frown on his face.
Bruce opened a cabinet, pulling out a mug then reached for the electric kettle, “We might as well heat some up. I’m not sure if he will take it, but just in case.”
Tim nodded, setting the blood bag on the counter for Bruce to grab. Bruce filled the kettle with water, listening for any more movement further in the apartment.
By the time Tim had a few eggs cooked and Damian’s blood bag was warming in a bowl of hot water, Damian’s bedroom door opened.
Bruce and Tim both looked up, sharing a look before both turning to watch the hallway.
A few moments passed before Dick appeared, looking like a load had been lifted off his shoulders. He nodded in Bruce and Tim’s direction as he stepped to the side.
Damian followed soon after.
He stopped just behind Dick, shoulders drawn in and face angled downwards. Dick set a gentle hand on the back of his head, guiding Damian alongside himself to the table.
Tim walked over with the eggs while Bruce hung back, cutting into the warmed blood bag and pouring it into the mug. He followed Tim, setting the mug down in front of Damian.
When Damian looked up, his face crumpled, mouth tightening into a line, eyes glassing over as he turned away.
“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, “No. No, I don’t want it”
“Okay,” Dick said quickly, “That’s okay, you don’t have to.”
Damian looked up at Dick, then briefly swapped to look at Bruce and Tim before nodding sharply, standing up and retreating to his bedroom.
Before Damian’s door closed, Dick’s head was already back in his hands, a broken noise leaving his throat as Tim and Bruce watched, dejected faces staring at the now empty chair and full mug.
Dick watched Damian, who was huddled in the corner of their cell, tremble. They had been there for nearly two days, waiting for someone to get them out.
Neither of them had eaten, and while Dick was pretty sure they would eventually toss something in there for him, so he didn’t die, he wasn’t so sure about Damian. Dick would bet serious money they were probably expecting Damian to feed off him.
Which he wouldn’t.
Hadn’t, in years.
When Dick had quietly suggested it a few hours ago, Damian was quick to snap at him and then place himself in the corner furthest from Dick.
It hadn’t mattered how much Dick tried to coax Damian back into comfort—Damian had remained firm. For over five years, Damian had kept Dick and the rest of their family at arm's length, feeding exclusively on blood bags that Damian clearly didn’t enjoy.
Dick sometimes remembered the early days, when Damian’s frustration could erupt in sharp words or clenched fists at even the gentlest suggestion. But now… Damian was quieter, more careful. Even when he sat on the other side of the couch, no longer curling into Dick’s side like he used to, Dick could see the tension slowly loosening, just enough for small, cautious gestures.
Dick didn’t experience the chaos of that night firsthand, not like the others. He had only heard the echoes: Bruce’s shaky voice recounting the phone call, Clark describing Damian’s panicked cries, Tim pale and quiet talking about getting Damian out of the room. Each retelling had left him choking back tears.
Now, sat in the damp cellar, Dick felt that regret again, sharper than ever. His kid was practically starving, and none of it would have happened if he’d stayed alert.
“Dames?” Dick said tentatively, watching as Damian remained curled up.
“Dames?” He tried again, softer this time.
Damian didn’t look up.
Dick swallowed. He could hear the uneven rhythm of Damian’s shallow breaths from across the cell, the faint rattle of tension in his chest.
Slowly, deliberately, Dick pushed himself to his feet.
Damian’s head snapped up at the movement, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
“It’s just me,” Dick said gently.
He crossed the room to sit a few feet away, leaning his back against the wall. For a moment, they stayed silent. The cellar was quiet except for the faint drip of water somewhere behind them, and the muted footsteps of whoever was guarding them upstairs.
“If you change your mind,” Dick said finally, voice low, “I’m here.”
“We’ll be out soon. I know it.”
Minutes passed, dripping water filling the silence.
Then Damian shifted.
Tentatively, Damian began to scoot closer, pausing momentarily before Dick felt the slightest brush of Damian’s shoulder against his side. Dick held his breath, letting his boy take the lead. Damian glanced up hesitantly, peering at Dick’s face for a brief second, then shifting again.
Another inch, and Damian’s head came to rest lightly against Dick’s collarbone, his cheek lightly pressing into it, his nose just barely brushing past Dick’s carotid. Damian inhaled, soft and uncertain. His eyes closed, lashes flickering, but he stayed. The hands that had been balled into fists relaxed slightly, fingertips brushing Dick’s shirt.
Dick’s arm shifted to hold him, careful and loose, giving Damian space in case he wanted to pull away. Damian settled closer, just enough for Dick to feel the weight of him leaning in, subtle and fleeting, but unmistakable.
Damian took another breath, before letting himself settle fully against Dick.
Dick rubbed up and down his back slowly, quietly. “I know,” he murmured, letting the words carry the space between them.
It would be fine.
It had to be.