Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The manor was silent.

Not the ordinary silence of midnight, when the house rested but never truly slept, when pipes shifted in the walls and the wind occasionally rattled the windows. That kind of quiet still had life in it.

This silence was deeper, it was the silence that came before the sun.

Damian’s eyes opened slowly in the darkness. For a few seconds he didn’t move. He simply stared at the faint outline of the ceiling above his bed, his mind already awake even if the rest of his body lagged behind.

He didn’t need an alarm anymore. The digital clock beside his bed glowed faintly.

4:03 AM

Good.

That gave him almost two hours before anyone else in the manor would even think about waking up.

Damian sat up slowly, pushing the blanket aside. The cold air of his room brushed across his arms and face. It helped chase away the last remnants of sleep.

His shoulders ached, not badly, just a dull soreness deep in the muscles. He rolled them once experimentally.

A sharp pull of pain ran along the side of his ribs from yesterday’s sparring match. Damian frowned.

Weak.

He ignored it. Pain meant nothing if it didn’t stop you from moving.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, the floorboards were cold beneath his bare feet. Across the room the mirror caught his reflection in the dim light.

Damian glanced at it automatically. Dark hair. Sharp green eyes. Lean frame. He looked small, too small.

The thought came uninvited, cutting through his mind like a blade.

Small compared to Father, small compared to Richard, small compared to Jason. Even Tim had begun to outgrow him physically, having more muscle than him.

Damian looked away from the mirror.

It didn’t matter. Skill mattered, precision mattered, perfection mattered.

He pulled on a black training shirt and loose pants, tying the waistband tightly. Every motion was efficient and practiced.

Quietly he stepped into the hallway. The manor remained completely still.

Father’s door was closed, that meant he was probably asleep. Tim’s room was dark, Duke’s as well.

Alfred would've been awake in another hour—

Damian moved silently through the house. His footsteps barely made a sound against the polished floors.

Good.

He slipped into the hidden passage behind the grandfather clock and began descending the long stone steps toward the Batcave.

Each step echoed faintly in the quiet tunnel. By the time he reached the bottom the faintest gray hint of morning had begun creeping into the sky above Gotham.

The cave lights flickered on automatically as he stepped onto the training floor. Massive shadows stretched across the cavern walls and the computers were dim and idle.

Everything was still.

Perfect.

Damian walked to the center of the training mat. Then he began.

The first drills were always the easiest. Basic movement, footwork, speed.

Damian moved across the floor in sharp, precise patterns. His feet glided silently over the mat while his hands cut through the air in practiced strikes.

Strike.

Turn.

Block.

Step.

Repeat.

Again. Again. Again.

Every movement had to be perfect. Not "𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥". Not "𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦". Perfect.

Damian spun into a kick and landed lightly on the mat.

Too slow, he repeated it.

The second kick was sharper, faster.

Still not fast enough, again.

The rhythm of movement filled the cave.

Breath in.

Strike.

Breath out.

Turn.

His muscles warmed quickly, the earlier stiffness fading beneath constant motion.

That was the point, the body adapted and weakness disappeared through repetition.

By the time the first hour passed, sweat dampened Damian’s shirt and strands of dark hair clung to his forehead.

His ribs ached more sharply now.

He ignored it. Pain was temporary, but weakness was permanent.

Damian moved toward the weapons rack and grabbed a training sword, the weight settled into his hand comfortably.

He stepped back onto the mat and began the kata. The blade flashed through the air in controlled arcs.

Precise. Measured. Deadly.

Every swing had a purpose and every step had meaning.

Damian’s breathing remained steady as he moved faster and faster through the sequence.

Slash.

Turn.

Parry.

Strike.

The sword cut through empty air with a faint whistle.

Damian’s hand trembled slightly. He froze. The tremor lasted barely a second before disappearing, but Damian had noticed it.

His grip tightened.

Unacceptable.

He restarted the sequence from the beginning.

Again. Again. Again.

The tremor returned on the seventh repetition.

Small, barely noticeable. But it was there. Damian’s jaw clenched.

𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤.

He increased the speed of the drill. The sword flashed faster now, each movement sharper than the last.

His ribs burned with every twist of his torso. His shoulder muscles ached. His hands trembled again briefly.

Still not enough.

Damian finished the sequence and immediately restarted it. He would continue until the tremor stopped, until the pain stopped, until the movements were perfect. Anything less was failure.

Another hour passed.

Damian’s shirt was soaked with sweat now. His breathing had grown heavier, though he forced it back into a steady rhythm.

The cave seemed colder than before. Or perhaps he was simply exhausted.

The sword slipped slightly in his grip, he caught it immediately.

𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭.

Damian lowered the blade and flexed his fingers.

They trembled again.

Small, barely visible. But he could feel it. A faint weakness in his grip, a slight delay between thought and motion.

His ribs throbbed more sharply now. When he inhaled deeply, the pain spiked.

Damian tested the breath again.

The pain returned.

Cracked rib perhaps, or bruised.

𝘐𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵.

He stepped back onto the mat,

Again.

The training dummies took the brunt of the next hour. Damian attacked them with controlled fury. Strikes landed in perfect sequence—elbow, knee, palm. Kick.

His body moved automatically, years of training guiding every motion.

But something was wrong, he was slower. Not...visibly. No one watching from the outside would notice.

But Damian noticed.

The delay was microscopic, barely measurable. But it existed which meant it was unacceptable.

His kick slammed into the dummy harder than necessary. The impact sent a shock of pain through his ribs. Damian staggered slightly.

He froze.

For a brief moment the cave spun faintly around him. The dizziness passed almost instantly.

Damian straightened.

𝘞𝘦𝘢𝘬.

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, the motion left his arm trembling again.

𝘜𝘯𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦.

He stepped back into position.

Again.

Time blurred together, the training never stopped. Damian pushed through strike combinations, weapon drills, agility exercises.

His breathing grew heavier. His arms burned. His ribs throbbed constantly now. Every so often a brief wave of dizziness crept in when he moved too quickly.

He ignored it.

Pain was temporary, 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦 was permanent.

Damian collapsed briefly onto one knee after a particularly brutal set of push-ups. His chest heaved as he struggled to steady his breathing.

𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤.

He pushed himself back to his feet immediately.

Across the cave the massive computer screens flickered quietly in sleep mode. The faint glow cast long shadows across the stone floor.

Damian barely noticed.

His focus remained entirely on the next movement.

The next drill, the next correction. Perfection required sacrifice.

He knew this.

He had known it since childhood. The League had taught him that much.

Father 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 it. The mantle of Robin 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 it.

And yet—

A flicker of doubt slipped into his thoughts. Why was it never enough?

Damian executed another strike combination. His hand trembled again at the end of the movement.

He stared at it just slightly. Barely noticeable, but it was there.

Still weak.

Still imperfect.

Still not enough.

Damian lowered his hand slowly.

His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
The cave felt larger than usual.

Empty.

Silent.

For a brief moment the exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. Then Damian clenched his fists.

No.

Rest was for those who could afford it. He stepped back onto the mat.

And began again.

The sun had not yet risen above Gotham.

And Damian Wayne was nowhere near finished.
_______________

The Batcave was quiet again that morning.

Too quiet maybe but it was early, and Damian had taken to training before anyone else woke. Tim had noticed the pattern the day before: missing logs, faint echoes of movement when he expected silence, and a weird tension in the air that hadn’t been there before.

He approached cautiously, his sneakers barely making a sound on the polished cave floor. Duke sat off to the side near the edge of the observation platform, arms crossed, silently watching. Tim didn’t need to explain. Duke had noticed the same thing. He’d been seeing Damian push himself, and he’d been seeing how Tim worried silently about it.

But no one else knew. Bruce had left for an early patrol, and no one else lived in the manor anymore. This was Tim’s problem to address.

The first sign something was wrong was the sweat. Damian was already moving through a kata sequence with his staff, blade swinging in perfect arcs, footwork flawless but too fast, too sharp, as if he were punishing himself.

His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow bursts. Tim noticed the tremor in Damian’s hand as he gripped the staff. It wasn’t much but Tim knew Damian–he always noticed.

“Damian,” Tim called softly at first “hey.”

No response. The boy’s eyes stayed on the dummy in front of him, unwavering, dangerous. He didn’t even blink. Tim stepped closer. The echo of his footfall seemed to ripple across the floor and finally, Damian paused, eyeing him briefly before turning back to the dummy as if he hadn’t heard.

Tim clenched his fists. “You’re overdoing it again.”

Damian’s head snapped around “I’m not.”

“You’ve been waking up at four in the morning for the past week to train before anyone else even wakes up!” Tim’s voice raised slightly, frustration bleeding through “You’re pushing yourself too hard–”

“I’m doing exactly what I need!” Damian cut in sharply, staff swinging in a blur as he lunged at the dummy “I don’t need lectures! I’m fine, 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘬𝘦!”

Tim sighed, stepping closer but staying just far enough not to provoke him further. “No, Damian. You’re not fine. I’ve been tracking your training logs, your vitals–they’re not fine. Your hands are trembling, your ribs are probably sore, and you’re overexerting yourself!”

Damian stopped mid-swing, staring at him, green eyes burning “I said I’m fine.” His voice cracked, anger mixing with frustration. “Why do you always assume I can’t handle it?”

Tim ran a hand over his face. “Because I know you push yourself too far. Because I’ve seen it before. Because I care!”

That seemed to only fuel Damian’s fire “You don’t understand anything!” he spat “I don’t need anyone telling me I’m weak!”

Duke shifted on the platform, silent, observing from the shadows. His jaw was tight. He didn’t say a word, but Tim knew Duke felt the tension, the way Damian’s pride made him push everyone away.

“I know it’s not easy!” Tim shouted stepping closer, his own patience thinning “But this–this obsession with perfection is going to break you! You can’t do everything on your own!”

Damian’s hands shook slightly as he tightened his grip on the staff. His chest rose quickly, every breath shallow. “I don’t need your 𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘺.” he snapped, spinning the staff and lunging again at the dummy “I am Robin. I am ready for everything. I am perfect!”

Tim froze for a second. Damian’s words weren’t just prideful—they were desperate.

There was no malice in them, only the raw edge of fear, of insecurity hidden under layers of training and bravado. Tim could see it now—the small tremor in his hands, the quick rise and fall of his chest, the way he blinked too fast like he was forcing himself to focus.

Tim’s heart tightened. “Damian...listen to me. You’re not perfect, and you don’t have to be. You never have to—”

“Shut up. I said I’m fine!” Damian’s yell cut through the cave. The staff hit the dummy harder than necessary, sending it toppling over with a loud crash. He spun again, chest heaving, eyes blazing, almost frantic. “I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone! I can do this myself!”

Tim swallowed, frustration turning to helplessness “You’re lying to yourself,” he said quietly, stepping even closer “You know you’re pushing yourself too hard. You’re tired, you’re hurt. You can’t face all of this alone.”

Damian’s chest rose and fell rapidly. His jaw was tight, and for a fraction of a second his mask slipped, revealing the doubt, the exhaustion he tried to hide from the world, then he clenched his teeth “I don’t need anyone.” he repeated.

Tim shook his head, feeling frustrated “You’re not weak for needing help Damian.”

The room was silent for a beat, except for Damian’s quick breaths and the faint hum of the Batcave computers. Duke leaned forward slightly, hands in his pockets, watching the argument unfold but not speaking. He had learned long ago that Damian needed space sometimes—even if it hurt to see him struggle.

“You think you’re strong because you push yourself,” Tim said, voice low but firm “But you’re only hurting yourself. You’re not proving anything. You’re just...breaking down quietly, and no one can see it because you hide it!”

Damian’s green eyes blazed, and he swung the staff again, narrowly missing a support beam “I don’t care what you think!” he shouted.

Tim felt a pang in his chest. He knew what Damian wanted, he wanted perfection. He knew Damian was fragile in ways even he refused to admit. And that’s what scared him most.

“Look at yourself, Damian,” Tim said quietly. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself. Is this what being perfect looks like? Trembling hands, shallow breathing, ribs hurting, exhaustion? That’s not perfection, that’s suffering! And I don't understand why you're doing it.”

Damian froze again, gripping the staff so tightly his knuckles went white. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. “I don’t need–” he began, voice shaking. Then he spun away from Tim, back toward the training dummy, and slashed at it with all his strength, sending it flying across the mat.

Tim sighed, watching him. Words were useless now. Damian was too far into his own head, too buried under the weight of expectation. The tension in the room was palpable, like the air itself had thickened.

Duke shifted slightly in the background. His presence was enough to remind Tim that Damian wasn’t entirely alone—even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Tim ran a hand over his face. He wanted to scream at Damian, to shake him until he realized how fragile he really was. But he didn’t. That wasn’t the way to reach him, not yet.

Instead, he stepped back and let Damian move, keeping a careful eye on him. The exhaustion was visible now, even through the bravado. The tremor in Damian’s hand. The way he breathed shallowly. The small, almost imperceptible hesitation in his movements.

Tim’s gut twisted. Damian was a machine in combat—but he was still fifteen. Still human. And he was silently screaming for someone to notice without having to ask.

It was Duke who finally made the move. Quietly, he stepped down from the observation platform and approached Damian, who was resetting the dummy yet again. Without saying a word, Duke gestured toward the exit of the Batcave.

Damian shot him a quick, suspicious glance “What...what are you doing?”

Duke didn’t answer. He simply nodded toward the hallway. Not in a commanding way, but an invitation.

Damian hesitated, tense, every muscle coiled like a spring. Finally, after a long beat, he set the staff down. Not fully surrendering, not admitting weakness–just a reluctant nod.

Duke’s expression didn’t change, but his posture was steady. Patient. Calm. He knew how to be supportive without being intrusive. Exactly what Damian needed, though he’d never say it.

Tim exhaled, relief flooding through him but it was tempered with worry. This wasn’t a complete fix. Damian was still–obsessed. Still pushing himself too far. But for now...at least someone was pulling him away from the edge.

As Damian followed Duke out of the Batcave, Tim watched silently. He knew the argument hadn’t changed Damian overnight. He knew the perfectionism would return, the self-criticism would come again.

But maybe...just maybe, a small crack had opened, enough for the light to seep through.

At least he hoped.
_______________

The morning air in Wayne Manor was crisp, carrying the faint scent of the city beyond the gates. Damian stood stiffly in the hallway, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides, his dark training clothes sticking to his skin from the early hours of Batcave drills.

He didn’t move on his own toward the door. Duke watched quietly, patient, knowing any push would only stiffen Damian’s defenses “Before we go, you should change,” Duke said evenly, keeping his tone neutral.

Damian’s green eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering across his sharp features “Change?” he asked, voice tight.

“Yes,” Duke replied, nodding toward the storage room “Something comfortable. Clothes you can move in outside of training.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment he hesitated, assessing the offer as though Duke were testing him. Finally, with a small grunt, he stalked into his room, leaving Duke to gather a few shirts and pants.

Duke chose dark, breathable clothes that were simple, practical, nothing that would restrict movement. He knew Damian would judge every detail, so the selection had to be perfect without being flashy.

The rustle of fabric came from behind the door as Damian changed. Duke’s eyes didn’t leave the hallway. When Damian finally emerged, his black training clothes replaced by a plain dark T-shirt and loose jeans, he almost looked like an ordinary teen, though tension still etched every line of his body.

Duke gestured toward the door. Damian gave a brief nod, expression cautious, then fell silently into step beside him as they made their way outside. The cold morning air met them, ruffling Damian’s dark hair.

He flinched slightly, but didn’t complain. Duke noted the small signs of fatigue in the boy–his shallow breaths, the faint tremor in his hands, the tight line of his shoulders.

The arcade was not far. Its neon lights glowed faintly against the gray morning, the hum of machines and electronic music spilling onto the street. Damian’s gaze swept over the entrance, wary, calculating, as if the chaotic energy might somehow strike him down.

The sound inside was overwhelming–electronic music, the sharp clatter of buttons, bursts of laughter from somewhere deeper in the building. Neon light flickered across the sidewalk, reflecting faintly in his eyes.

For a moment he simply stood there, shoulders tight, as though preparing to enter hostile territory rather than a building full of games.

Duke motioned toward the door “We’ll start with a racing game. Two seats, you pick first.”

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he slid into the seat with stiff precision. He didn’t speak, didn’t smile, and barely breathed as he gripped the wheel. Duke took the other seat, giving him space but staying close enough to watch every movement.

At first, Damian drove like a machine, precise but tense. Every turn was sharp, every brake controlled. He focused intently on the track, eyes flicking between the screen and the wheel. He wasn’t enjoying it yet—he was calculating, analyzing, measuring himself.

Duke noticed the tight grip of his hands, the faint tremor that returned every few seconds, the way his chest rose shallowly.

“You’re taking it too slow,” Damian muttered, voice sharp, not meeting Duke’s eyes.

“Relax,” Duke said gently. “No one’s judging. It’s a game.”

Damian’s gaze narrowed, skeptical “Fun is meaningless.”

“Maybe,” Duke replied, keeping his voice soft “But it’s important sometimes. Even for someone like you.”

Damian didn’t respond further. He focused back on the game, the only hint of movement being the subtle twitch in his jaw. Duke allowed silence, knowing Damian would only resist if pushed too hard.

Over the next hour, they moved from one machine to another. Shooting simulators, claw machines, rhythm games—all new experiences outside the cave. Damian struggled with small mistakes, muttered under his breath, and shook his head, but he didn’t storm off or give up. Every misstep was met with a small adjustment, not a tantrum, and though he didn’t relax completely, Duke could see him loosening just a little.

Duke stayed close, offering quiet guidance and encouragement, never nagging. Occasionally, he glanced at Damian’s hands, noticing tremors that Damian tried to hide. He observed the slight flinch in his shoulders when a loud noise erupted from a nearby machine.

He watched Damian breathe, shallow at first but gradually deepening as the session went on. When Damian leaned back in the racing seat after the rhythm game, he rested his hands lightly on the console. His chest rose steadily now, though the tension in his shoulders remained. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t glaring either. His posture suggested a tentative acceptance of the break, a rare acknowledgment of his own limits without vocal admission.

Duke approached, standing just behind him “You’re better than I expected,” he said quietly.

Damian’s green eyes flicked up, narrowing with suspicion “This is tolerable,” he muttered. No pride, no defiance just honesty.

“Good enough,” Duke replied.

Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I do not require encouragement.”

“No, you don’t,” Duke said, voice steady “But it doesn’t hurt either.”

For a long minute, Damian didn’t move, then returned to the game. The faint twitch of his hands persisted, but he focused on the machine with more ease than when he had entered the arcade. Duke stepped back slightly, giving him space, watching silently as Damian allowed himself the tiniest margin of freedom–freedom from the cave, from training, from constant self-punishment.

In the background, the arcade’s neon lights flickered over the rows of games and the scattered players. Duke kept a quiet watch over Damian, ensuring the boy stayed safe and calm, never intervening unless necessary. Damian’s rigid posture softened just enough that Duke allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

He knew Damian would return to training with relentless intensity later. He knew the perfectionism wouldn’t disappear overnight. But today, Damian was moving at his own pace, playing at his own level, and for a few hours, he was just a teenager in an arcade, not a relentless machine of training and expectation.

And for Duke, that was enough for now.
_______________

The next weeks passed slowly.

At first, nothing seemed drastically different. Damian still woke early, still disappeared into the Batcave before the sun rose, and still returned to the manor long before anyone else finished breakfast.

But the small changes began to pile up.

Tim noticed them first.

He always did.

It started with the training logs, the sessions were longer now. What had once been two hours had stretched into three, then four. Damian’s routines became harsher too– more repetitions, higher intensity and almost no breaks between drills.

Tim watched the recordings once, late at night when the cave was quiet.

Damian moved across the training floor like a storm.

Strike. Turn. Kick. Reset.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The movements were precise, but something about them felt wrong. Too sharp, too fast and almost desperate.

Tim paused the video when he noticed a faint tremor in Damian’s hands as he reset his stance.

He stared at the screen for a long moment. Damian would never admit that kind of weakness, which meant it had to be worse than it looked.

The second change was the meals, breakfast plates returned to the kitchen untouched. Lunch trays sat where they had been placed hours earlier. Dinner was sometimes skipped entirely. At first he assumed Damian had simply eaten earlier.

Then it started happening too often.

One evening Duke mentioned it quietly while making tea "Have you noticed Damian has been...neglectful of his meals recently?”

Tim glanced up from the computer “How long?”

“Several days now.”

That was enough to make Tim uneasy. Damian skipping a meal once or twice wasn’t strange.

But 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴?

That was different.

The third change was something harder to describe, it was the 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

Damian had never been the most talkative person in the manor but he had always filled the space around him with something like sharp remarks, irritated comments, small arguments that somehow made the house feel more alive.

Now– The house felt almost empty. Damian passed through hallways without speaking, he trained without saying a word. He ate—if he ate at all, quickly and alone.

Duke noticed it too.

“You seen him today?” Duke asked one afternoon while leaning against the kitchen counter.

Tim shook his head “Not since this morning.”

Duke frowned slightly “That’s weird.”

It was.

Damian normally appeared somewhere during the day–either to train again or to argue about something trivial.

But not today.

The first day he stayed in his room, no one thought much of it.

The second day, Tim began to worry.

By the third...Something felt very wrong. Tim stood in the hallway outside Damian’s door, staring at the dark wood panel like it might give him answers.

The house was quiet.

Too quiet.

He knocked “Damian?”

No response. Tim waited a moment, then knocked again “Hey. You in there?”

𝘚𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

His stomach tightened slightly. Damian wasn’t the type to ignore someone knocking on his door. If anything, he usually snapped back immediately.

Tim tried the handle.

Unlocked.

He opened the door slowly, the room was dim. The curtains were drawn shut and blocking most of the afternoon light. Only a thin gray glow slipped through the edges, casting faint shadows across the floor.

Damian was in the bed. He lay on his side, facing the wall, still wrapped in the blankets.

For a moment Tim thought he might be asleep. Then Damian shifted slightly. He wasn't asleep.

Just...lying there.

Tim stepped into the room carefully “Damian?”

No response.

He walked closer.

Damian’s hair was messy, like he hadn’t bothered brushing it. His training clothes were gone–he wore a loose T-shirt instead, the fabric wrinkled from hours of being in bed.

Tim frowned, Damian hated wrinkled clothes.

“Hey,” Tim said quietly. “You feeling okay?” Damian didn’t move at first, then he gave small shrug.

“Fine.” The word was barely audible.

Tim sat down on the edge of the bed “You haven’t been downstairs all day.”

Damian didn’t answer.

“You didn’t train this morning either."

Still nothing.

Tim studied him carefully. Damian looked...different.

Not injured, not sick, just drained.

His eyes looked dull, the sharp focus they normally held replaced with something distant.

“You should probably get up,” Tim said gently. “Maybe...eat something?”

Damian shook his head slightly “No.”

The answer was quiet and short.

Tim waited.

Normally Damian would follow that with a sharp remark or an argument but nothing came.

Just silence.

“Damian,” Tim tried again, softer now “Talk to me.”

Another small shrug. “Nothing.”

Tim exhaled slowly.

This wasn’t Damian being stubborn, this was something else.

“Did something happen?” Tim asked.

Damian shook his head again “No.”

The answers were all short. One word, maybe two. His voice sounded flat, like he didn’t have the energy for more.

Tim leaned forward slightly “You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

A pause.

Then “No.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck “Okay...that’s not great.”

Damian didn’t react.

The silence stretched across the room. Tim glanced around, Damian’s desk was untouched. His training gear sat exactly where it had been left yesterday.

Everything in the room felt...still, like time had stopped here.

“Damian,” Tim said carefully, “you’ve been pushing yourself pretty hard lately.”

No response.

“You don’t have to do that all the time.”

Still nothing.

Tim shifted slightly on the bed “You remember what we talked about last week?”

Damian’s shoulders tensed slightly.

That was the first reaction Tim had gotten. But he still didn’t turn around.

Tim tried again “You don’t have to be perfect, you don't have to overwork yourself.”

Damian pulled the blanket up a little higher around his shoulders “..not tired.” The words were quiet.

But Tim understood what he meant. He wasn’t staying in bed because he was physically tired.

He just...didn’t want to get up.

Tim’s chest tightened slightly “Okay,” he said softly.

He didn’t push further.

Not yet.

Sometimes the best thing you could do was just stay, so Tim sat there quietly on the edge of the bed. The room remained silent except for Damian’s slow breathing.

And for the first time since Damian had arrived at Manor, Tim realized something important.

Damian wasn’t just exhausted.

He was hurting.

And this time, it wasn’t from training.
_______________

Bruce had learned long ago that there were many kinds of silence.

There was the silence of Gotham at three in the morning, when the city seemed to hold its breath between crimes. There was the silence of the Batcave, filled with machines and data but empty of voices.

And then there was the silence that had settled over Wayne Manor lately. This one worried him the most.

Bruce sat on the edge of his bed, a book open in his hands, though he had been staring at the same page for several minutes. The lamp beside him cast a soft circle of light across the room, leaving the corners in shadow.

He hadn’t really been reading, he had been thinking.

Damian.

For the past five weeks Bruce had been observing from a distance. Not confronting. Not questioning. Simply watching.

It was a method he had learned through years of dealing with stubborn partners and equally stubborn children. Pushing too hard only made them dig in deeper.

And Damian...Damian had always been the most stubborn of them all.

Bruce had noticed the training first. The hours were longer now. Damian entered the cave earlier and earlier, sometimes before the sun had even begun to rise over Gotham. Bruce had watched the recordings once, late at night after patrol.

Damian moved like a blade.

Sharp. Fast. Precise.

But there had been something wrong with it.

Too much force behind every movement. Too little restraint. And the pauses, they were small ones, barely noticeable. But Bruce noticed everything.

There were moments where Damian hesitated. Where his shoulders dropped slightly between drills. Where his hand trembled when he reset his stance.

Fatigue. Not just physical. Something deeper.

Once he saw Damian practicing the same strike for nearly twenty minutes.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Bruce had considered stepping in but every instinct told him that confronting Damian directly would make things worse.

So instead he watched. And waited. He noticed the meals next. Duke had mentioned it once during training. “Damian hasn't been eating full meals lately.” Bruce hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the information had settled heavily in his mind.

Damian skipping meals was unusual. Not unheard of but unusual.

Then came the 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴.

At first Bruce thought they were patrols, or something Damian enjoyed doing for fun or exercise. But the security cameras told a different story. Damian leaving the manor alone with no gear, no weapons. Not even a small pocket knife.

Just walking.

Sometimes late in the evening, sometimes early in the morning. Always alone.

Always returning eventually.

Bruce hadn’t stopped him. Walking could help, sometimes people needed space to think. But the patterns worried him.

Damian wasn’t walking for peace, he was walking because he didn’t know what else to do with himself. Bruce turned the page of the book absently.

Still not reading, just thinking.

Then—

Footsteps. Fast. Too fast.

Bruce looked up just as the door to his room burst open.

“Bruce!” Tim stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wide with urgency.

Bruce immediately set the book aside and stood “What happened?”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, clearly shaken “It’s Damian,” he said quickly.

Bruce’s stomach tightened “What about him?”

“He’s gone.”

The words landed heavily in the room. Bruce’s mind shifted instantly into focus “Explain.”

“I went to check on him,” Tim said, pacing slightly now “He wasn’t in his room. I checked the cave, the grounds, the garden. He’s not anywhere in the manor.”

Bruce was already moving “Security footage?”

“Checked it,” Tim replied quickly as they stepped into the hallway together. “Nothing from the last hour.”

That was unusual.

But Damian knew the camera blind spots.

Bruce’s pace quickened “Duke?”

“Already looking around outside.”

They moved through the manor quickly, checking room after room, Damian’s bedroom. Empty. The training room. Empty.
The library. Nothing.

Bruce kept his expression calm, but his mind was running through possibilities rapidly.

Damian missing. No alert from the security system, no sign of struggle, no evidence of an attack.

That narrowed the options “He left on his own,” Bruce said quietly.

Tim looked over “You think so?”

“Yes.” The problem was why.

Tim was already pulling out his phone “I’m calling the others.”

Bruce nodded once.

Tim dialed quickly “Dick? Yeah—sorry, I know it’s late. Has Damian come over tonight?”

Pause.

Tim shook his head “Okay. Thanks, tell me if he calls you.”

Next call “Jason? You with Damian?”

Another pause.

Jason’s response was clearly negative.

Then Cass, then Steph. Each answer the same, no one had seen him.

Tim lowered the phone slowly “No one knows where he is.”

Bruce had already opened the Batcomputer by the time Tim finished calling everyone.

Satellite scans. Traffic cameras. City surveillance.

Nothing.

For a moment the hallway felt very quiet. Damian was skilled enough to disappear if he wanted to. But he rarely did, not from them, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.

Tim looked worried now “Bruce...what if something happened?”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately. Because the truth was...He didn’t know.

Then—The front door opened.

Both of them turned instantly. Footsteps echoed across the marble floor.

Slow.

Familiar.

Bruce reached the staircase just as Damian stepped inside.

He looked exactly like he always did nowadays.

Dark hair slightly messy, simple clothes and his hands in his pockets.

Bruce noticed the faint tremor in Damian’s fingers before the boy shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

The faint redness around his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the quiet heaviness in his posture.

Tim exhaled sharply “Damian!”

Damian stopped walking. He looked at them both with mild confusion “What?”

Tim stared at him “You were gone!”

Damian blinked “..yes.”

Tim ran a hand through his hair “We thought something happened! We searched the whole house! We called everyone!”

Damian frowned slightly “I went for a walk.” His voice was quiet and flat.

Bruce stepped forward slightly “Where?”

Damian shrugged and turned his head away “Outside.”

Tim stared at him “That’s not the point!”

Damian looked genuinely puzzled now “I returned.”

His sentences were short, brief. Almost detached.

Bruce studied him carefully “You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving.”

Damian looked down at his feet "..didn’t think it mattered.” The words were quiet.

Tim’s frustration softened quietly “You scared us.”

Damian didn’t respond. He just simply stood there, looking tired.

Bruce’s voice lowered slightly “Are you alright?”

Damian nodded once, but Bruce held his gaze for a moment longer.

Damian didn’t look angry, he didn’t look defensive. He just looked...Empty.

Finally Damian shifted his weight "..I’m going to my room.”

Neither Bruce nor Tim stopped him. They watched silently as Damian walked past them and up the staircase.

His footsteps were slow. Quiet.

When he disappeared down the hallway, Tim exhaled heavily “Well...that was terrifying.”

Bruce didn’t answer, his eyes remained fixed on the top of the stairs.

Because the truth was...Damian had said he was fine.

But Bruce knew better, they all did.

And whatever was happening inside his youngest son’s mind..

It wasn’t over yet.
_______________

Tim Drake had never needed much sleep.

It was a trait that had helped him survive years of late-night patrols, endless case files, and long hours spent staring at computer screens in the Batcave.

But lately, even Tim was starting to feel tired.

Not physically, just mentally.

Because watching Damian slowly fall apart without knowing how to stop it was exhausting.

Tim sat in the Batcave, the glow of several monitors lighting the dark space. The manor above them was quiet–far past midnight.

Normally Damian would be asleep by now, or at least pretending to be.

But the security camera on Tim’s left monitor told a different story. Damian was in the training room.

Again.

Tim checked the time.

2:14 AM.

He sighed quietly. That made four nights this week.

Damian would train for hours, disappear for a while, and then show up again just before sunset like nothing had happened.

At first Tim thought it was just another phase of overtraining. Now he wasn’t so sure.

On the screen Damian moved across the mat, going through a kata with precise movements. His form was perfect, almost mechanical. But Tim noticed the small details.

The stiffness in his shoulders and the way he paused between movements for half a second longer than usual.

And the circles under his eyes, Damian wasn’t sleeping much anymore.

Tim leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face “This isn’t good,” he muttered to himself.

He could confront Damian again, but last time that had ended in shouting. And right now Damian looked too fragile for another fight.

Tim stared at the screen for a few seconds longer before reaching for his phone. If Damian wouldn’t talk to him..

Maybe he would talk to someone else. He scrolled through his contacts and pressed call.

Dick answered on the third ring “Tim? You know it’s almost three in the morning, right?”

“Yeah,” Tim said tiredly.

There was a pause, then Dick immediately sounded more alert "..what happened?”

“Nothing, it's just Damian–again.”

Another pause “Is he...hurt?”

“No,” Tim said quickly “Not like that.” He leaned forward in his chair, watching Damian continue training on the monitor “It’s just...he’s not okay.”

Dick’s voice softened slightly “Still pushing himself?”

“Worse than that,” Tim said “He barely sleeps anymore, he skips meals, he disappears for walks at random times.” He hesitated before adding quietly “And when I talk to him, he barely talks back."

Dick was silent for a moment “Have you told Bruce?”

“Bruce knows something’s wrong,” Tim replied “But he’s trying not to push.”

“That sounds like Bruce, I'm sure he thinks that’s what's best for Damian right now.”

Tim exhaled slowly “I think what Damian needs right now is all of us.”

There was another pause.

Then Dick said, “What are you thinking?”

Tim glanced at the calendar on his computer “The weekend,” he said. “Five days from now.”

“Okay..”

“If everyone comes back to the manor,” Tim continued “we could just...hang out. Like we used to.”

Dick hummed thoughtfully “No intervention. No pressure.”

“Exactly,” Tim said “Just being around him.”

Because if Damian was struggling...The last thing he needed was to feel cornered.

Dick sighed softly “Yeah...that might actually help.”

Tim nodded, even though Dick couldn’t see him “Can you make it?”

“I’ll move some things around,” Dick said “But yeah. I’ll be there."

“Thanks.” Tim hung up and immediately dialed another number.

Jason picked up much faster “What.”

Tim rolled his eyes slightly “Nice greeting.”

“It’s early in the morning,” Jason replied flatly “Make it good, and fast.”

“It’s about Damian.”

Jason immediately became more serious “What happened? Is something wrong?”

Tim repeated the same explanation, pacing slowly across his room as he spoke.

Jason listened quietly the entire time.

When Tim finished, Jason sighed “Kid’s burning himself out.”

“Yeah.”

“And Bruce hasn’t stepped in yet?”

“He’s trying not to make things worse.”

Jason was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Alright.”

Tim blinked “Alright?”

“I’ll come back this weekend,” Jason clarified “We’ll see if we can get the little demon to talk. Maybe we could watch a movie or do those stupid game nights Dick likes, ”

Tim smiled faintly “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jason said dryly “If he throws a knife at me again, I’m blaming you.” he ended the call.

Tim looked back at the monitor. Damian was still training, still pushing, still refusing to rest.

Tim turned off the screen. There was nothing more he could do tonight, but maybe in five days..things would be different.

The next afternoon, Tim walked down the hallway toward Damian’s room.

He knocked lightly “Damian?”

A quiet voice answered from inside “..yes.”

Tim opened the door slowly. Damian was sitting on his bed this time, leaning back against the headboard with a book in his lap. He looked up briefly when Tim entered.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯. Tim noticed that immediately.

“Hey,” Tim said.

Damian nodded slightly “Timothy.”

Tim sat down on the edge of the bed. For a moment neither of them spoke.

Damian looked tired again. Not just physically, the kind of tired that settled deep into someone’s bones.

Tim glanced at the book in his hands “You reading?”

Damian looked down at it "..trying.”

Tim nodded slowly.

He didn’t push further.

Instead, he reached over and gently pulled Damian into a hug. At first Damian froze, his body went completely still, like he didn’t know how to react.

A few months ago he probably would’ve shoved Tim away immediately.

But now he didn’t. He just sat there, quiet and still.

Tim rested his chin lightly on the top of Damian’s head “You’re allowed to rest, you know,” Tim murmured.

Damian didn’t answer.

But he didn’t pull away either.

So Tim just...stayed there holding him. A quiet moment in a quiet room.

After a while Tim let go and leaned back slightly.

Damian looked at him with confusion “You are strange” Damian said softly.

Tim smiled a little “Yeah. I’ve been told that before.”

Damian looked down at the blanket in his lap. He didn’t say anything else, but the tension in his shoulders seemed slightly less rigid now. Just slightly.

Tim stood up after a few seconds “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Damian nodded faintly “..okay.”

Tim walked toward the door. Before leaving, he glanced back once.

Damian had leaned back against the headboard again. Still holding the book, still not reading it.

But for the first time in days..he looked a little less alone, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘨 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯.

Tim closed the door quietly behind him.

Five days.

That’s all he needed.

Five days until everyone came home, and maybe then..

They could help Damian remember he didn’t have to fight everything by himself.
_______________

Tim woke up later than usual.

For a moment he stayed still, staring at the ceiling while the morning light filtered softly through the curtains of his room. His body felt heavy in that familiar way that came after too little sleep.

His first thought was Damian. It had become automatic lately.

Tim sat up slowly and rubbed his eyes before reaching for his phone.

9:12 AM.

Later than Damian normally slept.

Which meant one of two things, either Damian had finally gotten some real rest...or he had been awake for hours already.

Tim sighed and stood up. He threw on a hoodie and made his way downstairs toward the kitchen.

The smell of coffee reached him before he even entered the room. Duke was already there, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and scrolling through his phone.

“Morning,” Duke said casually without looking up.

“Morning,” Tim replied, heading for the coffee machine.

For a minute the kitchen was quiet except for the small sounds of breakfast. Tim poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter.

Duke glanced up eventually “You look like you slept for about thirty minutes.”

“Feels like it,” Tim muttered.

Duke studied him for a second “Damian again?”

Tim nodded “..Yeah.”

Duke put his spoon down “Still training at ridiculous hours?”

“Yep.”

“And still barely talking?”

“Also yep.”

Duke leaned back in his chair thoughtfully “That kid is stubborn.”

“Understatement of the century,” Tim said. There was a pause while Duke thought about something.

Then he snapped his fingers slightly “Hey.”

Tim looked up “What?”

“Why don’t we just go with him?”

Tim frowned “Go with him where?”

“His walks,” Duke said. “He keeps going alone, right?”

“Yeah..”

“So maybe we stop letting him do that,” Duke continued. “We ask if he wants company.”

Tim hadn't considered that, it wasn’t a bad idea, it also wasn’t confrontational. Just...supportive.

“Yeah,” Tim said slowly “That could work.”

Duke grinned slightly “Worst case scenario he insults us for fifteen minutes.”

“That’s pretty standard for Damian,” Tim admitted.

They finished breakfast quickly before heading upstairs

Tim knocked on Damian’s door “Hey, demon spawn. You awake?”

No answer.

Tim opened the door. The room was empty, The bed was made—too neatly.

Tim immediately felt a small knot tighten in his stomach.

“He’s not here,” Duke said quietly from behind him.

Tim checked the bathroom, nothing. Closet, nothing.

“He probably went for a walk,” Duke said.

Tim nodded slowly “Yeah...we probably just missed him.” But something about it still felt off.

Damian usually left early sure, but not this early. Still, they couldn’t panic over every little thing.

Tim exhaled “Let’s just wait.”

They sat in the living room.

At first it felt normal, Tim flipped through a book while Duke was on his phone.

The manor was quiet. Peaceful.

“Maybe we should text him,” Duke said after a while.

Tim checked his phone “Already did, but no reply."

“Typical,” Duke said.

Tim shrugged. Damian ignored messages all the time.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then thirty.

Then an hour.

Tim found himself glancing toward the front door more and more often.

“He’s been gone a while,” Duke said eventually.

Tim checked the time again.

11:03 AM.

“Yeah.”

Another half hour passed, still nothing.

Now the knot in Tim’s stomach had grown tighter.

“He should be back by now,” Duke said quietly.

Tim nodded.

Damian’s walks usually lasted maybe forty-five minutes, an hour at most. Not two.

Tim stood up suddenly “I’m checking outside.” Duke followed immediately.

They searched the gardens first, then the path behind the manor, then the nearby street, nothing. Tim’s heart began beating faster.

“Maybe he went farther today,” Duke suggested.

Tim tried to believe that but something felt wrong. Very wrong. “Let’s tell Bruce,” Tim said finally.

Bruce was in his study when they found him.

He looked up from his desk as they entered “Something wrong?”

Tim spoke quickly “Damian left for a walk this morning.”

Bruce nodded slightly “That’s not unusual.”

“He hasn’t come back yet,” Duke added.

Bruce’s expression shifted immediately “How long has he been gone?”

Tim checked his phone “Almost three hours.”

Bruce stood up instantly “Show me the security footage.”

They checked every camera. Front gates, garden paths, nearby streets, nothing.

Damian had slipped past the cameras, Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly. Tim could see the shift in his posture, Batman mode.

“Search the grounds again,” Bruce said calmly.

They did. Every corner, every building, every path.

Still nothing.

Tim’s hands felt cold “Bruce..” he said quietly.

Bruce was already reaching for his phone “We’re expanding the search.”

Tim watched him dial.

“Commissioner Gordon.” There was a brief pause while Bruce explained, Tim felt his chest tighten.

Then Bruce hung up, he looked at them both “We’re calling emergency services.”

Duke blinked “..Already?”

Bruce’s voice was firm “Yes.”

Tim didn’t argue. Because deep down–he had been thinking the same thing.

Bruce dialed again. This time a operator answered “Yes, hello,” Bruce said steadily. “I need to report a missing person.”

Tim’s stomach dropped. Because hearing those words out loud made everything feel suddenly real.

Bruce continued calmly “My son. Fifteen years old.”

Tim and Duke exchanged a worried glance.

The house felt too quiet.

Too empty.
_______________

Bruce Wayne had reported people missing before.

Victims lost in Gotham’s chaos. Children taken by the streets. People who had vanished without warning.

But saying the words about his own son had felt wrong “My son. Fifteen years old.”

The operator’s calm voice had asked the usual questions–description, clothing, last known location. Bruce answered each one with steady precision. But his mind had already moved ahead.

Calculating, tracking possibilities.

When the call ended, Bruce lowered the phone slowly. Tim and Duke were watching him from across the manor.

Tim looked pale. “What now?” Duke asked quietly.

Bruce straightened “Now we search.”

Within minutes the Batcave was alive with movement. Large monitors displayed maps of Gotham while Tim worked rapidly at the computer “I’m pulling traffic cameras,” Tim said, fingers flying over the keyboard. “Street cams too.”

Duke leaned over his shoulder “If he walked into the city, we should see something.”

Bruce was already putting on his gloves “If Damian wanted to avoid cameras,” Bruce said calmly, “he would.”

Tim paused slightly “..yeah.”

Bruce moved toward the vehicle platform “Then we search the old way.”

Duke frowned. “You think he’s hiding?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Because the truth was—He didn’t know. But something about the situation felt wrong. Damian hadn’t taken weapons, he hadn’t taken gear. Just clothes.

Just himself.

Then Tim suddenly leaned forward “Wait.” Bruce stopped.

Tim zoomed in on one of the screens “I’ve got something.”

Duke stepped closer “What is it?”

Tim pointed at a grainy traffic camera image. A figure walking along a quiet street.

Small, dark hair, black clothes, hands in pockets. Bruce recognized the posture immediately.

Damian.

Tim checked the timestamp “Two hours ago.”

Duke exhaled “That’s pretty far from the manor.”

Tim pulled up more cameras “Here’s another one...and another.”

Each image showed Damian moving deeper into Gotham.

Walking. Always walking, never running. Never looking behind him.

Tim leaned back slowly “He’s not being chased.”

Duke nodded “He’s not hiding either.”

Bruce studied the map carefully. Damian had been heading toward the center of the city.

Tim pointed again “Last camera was near Burnside.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, that area had older buildings, industrial blocks, rooftops, places someone could...𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 easily.

Bruce turned toward the Batmobile “Let’s go.”

The Batmobile tore through Gotham’s streets minutes later, Tim sat beside Bruce watching the tablet, while Duke stayed behind incase Damian comes back on his own.

“If he kept walking in the same direction,” Tim said, “he could be anywhere in this district.”

Bruce didn’t respond, his focus was already on the skyline ahead. Rows of old brick buildings stretched across the horizon.

Flat rooftops.

Fire escapes.

𝘓𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴.

Bruce slowed the car near one of the taller buildings, something felt wrong.

Not logically. Instinctively.

“Here,” Bruce said.

Tim looked up “You think he’s here?”

Bruce was already stepping out of the car “We check.”

The stairwell door to the roof creaked open quietly, Bruce stepped out first.

The wind was stronger up here, colder than it had been on the street below. It rushed across the open rooftop and tugged lightly at his cape, carrying with it the distant sounds of Gotham traffic far below. Horns, engines, the faint echo of sirens somewhere in the distance.

For a moment the rooftop looked empty.

Then Tim stopped "..Bruce." Bruce followed his gaze.

For a moment he didn’t understand what Tim was seeing, the rooftop looked empty at first glance.

Then he saw him.

𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘢𝘯.

He stood near the edge of the roof. Too near, the drop below was several stories.

Damian’s back faced them, his hands rested loosely at his sides. The wind moved his dark hair slightly but he didn’t move otherwise.

Tim’s voice dropped to a whisper “Damian.”

No response.

Bruce stepped forward slowly “Damian.”

This time Damian turned his head slightly. Not surprised. Not alarmed. Just...aware.

“Hello,” he said quietly.

Tim exhaled shakily, one hand running through his hair as he tried to steady himself. His heart was still racing from the search, from the fear that had been building for the past hour.

“Damian, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Damian blinked slowly, his expression barely changing as he looked between them. His eyes looked tired and unfocused.

“..why?”

Tim stared at him “Because you disappeared!”

Damian looked back toward the edge of the building, then “I went for a walk.” he said quietly

Bruce couldn’t ignore the thought repeating in his mind, he had seen victims stand on ledges like this before.

𝘛𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴.

Bruce kept his voice calm “For several hours.”

Damian shrugged faintly “mhm”

Tim ran a hand through his hair “We called the police.”

That made Damian look back at them again, his brow furrowed slightly "that seems unnecessary.”

Tim let out a short, disbelieving breath “Unnecessary?”

Bruce stepped closer. Not too quickly, not too slow.

He moved the way he would approach a frightened animal, careful not to startle it. Too sudden and Damian might...pull away, too slow and the moment might slip out of reach.

“Damian.”

Damian met his gaze.

“Are you alright?”

There was a long pause.

No one spoke.

The wind moved across the rooftop again, tugging at Damian’s shirt and sending loose strands of dark hair across his face. Somewhere below, a car horn echoed between the buildings.

Finally Damian nodded once “Yes.”

But Bruce saw the truth instantly. The dullness in his eyes, the heaviness in his shoulders and the exhaustion that had nothing to do with sleep.

Tim crouched slightly beside him “Can we go home?”

Damian didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted briefly toward the drop at the edge of the building.

Then back to them.

Finally he said quietly “..K”

Bruce stepped closer and gently guided him away from the ledge.

His hand rested lightly on Damian’s shoulder, careful not to grip too tightly. Damian didn’t resist. He allowed Bruce to guide him step by step away from the edge of the rooftop.

And as they walked back down...Bruce couldn’t ignore the thought that kept repeating in his mind.

They had found Damian just in time.

Even if Damian himself didn’t realize it–maybe he did, maybe he knew what he was doing,

Bruce hoped he didn't.
_______________

The drive home was quiet.

Damian sat in the back seat of the car, staring out the window as Gotham passed by in streaks of orange streetlight and dark buildings. He hadn’t said a single word since they left the rooftop.

Tim kept glancing back at him every few seconds. Just to make sure he was still there, still breathing, still sitting upright.

Bruce drove without speaking, his hands steady on the wheel, though the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased.

When they finally pulled into the manor’s driveway, the house felt strangely bright after the dark streets of Gotham.

Duke was waiting in the entryway. The moment the door opened, he stepped forward.

His eyes immediately went to Damian “You found him.” he exhaled

Bruce nodded once.

Damian stepped inside slowly, his movements heavy and tired.

Duke studied him carefully “Hey, man,” he said gently.

Damian gave a small nod “Hello.” his voice was quiet.

Duke exchanged a brief look with Tim. Then he turned back to Damian “You look exhausted.”

Damian shrugged faintly.

Duke stepped a little closer “Why don’t we get you upstairs?” Damian didn’t argue. That alone said more than anything else.

Normally Damian would have snapped back with something sharp or dismissive. Now he simply stood there, silent.

Duke kept his tone calm and easy “C’mon. We’ll get you changed and you can sleep.”

Damian nodded once “okay.”

Duke glanced back at Bruce and Tim “I’ve got him.”

Bruce gave a small nod “Thank you.”

Duke placed a light hand on Damian’s shoulder and guided him toward the stairs, Damian went without resistance. Their footsteps slowly faded down the hallway.

The moment they disappeared upstairs, the silence in the manor became unbearable.

Tim stood in the middle of the foyer for several seconds, staring at nothing. His mind kept replaying the same image.

Damian, standing near the edge of that rooftop.

Too close, 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

Tim’s chest tightened. He suddenly turned and walked quickly toward the stairs.

Not toward Damian’s room.

Toward his own.

The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

And the moment he was alone—Tim broke.

He sank down onto the edge of his bed, pressing his hands roughly against his face as the adrenaline from the day finally crashed.

“What the hell..” he whispered shakily.

His breathing felt uneven.

Too fast.

Too shallow.

He grabbed his phone with slightly trembling hands.

There was only one person he could call right now.

Actually—

Two.

Tim dialed Dick. The phone rang once,

Twice.

Then—

“Tim?” Dick’s voice immediately sounded alert.

Tim exhaled shakily “Hey.”

There was a pause.

Dick knew that tone “What happened?”

Tim tried to answer. But the words caught in his throat. For a moment he couldn’t say anything.

Dick’s voice softened “Tim, talk to me.”

Tim rubbed his face roughly “We...we couldn’t find him.”

“Who?”

“Damian.”

The silence on the other end of the line lasted half a second too long “What do you mean you couldn’t find him?”

“He disappeared this morning,” Tim said quietly “We searched the whole manor. The grounds. Everything.”

“Tim—”

“We even called the police,” Tim continued, his voice cracking slightly “Bruce reported him missing.”

Another pause.

Then Dick spoke again, slower this time “..did you find him?”

Tim swallowed hard.

“Yeah.”

“Where?"

Tim closed his eyes.

“On a roof.” The words came out like a sob.

Dick didn’t speak immediately.

Tim forced himself to continue “He was standing right near the edge.”

There was a sharp inhale from Dick’s side of the phone.

Tim’s voice dropped “I thought—” He stopped himself.

But the thought still came out anyway “I thought he might do something stupid.”

Silence again.

Then Dick said softly, “Hey listen to me.”

Tim leaned forward, elbows on his knees “I’m scared, Dick.” The admission felt raw.

“He’s not acting like himself anymore. He barely talks, he barely sleeps, he doesn’t eat—and today he just disappeared.”

Tim’s voice cracked again “What if next time we don’t find him in time?”

Dick didn’t hesitate “We will. And there won't 𝘣𝘦 a next time–”

Tim shook his head rapidly “You didn’t see him today!”

“Tim.”

“He looked...empty,” Tim whispered. “Like he didn’t care about anything anymore.”

“He was standing right on the edge, Dick. Like he didn’t care if he fell.”

Another voice suddenly joined the call.

“Put me on speaker.”

Jason, Jason had called Dick to help him with a mission yesterday.

Dick pressed the button.

“You’re on.”

Jason’s voice came through clearly “Alright, Replacement. First thing–breathe.”

Tim let out a shaky laugh “Not helpful.”

“It actually is,” Jason replied bluntly.

There was a brief pause before he continued “You did the right thing.”

Tim frowned “How?”

“You found him,” Jason said simply.

Tim leaned back slightly “I almost didn’t.”

“But you did,” Jason repeated.

Dick spoke again “Where is Damian now?”

“Duke’s helping him get to bed.”

“Good.”

Tim stared at the ceiling “I don’t know how to fix this.”

Dick’s voice softened “You don’t have to fix it alone.”

Hey,” Jason had said firmly. “Listen to me. The brat’s stubborn, not 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘭.” he paused

“We’re coming tomorrow,” he’d said “First thing.”

Tim blinked "..what?”

“The weekend thing you mentioned?” Jason said “Forget five days and fuck the mission.”

Dick agreed immediately “We’ll be there tomorrow.”

Tim sat up straighter “Really?”

“Yeah,” Dick said “Damian’s our brother too.”

Jason snorted “Someone’s gotta keep the tiny assassin from self-destructing.”

Tim felt some of the tightness in his chest finally loosen “yeah..”

“Try to get some sleep,” Dick said.

“He's right,” Jason added. “You probably look worse than we do.”

Tim rolled his eyes slightly “I doubt that.”

But he did feel a little better.

Not completely.

But enough.

Because now he knew something important.

They weren’t dealing with this alone anymore.

And tomorrow—

His older brothers would be coming home.
_______________

The manor was silent, Damian lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint creaks of the old walls settling in the night. Everyone else was asleep—or at least, he assumed they were. Tim, Duke and Father...their breathing was steady behind closed doors. And that was exactly why he could move without being noticed.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, careful to avoid the soft squeak that the frame always made. One foot. Then the other. He shifted slowly, listening for any sound that might betray him, but there was nothing. The darkness of the room wrapped around him like a cloak.

Quietly, he pulled on a jacket he had left folded on the chair. His movements were precise, deliberate. Every snap of a button, every zip of a pocket was measured, cautious. The thought of waking anyone didn’t even enter his mind—he couldn’t bear the thought of being stopped. Not now. Not tonight.

He crouched by the door, listening again. No one. The hall beyond was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the emergency night lights Bruce insisted on leaving on.

Damian’s boots made almost no sound as he stepped out, toes carefully brushing the hardwood.

He moved past the silent corridors, past the closed doors of the Batcave, and down the staircase, each step deliberate, careful not to alert the others. The shadows seemed to reach for him, wrapping him in the quiet he needed. His chest tightened–not from exertion, but from the weight inside him, the relentless pressure that never seemed to lift.

Once he reached the front doors, he paused. The night was waiting outside. Cold, quiet, empty. And it felt...safe. Safe from observation. Safe from expectation. Safe from himself.

The lock clicked softly as he pushed the door open, stepping onto the cold stone steps. A gust of wind hit him, sharp and sudden, ruffling his hair and tugging at the hem of his jacket. He ignored it. He ignored everything.

The streets stretched out before him, dark and deserted. Only the occasional streetlamp cut the darkness with pools of yellow light. Damian walked out onto the asphalt, boots making soft impressions in the empty street, and let the city swallow him up.

With each step, the weight inside him pressed tighter. Questions, criticisms, fears–they all followed him like shadows.

He didn’t know how long he would walk, or where he would end up. He didn’t care.

He kept moving, silent, unseen, he felt untouchable.

The streets stretched endlessly, empty and silent, lit only by scattered streetlights.

Damian’s boots made soft impressions on the asphalt, and the faint scrape of his jacket against his sides was the only sound that followed him. He walked without a goal, without direction. Only the cold air, the emptiness, and the weight inside him moved with him.

He didn’t notice how long he’d been gone. Time didn’t exist out here, only the rhythm of his steps and the way his thoughts spiraled tighter around themselves. Every inhale of the night air pressed against his chest. Every shadow seemed to mock him.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵...𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯? His chest ached, but it wasn’t just physical, it was deeper and sharper. The quiet, the emptiness, the solitude of the streets pressed in around him, reflecting the hollow he felt inside.

He passed an alley, then another, the light pools stretching like pale fingers across the pavement. His mind was louder than anything in the city. Criticism, guilt, anger, frustration—it all merged into a storm that rattled him from the inside.

Damian hated himself. He hated the way he couldn’t stop thinking about the rooftop. The way he had terrified them. The way he had terrified himself. And he hated how much he cared, how much 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 cared.

He clenched his fists, pulling his thumbs over his knuckles, pressing down. He could feel the ache in his forearms, a small, tangible pain that somehow grounded him. But it wasn’t enough to keep the storm inside from raging.

He imagined them, inside the manor. Tim pacing his room, hands gripping the phone as he tried to track him down. Bruce standing silently, sharp and controlled, but his eyes...he imagined them watching, 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 probably judging.

Duke waiting, concerned but unsure how to act. And somewhere in the edges of his mind, he imagined Alfred’s quiet worry, how his gentle presence that used to make Damian feel safe.

And he hated all of it. Hated how powerless he felt. Hated how much he needed them, how much he depended on them, how much his existence seemed to weigh on everyone.

The wind shifted, carrying the distant echo of tires on wet asphalt, the low hum of a car passing blocks away. Damian pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if he could compress all his feelings into a single layer of fabric. He didn’t notice that his legs were starting to tire, that the ache in his chest was spreading into his shoulders, that his fingers were stiff from the cold.

The streets curved into quieter neighborhoods. Houses stood dark and silent, curtains drawn against the night. Damian imagined the lights inside, the warmth and the safety, and felt only the sharp edge of alienation. It shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t hurt to exist inside a house where he was loved.

And yet it did.

He walked past a small park, the trees swaying faintly in the wind, shadows stretching across the benches and paths. He slowed, letting his eyes drift to the river beyond. The water reflected the muted light of the city, restless and cold. Damian stared at the surface for a long moment, and in the reflection, he thought he could see every flaw he hated about himself: the failures, the mistakes, the cracks he could never hide.

A bitter laugh escaped him, soft, almost inaudible. How easy it would be, how simple to vanish, to 𝘥𝘪𝘦.

He focused on the steps. One foot in front of the other. The rhythm of his boots. The cold pressing against his skin. He imagined himself melting into the night, becoming just another shadow among the shadows. Not important. Not worthy. Not even noticed.

The feeling pressed in, heavy and relentless. He hated it, and yet it was all he could feel. Hated himself for feeling it. Hated himself for needing anything at all.

Hated the way every heartbeat reminded him that he existed and that he mattered.

He passed under another streetlight. The pale yellow illuminated his face, eyes dark with fatigue and frustration, lips tight and pale. He didn’t notice the time, didn’t notice the hours stretching into endless nothingness. Only the weight inside him, and the constant, gnawing certainty that he wasn’t enough.

His legs ached more now, muscles tight from tension, but he didn’t slow. Couldn’t. Movement, even meaningless, was something. Proof that he could still do something, even if it was just put one foot in front of the other.

He imagined their voices, their concern. Tim’s urgent calls. Bruce’s quiet disapproval. Duke’s cautious worry. Even Titus and Alfred the cat calling for him. The thought made him clench his fists tighter. He wanted to disappear. Not to hurt them. Not to punish them. But to stop being a problem. Stop being...wrong. It hurt so much and he didn't even know why.

The night carried on, silent except for his boots, the wind, and the distant city hum.

He walked past streets and streetlights, past parked cars and empty benches. The shadows stretched across the pavement like something waiting for him, but he didn’t care. He felt like he belonged in the shadows anyway.

And still, despite everything, he walked.

Because to stop moving would be to face all the thoughts he couldn’t bear to confront directly. Because moving, even aimlessly, even silently, gave him a small semblance of control over the chaos inside.

He paused finally at a bend in the street. His chest heaved slightly, cold and aching. He pressed a hand over it, feeling the tightness, feeling the tension. He stared up at the dark sky, no stars visible, just clouds and the emptiness beyond.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. He didn’t care. Time didn’t matter. Only the silence, the cold, the weight inside him, and the knowledge that he was alone in all of it.

And in the silence, in the stillness, he walked again, boots echoing softly, shadows following him, carrying him forward through the night.
_______________

Damian didn’t remember how he got home. He only knew that at some point, the city had been swallowed by shadows and cold, and now he was inside the manor again. Hours had passed—or maybe only minutes. Time had lost meaning. The house was silent. Every creak of the old floors, every faint tick of the clocks, made him start, reminded him that he was inside, safe in theory, but still...trapped with himself.

He didn’t dare check the time. The idea of sunlight felt impossibly far away. He decided he should take a shower, maybe a bath, anything that would let him feel like he existed in some normal sense.

Even that was an effort. His limbs felt heavy from walking the streets, though his body protested faintly, unbroken but tired.

The bathroom door was cold beneath his fingers as he opened it. The tiles glistened faintly in the pale light from the night‑lights Bruce always left on. Damian moved silently, careful not to make a sound. The air smelled faintly of soap and bleach, sharp and sterile against the warmth of the water, mingling with the faint scent of Damian’s own sweat and the night streets still clinging to his hair.

He stripped off the wet clothes from earlier, barely registering the chill against his skin, and let the warm water run over him.

Normally, he would have measured the water temperature, tested the flow, ensured nothing was wasted. Now he let it pour over him, unthinking, untethered, the perfectionist erased by fatigue.

He leaned back against the wall of the tub, settling in. His fingers traced the edge of the porcelain, pressing lightly as if testing whether it could hold the weight he felt pressing down inside him. A single droplet of water ran down his arm, and he followed it with his eyes, counting, imagining it washing away some invisible fault.

He usually didn’t take baths. Baths felt...indulgent, too soft for someone who needed to be hard, precise and perfect.

But tonight, the warmth was a comfort he didn’t question. He lay back fully, letting the water run over his shoulders, letting his body sink into the curved porcelain. He covered himself as much as he could, wrapping his arms lightly around his torso, feeling the edges of his shoulders, the tension in his chest.

The water pounded lightly against the tub, pattering like soft rain, and he closed his eyes. It wasn’t peaceful. Not really. He could still feel the streets on his skin, the wind cold against his cheeks, the echo of every step he had taken. His mind refused to stop.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵? 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺? 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨? He 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 himself for it. The thought clawed at him, scratching at something deep in his chest. How could he be so careless, so impulsive? How could he be so weak?

His hands rested on the edges of the tub. His nails dug into his palms lightly without him noticing. He thought about the manor, about the quiet concern of Tim, the sharp and measured worry of Bruce, the cautious support of Duke. He imagined their faces, the tension in their shoulders, the silent pause in their breathing as they imagined the worst. And he hated himself all over again.

He wondered, again, if he was a burden—if he weighed too heavily on the people who cared for him, if his presence was more trouble than it was worth.

He had always trained, always pushed himself, always tried to be enough, but...was it ever enough? No. Never. He could feel it in the way the city had swallowed him tonight, in the way he had moved through it alone, unnoticed, and yet full of weight he didn’t know how to carry.

The steam from the hot water fogged the edges of the mirror across the room, distorting his reflection until he barely recognized the shadow staring back at him.

A single cat pawed quietly at the door outside, its soft thump echoing faintly in the silent manor, a reminder that the world outside him still existed.

He thought about his mistakes. The small ones, the big ones, the ones that didn’t matter, and the ones that surely would. They were all piled up inside him, pressing against his chest until every breath felt heavy.

He thought about all the ways he had failed, all the ways he might fail again. And the worst part? They would care. They would notice. They would be affected.

He wanted none of that. He wanted nothing at all. The thought sat on his shoulders, heavy and relentless. Not because he wanted to hurt them, not because he wanted attention, but because he didn’t know how to stop feeling like a weight on everyone around him. He didn’t know how to stop being jsu so–𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨.

He was tired.

So tired.

And yet he kept trying to hold himself together.

The water rippled gently against his skin. He closed his eyes tighter, pressing his forehead lightly to the edge of the tub. He could feel his own pulse, faint and irregular from the cold, from the exertion of the walk, from the tension inside him. He tried to focus on that—on something small and tangible—but it wouldn’t anchor him. The weight inside him pressed too hard.

𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.

He thought about their expectations. How he had been trained to be strong, precise and perfect. And yet here he was, exhausted, wandering the streets, sinking into the tub like a shadow that didn’t belong anywhere.

He hated how much he wanted their approval, how much he craved being needed, how much he hated himself for needing it at all.

The water was warm against his shoulders, but it did nothing to soothe the ache in his chest. He pressed his arms tighter around himself, trying to hold together the pieces he felt were breaking.

He imagined what they would think if they saw him like this—tired, exhausted, defeated. Probably disappointed. Probably frustrated. Maybe...concerned, he knew they–tolerated him, and that he was useful but...did they really want him around?

He hated being the cause of concern. He hated that his existence had this weight. He hated the way he felt hollow, how his mind spun, how the streets had been silent but his thoughts had screamed. He hated himself for feeling trapped, for feeling small, for feeling like he didn’t belong.

And yet he could feel himself existing. Could feel the tension in his chest, the ache in his limbs, the way his mind refused to stop. The night held him, surrounded him, and he let it. It was quiet. It was dark. It was him alone, and in that quiet, he could think freely. Think ruthless thoughts about himself. Think about everything he hated. Think about everything he wished he could erase.

He didn’t move. He didn’t lift his head. He let the water run over him, wrapping him in heat and silence. He let the tub hold him while his mind spiraled, while his chest ached, while his pulse reminded him that he existed.

𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘣 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥.

He thought of the his family all in the manor, waiting for him. And he hated himself all over again for thinking that their lives would be better without him, for thinking that his absence would fix the weight he felt pressing on them.

And yet...he couldn’t stop the thought. It stayed, heavy and unwelcome, circling in his chest like a dark tide.

He pressed his palms against the sides of the tub, feeling the porcelain beneath his skin, feeling the hard edges of the world pressing against his body. And in that moment, in the silence, in the water, in the ache inside him, he let the weight of himself exist fully.

He was a 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘯. He was 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦. He was 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 and 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬. And for the first time in hours, he didn’t fight the truth of it. He only felt it, let it press in, let it roll through him like the cold city air that had followed him home.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘪𝘳.

And he stayed there, under the warm water, silent and alone, letting every thought, every criticism, every heavy pulse of self-loathing settle over him like the night itself.

The house slept around him, unknowing, unbothered. And he stayed, feeling everything he couldn’t tell anyone, feeling every ounce of himself that he thought shouldn’t exist.

𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘶𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘤ame 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘪𝘳.
_______________

The call had ended nearly ten minutes ago.

Dick Grayson was still staring at the phone lying face-up on the room’s coffee table, screen dark now, but Dick could still hear Tim’s voice echoing faintly in his head.

Tight. Uneven. Trying very hard to sound calm and failing just enough that it had set off every alarm Dick possessed.

Jason leaned against the kitchen counter across the room, arms crossed over his chest, looking equally unsettled despite the scowl he was wearing.

The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside.

The refrigerator clicked softly in the kitchen. Somewhere down the hall, an old pipe rattled for a second before settling again. The city outside never truly slept, but up here the quiet felt heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

Neither of them had moved much since the call ended.

Dick finally exhaled slowly and ran a hand through his hair “Well,” he muttered, “that was...not great.”

Jason let out a humorless laugh “Not great?” he repeated “You’re underselling it a bit, don’t you think?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck.

Tim almost never called like that.

Text messages? Sure.

Mission updates? Often.

But phone calls in the middle of the night–especially ones where his voice cracked halfway through explaining what had happened–those were rare.

And the image Tim had described wouldn’t leave Dick’s mind.

Damian. Standing on the edge of a rooftop.

Too close to the edge, too quiet.

Dick had seen that look before–on too many rooftops, too many nights. People staring down at the streets below like gravity didn’t apply to them anymore.

But the thought of Damian standing there like that felt wrong in a way Dick couldn’t explain.

Dick swallowed.

Jason pushed himself off the counter and began pacing across the living room. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he moved.

He dragged a hand across his mouth as he walked, jaw tight. Every few steps he glanced toward the phone on the table like he expected it to ring again.

“God–” Jason muttered “the kid sounded 𝘸𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥.”

Dick nodded quietly.

Tim had tried to hold it together at first. He’d explained everything in clipped, careful sentences.

How he and Duke had gone to Damian’s room in the morning.

How the bed had been empty.

How they’d waited, how hours passed.

How panic had slowly replaced patience.

Then how Bruce had searched the city. And finally—

The rooftop, Tim’s voice had cracked there.

Dick closed his eyes briefly, remembering the moment.

Tim had stopped talking mid-sentence.

Dick had almost asked if the call dropped.

But then he heard it–Tim’s breathing on the other end of the line, uneven and shaky in a way Dick had almost never heard before.

“He was standing right on the edge, Dick. Like he didn’t care if he fell.”

Dick had felt his chest tighten painfully.

Jason had gone completely still beside him, neither of them had spoken for a few seconds.

Then Tim had continued.

Explaining how Bruce had approached slowly. How they tried not to startle Damian. How he had looked...empty.

Dick hated that word.

𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺.

It didn’t belong anywhere near Damian but Tim had sounded certain.

Jason dragged a hand through his hair and looked toward the window “Kid’s fifteen,” he muttered “He shouldn’t feel like that.”

Jason shook his head slightly as he said it.

Fifteen wasn’t supposed to come with rooftops and empty stares. Fifteen was supposed to be school fights and bad decisions and stupid jokes–not whatever the hell this was.

Dick leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling “He’s been through a lot.”

Jason snorted “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

The room fell quiet again, Dick knew Jason was trying not to show how much the story had shaken him.

Jason had always had a strange relationship with Damian.

They argued constantly.

Insulted each other endlessly.

But Dick knew better than most that Jason cared about the kid, probably more than he’d ever admit.

Jason stopped pacing and looked over at him “You think Bruce handled it okay?” he asked.

Dick considered that “Probably,” he said slowly “But Bruce being Bruce...he probably also scared the hell out of Damian.”

Jason huffed “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Dick gave a faint smile.

Then it faded quickly.

Because the memory of Tim’s voice came rushing back again, near the end of the call Tim had stopped trying to sound composed altogether.

His breathing had grown uneven and his words had started tumbling over each other.

And then—

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Tim had said quietly. “He won’t talk to us. He barely looks at anyone. I’m scared he’s going to do something stupid.”

Dick had felt his stomach twist.

Tim didn’t scare easily either, but tonight he had sounded 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥.

Jason had stepped forward then, grabbing the phone from Dick’s hand “Hey,” Jason had said firmly “Listen to me. The brat’s stubborn, not 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘭.”

Dick had winced at the bluntness.

But Jason’s voice had softened slightly afterward “We’re coming tomorrow,” he’d said “First thing.”

Tim had gone quiet for a moment.

They talked a bit more after that.

Dick rubbed his eyes now, exhaustion creeping up on him “What time is it?” he asked.

Jason checked his watch “Almost two.”

Dick sighed “Tim probably hasn’t slept.”

“Nope.”

“Bruce either.”

“Definitely not.”

Dick could picture the manor clearly. The long hallways, the dim lights.

Tim sitting somewhere in the living room, staring at his phone.

Bruce pacing the cave below.

Duke probably trying to keep things and himself calm.

And Damian—

Dick frowned slightly. He wondered what Damian was doing right now.

Sleeping, 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺.

Bruce had brought him home. Tim said Duke had helped him get to bed.

Still..

Dick had known Damian long enough to recognize something dangerous in Tim’s story—hell, he’d practically raised him for half a year.

The quiet.

The distance.

The way Tim said he stood at the edge of that rooftop like gravity didn’t matter.

Dick shifted in his chair. “You ever notice,” he said quietly, “how hard he pushes himself? Like even before he started acting weird.”

Jason raised an eyebrow “You mean the kid raised in the League of Assassins?”

“Yeah,” Dick said dryly. “That one.”

Jason shrugged “He’s always been like that.”

Dick nodded “Yeah. But usually he’s angry about it.”

Jason tilted his head slightly “Tonight he wasn’t?”

Dick shook his head slowly. “Tim said he barely reacted to anything.”

Jason frowned, that seemed to bother him “Kid’s supposed to argue,” Jason muttered.

“Exactly.” Damian arguing meant Damian was still fighting.

But quiet Damian?

That was unfamiliar. And unfamiliar things tended to worry Dick.

Jason sat down heavily on the couch “So,” he said after a moment, “we leave at dawn?”

Jason glanced toward the hallway where their gear bags sat half-packed from the mission they’d planned to finish this week.

Neither of them mentioned it. The mission didn’t matter anymore.

Dick nodded immediately “Yeah.”

“No detours.”

He sighed “Nope.”

Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

For once he didn’t look annoyed. He looked thoughtful and concerned.

“You think the brat knows how many people he’s got worried about him?” Jason asked quietly.

Dick smiled faintly “Probably not.”

Jason huffed “Figures.”

Dick stood and stretched slightly. His muscles were stiff from sitting too long.

“Well,” he said, “we should probably try to sleep.”

Jason snorted “Good luck with that.”

Dick glanced at the silent phone again. He wondered if Tim would call back.

Or if Bruce would.

Or if they’d wake up to another message in the morning.

Something in his chest felt uneasy, the faint sense that things weren’t finished yet.

That Damian’s rooftop moment had only been the beginning of something.

Dick rubbed the back of his neck. “Tomorrow’s going to be a long day,” he said.

Jason nodded once “Yeah.”

Neither of them said it out loud. But both of them were thinking the same thing.

When they get back to the manor, they were going to figure out what was wrong with Damian.

Before things got worse.
_______________

Bruce Wayne had never needed much sleep.

Years of training had taught him how to function on very little, how to push past exhaustion, how to compartmentalize fatigue the same way he compartmentalized pain. But tonight had not been a night for rest, and the few hours he had managed to lie still in bed had been restless at best.

Every time he closed his eyes he saw the same image.

A rooftop.

The wind tugging at his cape.

Damian standing too close to the edge.

Too 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭.

Too 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵.

Bruce exhaled slowly and opened his eyes again.

The ceiling above him was faintly gray with the early hints of morning. Gotham wasn’t awake yet, but night had begun loosening its hold.

He sat up, running a hand down his face, sleeping again was pointless.

Bruce swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, muscles stiff from the hours spent lying awake. The manor was quiet as he stepped into the hallway. Old floorboards creaked softly beneath his feet, a familiar sound that normally faded into the background of the house’s nightly rhythm.

This morning it seemed louder, the manor had a strange atmosphere when something was wrong.

Bruce had noticed it many times over the years. Silence became heavier somehow, like the walls themselves were listening.

He moved down the staircase slowly, his mind already drifting through the tasks of the day ahead. Dick and Jason would be arriving later.

That would help.

Damian responded differently to each of them. Sometimes better, sometimes worse. But the presence of all 4 of his brothers might shift whatever had settled over him these past few months.

Bruce hoped it would, because yesterday had shaken him more than he was willing to admit.

The image of Damian on that rooftop had carried a kind of stillness Bruce recognized too well.

Not anger.

Not defiance.

Something quieter, something 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴.

Bruce reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the sitting room.

A faint light glowed there.

He paused.

Then continued forward, Tim sat on the couch with his shoulders hunched forward, a laptop open on the table in front of him. Several empty coffee cups were scattered nearby. The pale glow of the screen lit his face, highlighting dark circles under his eyes.

Bruce wasn’t surprised, Tim had always been terrible at sleeping when something was wrong.

Tim noticed him a moment later and looked up “Oh,” he said quietly “You’re up.”

Bruce crossed the room and leaned lightly against the back of a chair “You haven’t slept.”

Tim gave a small shrug “I tried.”

Bruce studied him. Tim looked exhausted, but the tension in his posture suggested his mind had been working nonstop.

“Any updates?” Bruce asked.

Tim shook his head “No. I just...kept looking over some stuff.”

Bruce didn’t ask what stuff meant. Knowing Tim, it could mean anything from patrol reports to Damian’s recent training logs.

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

Then Tim spoke again “He looked really bad yesterday.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward the window.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten faintly “Yes,” Bruce said quietly.

Tim swallowed “I’ve never seen him like that.”

Bruce didn’t answer immediately because neither had he.

Damian had been angry before. Furious. Reckless, even reckless enough to frighten Bruce.

But yesterday had been different, yesterday he had looked empty.

Bruce straightened slightly “We’ll handle it,” he said.

Tim nodded, though he didn’t look entirely convinced.

Dick and Jason arriving would help stabilize things, Damian tended to react strongly to Jason’s bluntness and Dick’s persistence. Between them, they might break through whatever wall he had built.

Tim rubbed his eyes “Dick said they’d leave early,” he murmured.

“They will.”

A quiet pause followed.

Then Tim glanced toward the hallway “I’m going to check on Damian,” he said.

Bruce nodded “Good idea.”

Tim pushed himself off the couch slowly, stretching stiff limbs as he stood. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all.

Bruce watched him disappear down the hallway.

For a moment Bruce considered following.
But Damian would likely respond better to Tim alone.

Bruce turned toward the kitchen instead.

Breakfast would be simple.

Eggs, toast, coffee.

Something normal, sometimes routine helped stabilize the house after difficult nights.

He stepped into the kitchen and began moving automatically through familiar motions. The quiet clink of dishes and the low hum of the refrigerator filled the room.

The manor remained silent.

Bruce cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them absently.

His thoughts drifted again.

Damian had barely spoken when they brought him home yesterday. Short answers, flat tone. And when Bruce had asked if he was alright, Damian had simply said "𝘠𝘦𝘴."

Bruce had heard that phrase many times before when asking that question, it's always been "Yes" or "I'm fine". It had also almost never been true.

He set a pan on the stove.

A faint creak echoed somewhere upstairs.

Bruce barely noticed.

Tim would be entering Damian’s room around now, hopefully Damian was awake or at least sleeping normally.

Bruce turned to grab a plate—

A sound split the quiet of the manor.

A scream.

Sharp.

𝘗𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥.

“BRUCE—!”

The plate slipped from Bruce’s hands It shattered against the kitchen floor. He was already moving before the sound finished echoing.

Tim’s voice had been unmistakable.

Fear.

Real fear.

Bruce sprinted out of the kitchen, heart hammering violently in his chest. He took the stairs two at a time.

Another shout echoed down the hallway above.

“BRUCE!”

Bruce reached the landing and turned toward Damian’s room. Tim stood in front of the bathroom door.

White as a sheet, and shaking.

Bruce crossed the distance in seconds “What happened? What's wrong?” he demanded.

Tim’s voice came uneven “His bathroom door is locked.”

Tim’s hand was still wrapped around the doorknob, like he had tried it more than once and hoped it would suddenly open.

Bruce’s stomach dropped “What?”

Tim ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard “He wasn't in his room so I thought maybe he was in the bathroom but—” His words broke off.

Bruce noticed then.

The bathroom door was closed, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦. And Tim was staring at it, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰.

The sound was steady. Continuous.

Not the brief rush of a sink being used.

Just water running.

Bruce felt something cold settle in his chest.

Bruce felt a sudden chill crawl up his spine. “Damian?” Bruce called sharply.

No answer.

The water continued running.

Tim’s voice dropped to a whisper “He won’t answer.”

“Damian,” he called again.

Still nothing.

Bruce’s hand closed around the doorknob.

Locked. He twisted it harder anyway, as if brute force might somehow change the result.

It didn’t move.

The water continued running on the other side of the door, steady and relentless.

Tim’s breathing was uneven beside him.

“Damian." He said again, louder this time.

No response.

Not a shift of movement.

Not a sound of footsteps.

Nothing, the quiet on the other side of the door was wrong.

Bruce stepped back once, his mind already calculating.

The door frame was old hardwood. Solid, but not reinforced. The lock itself was simple—meant for privacy, not security. It would break.

“Move,” Bruce said.

Tim didn’t argue. He backed away immediately, eyes wide, watching Bruce with a kind of helpless dread that made Bruce’s chest tighten.

Bruce planted one hand against the wall beside the door and lifted his foot. Then he drove his heel into the lock.

The impact echoed sharply down the hallway. The door shuddered but didn’t open.

Tim flinched.

Bruce stepped back again and kicked harder.

The wood cracked this time.

The lock splintered slightly, the frame groaning under the force.

But it still held.

Tim’s voice came out strained “Bruce–”

Bruce didn’t answer. He kicked the door a third time.

This time the lock tore loose from the frame with a violent crack.

The door slammed inward.

The sound of running water flooded the hallway instantly.

Bruce moved before the door had even finished swinging open “Damian!"

The bathroom lights were on.

Steam clung faintly to the mirror, blurring its reflection. Water spilled over the edges of the tub in a slow, steady stream dripping onto the tile floor.

Bruce’s eyes went straight to the bathtub, and for a moment—

It looked empty.

Bruce’s heart lurched.

Then he saw it.

𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥.

Pale fingers curled weakly over the edge of the tub, barely visible above the waterline.

“Damian—!”

Bruce crossed the room in two strides. He reached the tub and looked down.

Damian’s body lay completely beneath the water. His dark hair drifted around his face, moving slightly in the current from the still-running faucet.

For half a second Bruce froze.

Then instinct snapped him back into motion “Turn the water off!” Bruce barked.

Tim rushed past him, slamming the faucet closed.

Bruce leaned into the tub, gripping Damian beneath the shoulders and hauling him upward.

Damian’s body was heavy with water, limp in Bruce’s arms.

Bruce pulled him over the side of the tub and lowered him quickly onto the tile floor.

“Damian.”

No response.

Water dripped from Damian’s dark brown hair onto the floor.

His eyes were closed.

Too still.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway.

“What's going on—?”

Duke appeared in the doorway.

He froze.

“Damian—?”

Bruce pressed two fingers against Damian’s neck.

𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Bruce checked again.

𝘚𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭. 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

A cold spike of fear shot through him.

“Bruce?” Tim’s voice cracked.

Bruce didn’t look up.

“He’s not breathing.”

Tim’s breath caught sharply.

Duke went pale "wha–" he cut himself off.

Bruce tilted Damian’s head back carefully, clearing water from his airway before placing one hand over the center of Damian’s chest.

He began compressions.

His hands moved in steady, practiced motions, pressing down firmly against Damian’s chest.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The sound of each compression echoed softly against the tile floor.

Tim watched helplessly.

Duke stepped inside slowly, staring at Damian like he couldn’t process what he was seeing.

“Come on,” Bruce murmured under his breath.

Bruce kept counting silently.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

He leaned down, giving two breaths before immediately returning to compressions.

Damian’s body moved slightly beneath the pressure.

Bruce forced himself not to think about how fragile he felt beneath his hands.

He had done this before.

Too many times.

But never like this.

𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘢𝘯.

Thirty compressions.

Two breaths.

Again.

And again.

Tim’s voice trembled “Dad–” he sobbed.

Bruce didn’t answer.

His focus was locked entirely on the boy lying motionless beneath his hands.

Water pooled around them on the bathroom floor, Bruce’s arms began to burn with the effort, but he ignored it.

Thirty.

Two breaths.

𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

“Come on Damian,” Bruce said hoarsely.

Nothing.

No movement.

No breath.

The seconds stretched painfully long.

Bruce felt something tighten in his chest “Damian.” he said again, more urgently now.

Another cycle.

Another breath.

And then—

Damian’s body jerked suddenly. A weak, choking gasp tore from his throat.

Bruce stopped immediately, rolling him slightly onto his side as Damian coughed violently. Water spilled from his mouth onto the floor.

Tim dropped to his knees beside them “Oh my god—”

Damian gasped again, his breathing uneven and shallow.

Bruce kept one hand on his shoulder “You’re alright,” Bruce said quietly, “You’re alright.”

Duke was still standing near the doorway, shaken.

Damian didn’t respond. His eyes fluttered slightly but didn’t fully open.

He looked exhausted.

Disoriented.

And terribly small.

Tim was still breathing hard beside them.

For a moment none of them spoke. The bathroom was silent except for Damian’s weak breaths.

Bruce looked down at him, something heavy settling in his chest.

The image of the rooftop returned to his mind.

The stillness.

The quiet.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴?

Bruce tightened his grip slightly on Damian’s shoulder “We’ve got you,” he said softly.

Damian didn’t answer.

Bruce barely waited for Damian’s coughing to stop before he acted.

“Tim,” he said sharply, “clear the way to the cave.”

Tim nodded immediately, scrambling to his feet. His sock slipped slightly against the wet tile before he caught himself on the doorframe.

Bruce slid one arm under Damian’s shoulders and another beneath his knees and lifted him.

Damian’s body didn’t resist.

Didn’t react.

He felt frighteningly limp in Bruce’s arms, his head falling against Bruce’s shoulder as Bruce stood.

Damian’s clothes were still soaked through, the fabric cold and heavy. Water dripped steadily from his sleeves onto the floor as Bruce stood. For a moment Bruce adjusted his grip, careful to support Damian’s head where it had fallen loosely against his shoulder.

“Duke,” Bruce said, already moving toward the hallway, “get the medical bay ready.”

Duke blinked once, still staring at Damian like he hadn’t fully processed what had just happened.

Then he nodded quickly and ran.

Bruce stepped into the hallway with long, fast strides. Tim stayed right beside him, glancing constantly at Damian.

“Is he—” Tim started, voice tight.

Bruce shifted Damian slightly, watching his chest.

Damian’s breathing was shallow. Uneven. But it was there “Still breathing,” Bruce said.

Tim let out a shaky breath, though it didn’t sound much like relief.

They moved quickly down the hallway and toward the hidden passage. Bruce pushed the panel open with his shoulder and stepped into the narrow staircase that led down toward the cave.

The air grew cooler as they descended. Damian remained motionless in his arms.

Water continued dripping from his clothes, leaving small marks along the steps behind them.

Halfway down, Damian stirred faintly.

It was barely noticeable, just the smallest shift of movement.

Bruce looked down immediately.

Damian’s eyelids fluttered weakly. Not fully opening.

Just enough to show a sliver of green before they slipped shut again.

“Damian?” Bruce said quietly.

For a moment Bruce thought it had just been a reflex, the kind the body made without real awareness. Damian’s head still rested heavily against his shoulder, his breathing shallow against Bruce’s collarbone.

Then Damian’s brow tightened slightly.

A faint crease formed between his eyebrows, like he was trying to focus through something thick and heavy.

Tim noticed it too “He moved,” Tim whispered quickly, stepping closer.

Bruce slowed without fully stopping on the stairs, shifting his grip slightly to support Damian’s neck better. Water from Damian’s hair continued to drip steadily onto the concrete steps behind them.

“Damian,” Bruce said again, softer this time.

Damian’s lips parted slightly. His breathing caught for a moment, like forming words required more effort than his body wanted to give.

The sound that came out was barely audible.

“..sorry..”

The word was so faint Bruce almost thought he imagined it.

Tim stopped walking completely beside him, staring. For a second the only sound in the narrow stairwell was the quiet drip of water from Damian’s towel hitting the concrete steps.

Bruce stopped completely this time.

The word hung in the cool air of the stairwell.

Damian’s eyelids twitched once more, but they didn’t open again. His head sagged heavier against Bruce’s shoulder as the brief moment of awareness slipped away.

“I didn’t...mean..”

The rest of the sentence faded before it was finished.

Damian’s head slumped heavier against Bruce’s shoulder. His body went completely slack again.

“Damian,” Tim said quickly.

But Damian didn’t respond.

Bruce tightened his hold slightly and kept moving.

The elevator waited at the bottom of the passage. Tim pressed the hidden control and the doors slid open with a quiet mechanical hum.

They stepped inside.

The ride down felt longer than usual. Bruce kept his eyes on Damian the entire time.

His skin was pale.

Too pale for his usual bronze skin.

Water still clung to the strands of his hair, sliding slowly down the side of his face.

Tim stood beside them, staring like he was afraid to look away.

“Dick and Jason should be on their way..” Tim said quietly, as if filling the silence.

Bruce didn’t answer.

The elevator doors opened into the Batcave.

Duke was already at the medical station, pulling equipment from drawers and cabinets. Metal trays clinked softly as he set them down. The bright white lights above the table were already on, casting sharp shadows across the cave floor.

“I’ve got the monitors ready!” Duke called, glancing up as they approached.

Bruce carried Damian straight to the medical table and lowered him carefully onto the surface.

Damian didn’t stir, not even when the cold metal touched his back.

Tim moved immediately to Damian’s side while Duke began attaching sensors with quick, focused movements.

“Heart monitor coming online,” Duke said as he pressed adhesive pads against Damian’s chest.

The screen flickered.

A slow, uneven rhythm appeared.

Tim stared at it “It’s weak,” he said quietly.

Duke clipped a pulse oximeter onto Damian’s finger along with a breathing tube under his nose.

The soft hiss of oxygen filled the medical bay. Damian’s breathing remained shallow but it was steady.

Bruce stood at the edge of the table, watching Damian closely.

There was still no sign of awareness.

Tim brushed Damian’s wet hair away from his forehead, his hand shaking.

“Damian,” he said softly. “Hey...come on.”

No response.

The only sounds in the cave were the quiet machines and Damian’s faint breathing.

Duke glanced at the monitor again “His pulse is stabilizing a little,” he said.

Bruce let out a slow breath.

Some of the tension left his shoulders–but not much.

Damian lay completely still beneath the bright lights of the medical bay, the machines quietly tracking the fragile rhythm of his heart.

Tim stared at the screen.

“He could’ve—”

Tim stopped himself, swallowing hard.

Bruce knew what he had almost said. He could’ve died.

Bruce looked down at Damian again.

At the small rise and fall of his chest. At the machines quietly tracking the fragile rhythm of his heart.
_______________

Tim didn’t remember leaving the Batcave.

One moment he was standing beside the medical table, staring at the slow rise and fall of Damian’s chest, and listening to the steady beeping of the monitors.

The next moment he was halfway up the staircase. The cave door slid shut behind him with a quiet mechanical sound, cutting off the hum of machinery below.

The manor above was silent.

Tim walked a few more steps before stopping in the middle of the hallway.

His hands were shaking.

He hadn’t noticed before.

Now they wouldn’t stop. Tim pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, breathing hard.

The images kept replaying anyway.

The locked door.

The sound of water.

Bruce kicking the door in.

The bathtub.

Empty, god he thought it was 𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘺.

Until Bruce saw Damian’s hand.

Tim swallowed hard. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing down on it, he tried to take a slow breath.

It didn’t work.

Because the moment he closed his eyes again, he saw Damian lying on the bathroom floor.

Still.

Pale.

𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.

Tim’s breath hitched “He was right there,” he whispered hoarsely to the empty hallway.

The words echoed faintly off the high ceiling.

“He was right there and I didn’t see it.” His voice cracked on the last word.

Tim leaned forward slightly, bracing his hands against the wall.

He’d been watching Damian for months.

Watching him train endlessly. Watching him skip meals. Watching him stop sleeping. Watching him disappear into his room for hours at a time. Watching him take those 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘴–

Tim had noticed everything.

Or at least he thought he had, he thought he understood the signs. He thought he was 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨.

But this morning—

This morning Damian had been lying under water just down the hall.

Tim squeezed his eyes shut.

“He was drowning,” Tim whispered. The words sounded unreal even as he said them.“He was drowning in our own house.”

A sound came out of his throat that he couldn’t quite stop, something halfway between a laugh and a sob.

Tim slid down the wall slowly until he was sitting on the floor.

His hands covered his face.

He couldn’t stop shaking now.

“I should’ve checked sooner,” he muttered. The words tumbled out unevenly “I should’ve—I knew something was wrong, I knew it and I still—” His voice broke completely.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Tim didn’t look up.

A moment later someone crouched beside him “Tim.”

Duke’s voice. Quiet and careful.

Tim shook his head quickly, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand “I’m fine,” he said automatically. The lie came out thin and unconvincing.

Duke didn’t call him on it, instead he sat down beside him on the floor.

“Bruce is still with Damian,” Duke said softly. “He’s stable.”

Tim let out a shaky breath “Stable,” he repeated quietly.

The word didn’t feel real.

Duke watched him for a moment. Then he said gently, “You don’t look fine.”

Tim laughed weakly “Yeah,” he said. “No kidding.”

Silence stretched between them for a few seconds.

Tim stared down at his hands “They’re still shaking,” he murmured.

Duke didn’t say anything.

Tim swallowed “I was the one watching him,” he said quietly.

Duke frowned slightly “Tim—”

“I was supposed to notice,” Tim continued, his voice tight. “That was the whole point.”

Duke leaned his elbows on his knees, listening.

Tim stared at the floor “I kept telling everyone something was wrong,” he said. “I called Dick. I called Jason. I told Bruce he wasn’t sleeping. Heck I even called the girls and their in a whole nother country.”

His fingers curled slightly “But I missed the part where he was drowning in the bathtub, I–God how could i not notice. ”

His voice cracked again “He was right there,” Tim whispered “Just down the hall.”

Duke’s expression softened “You didn’t miss it,” Duke said quietly.

Tim shook his head immediately. “I did.”

“You found him.”

Tim froze.

Duke continued gently. “You went to check on him. You heard the water. You called Bruce.”

Tim didn’t answer.

Duke looked at him carefully “If you hadn’t gone in there,” Duke said quietly, “we wouldn’t have found him alive.”

Tim swallowed hard.

The thought made his chest tighten even more “Yeah,” Tim said weakly. “But I almost didn’t.”

Duke’s brow furrowed.

Tim rubbed his face again. “I almost just...walked away,” he admitted quietly. “I thought maybe he was just taking a shower.”

The words sounded terrible once they were out loud.

He chuckled and his shoulders shook slightly “I almost didn’t knock.”

Duke didn’t hesitate.

He reached out and pulled Tim into a quick, firm hug.

Tim stiffened in surprise for a second, then the tension holding him together cracked. He buried his face against Duke’s shoulder as the tears finally came.

“I thought I was helping him,” Tim said shakily.

Duke kept an arm around his shoulders, steady and warm. “You were, you 𝘢𝘳𝘦.”

Tim shook his head against him “I should’ve stopped this,” he whispered.

Duke didn’t try to interrupt him.

“I saw everything,” Tim continued quietly. “The not sleeping. The skipping meals. The way he stopped talking.”

His voice dropped even lower. “I just didn’t realize how bad it was.”

Duke rested his chin lightly against the top of Tim’s head. “That doesn’t mean you failed him.”

Tim didn’t answer right away.

He just focused on breathing.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Eventually the shaking in his hands started to ease.

Duke didn’t let go, and the hallway remained quiet around them.

Finally Tim spoke again “He said something,” Tim murmured.

Duke glanced down slightly “What?”

Tim lifted his head. “When Bruce was carrying him to the cave.”

His voice was quieter now. “He said that he was...sorry.”

Duke’s expression shifted.

Tim stared down at the floor again. “Like this was his fault.”

Duke tightened his arm slightly around Tim’s shoulders.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Then Duke said quietly, “He’s still here.”

Tim nodded slowly “Yeah.” He wiped his eyes again.
_______________

Bruce stayed sitting beside Damian, his hands still resting lightly on the boy’s shoulders. The monitors beeped steadily now, a quiet reassurance that his body had stabilized, but his chest still tightened with every shallow rise and fall of Damian’s lungs. The water from the bathroom had left damp streaks along the Batcave floor and on Damian’s hair, darkening the strands that clung to his pale forehead.

Bruce had helped him into a dry blanket earlier, but the boy’s arms were still thin, limp at his sides, and his chest rose with the effort of simply being alive.

He blinked, and Damian’s eyelids fluttered. Bruce froze. One slow, ragged inhale, and then the faintest exhale. His eyes opened slightly, glassy and disoriented, focusing somewhere beyond the Batcave, past Bruce.

“Damian..” Bruce said softly, leaning closer so his voice didn’t startle him. “Can you hear me?”

The boy’s lips moved, almost inaudibly. Bruce tilted his ear.

Damian whispered something, his voice was barely more than a breath, rasping, likely because he’d been underwater too long.

Bruce gently squeezed his shoulder.

Damian’s eyes half-closed again, head dipping slightly. His breath was uneven, shallow. “You...shouldn’t have..”

“No,” Bruce murmured “don't say that. I would never leave you.” He lowered his hand to Damian’s trembling fingers and wrapped his own around them, holding them lightly but firmly. The weight of life pressed against him—against them both and Bruce wanted to make sure Damian could feel that he wasn’t alone.

“sorry..” Damian whispered next. His voice cracked, fragile as glass.

Bruce leaned in, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead, letting his fingers linger a moment to offer warmth and reassurance. “It’s okay,” he whispered “Everything's going to be okay "

Damian’s eyelids fluttered again, heavy, and his body went slack. Bruce caught the moment before he slipped fully back into unconsciousness. He held his hand, feeling the slight tremor in Damian’s fingers, small and fragile. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Damian’s forehead, careful not to startle him.

The boy’s chest rose faintly under the blanket, small breaths now more even than before. Bruce remained still, holding his hand, brushing his fingers across Damian’s knuckles, offering what little comfort he could. In the quiet of the Batcave, the hum of machinery around them, the faint whirl of computers, and the soft pings of monitors, Bruce stayed vigilant.

He spoke quietly to him, even though Damian was unconscious. “You’re safe. Nothing is going to hurt you here. I’m not going anywhere.” His voice was soft, unshakable, the only steady thing in the storm of panic that had roared through the manor this morning. “Just breathe. That’s all I need you to do. Just breathe.”

Bruce noticed every detail. Damian’s fingers curling weakly in his hand, the faint tension in his jaw, the subtle twitch of his eyelashes. Even here, after everything, he was small, vulnerable. Bruce’s chest ached, a quiet, gnawing pain.

The idea that if he had been mere moments too late before, that Damian could have been gone, sat heavily on him. He pressed the boy’s hand lightly, as if holding it harder could somehow squeeze away the danger.

Minutes stretched, long and endless. Bruce stayed kneeling, unmoving, watching for any sign that Damian’s body might falter again. His eyes followed the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s chest, noting the slow rhythm, the steady pace.

He spoke again, quieter this time, words for him even if he couldn’t respond. “You’re safe. You’re going to be okay. I’m right here. Always right here.”

He brushed a finger along Damian’s temple, then over the curve of his hairline, careful, deliberate. A small, loving gesture–something only to remind him that he wasn’t alone in the world, even when he felt like he didn’t deserve to be.

Bruce’s lips pressed again softly against Damian’s forehead, a silent vow of protection, an acknowledgment of the fragility of the life in front of him.The boy’s lips twitched slightly, a small exhale escaping, almost like acknowledgment.

Bruce leaned back just a fraction, his forehead brushing against the edge of the blanket, still holding his hand. The weight of the morning pressed on him, the adrenaline fading into a quiet exhaustion, but he did not release Damian. Not yet. He couldn’t. Not when each breath was so precious.

For the first time since the morning’s chaos, Bruce allowed himself to feel the fear that had been coiled in his chest. The fear that Damian could have been gone. The fear that he had almost failed. He swallowed it down, focusing instead on the warmth of the boy beneath his hands, the faint pulse in his wrist that reminded him that Damian was still here.

Time passed differently in the Batcave when moments were so raw. Bruce didn’t move. He spoke sometimes, softly, sometimes simply let the silence fill the space with reassurance. He traced the lines of Damian’s hand with his thumb, smoothing over the tremble in a gesture of intimacy and care.

“I know it’s scary,” he whispered. “I know you don’t feel like you belong sometimes. But you do. You belong right here, with 𝘮𝘦, with 𝘢𝘭𝘭 of us. You’re not alone. Not ever.”

Damian’s eyelids twitched again, but he didn’t open them. His chest rose, steady now, and his fingers pressed lightly against Bruce’s. Bruce bent closer, pressing another soft kiss to the top of his head. Even small, fleeting gestures mattered here, a reminder that the boy was not defined by fear or failure.

The minutes stretched. The Batcave remained quiet. Bruce stayed, sitting on a hard chair beside the medical table, never letting go. Sometimes he would whisper, sometimes he would just watch, his hands on Damian’s, the boy’s small body under the blanket a fragile anchor to his world.

He didn’t move when the first morning light filtered faintly through the cracks of the Batcave ceiling. He didn’t move when the monitors softly beeped, keeping time with Damian’s breath. He didn’t move until he was certain the boy would not slip again, not in that moment, not while Bruce was here.

Each time Damian stirred slightly, Bruce responded with careful, quiet reassurances. His hand never left Damian’s, brushing against hair, pressing lightly on shoulders, offering warmth. Each small gesture–soft kisses, the touch of fingers, the quiet words–was a promise that he would always be there, no matter what.

And for now, that was enough. Damian’s shallow breaths, his fragile whisperings, his trembling fingers—they were all Bruce could hold onto, and he did so completely.

A quiet, steady presence, patient and protective, a living shield against the dark that had nearly claimed the boy that morning.

“Not yet,” Bruce murmured to himself as much as to Damian. “Not yet. You’re not going yet. You’re going to be alright.”

The Batcave was quiet around them, the hum of life and technology filling the empty space. Bruce held Damian’s hand tightly, pressed a final soft kiss to his forehead, and settled in beside him, unwavering, until the boy would wake fully.

Until he was truly safe.
_______________

Tim was still sitting on the floor when he heard it.

At first he thought he imagined it. The manor was so quiet that every small sound carried–floorboards shifting, pipes settling, the distant hum of electricity in the walls.

But this sound was different.

Low and mechanical.

A car engine cutting through the silence outside.

Tim lifted his head slowly.

Duke felt it too. His arm was still around Tim’s shoulders, steady and grounding, but his head turned slightly toward the front of the manor.

They both listened.

A car door slammed.

The sound echoed across the quiet grounds outside the manor.

Tim’s head snapped toward the front of the house. For a moment he didn’t move, listening as another door opened and shut. Gravel crunched under heavy footsteps.

Someone was already moving quickly toward the front entrance.

Tim’s stomach dropped.

“They’re early,” Duke said quietly.

Tim wiped quickly at his face with the sleeve of his shirt, even though he knew it wouldn’t do much. His eyes were still red and his breathing was still uneven.

Footsteps echoed faintly through the front hall.

Fast.

Purposeful.

“Bruce?” Dick’s voice.

Sharp with concern. It carried easily through the manor.

“Bruce!”

Another voice followed immediately after, rougher. “Anyone gonna answer us or—” Jason stopped when he turned the corner.

He saw them.

Tim sitting on the floor with Duke beside him.

Both of them pale.

Both of them looking like they hadn’t slept in days.

Jason’s expression changed instantly. The casual irritation dropped out of his face like a switch had flipped.

His eyes moved over Tim’s face.

The red around his eyes. The tear tracks still visible on his cheeks. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Jason’s expression hardened slightly, not with anger at Tim, but with the kind of quiet understanding that meant something had gone very, very wrong.

Jason’s voice came out quieter. More serious. “What happened?”

Dick was already moving toward them, boots echoing across the floor. “Where’s Damian?” he asked immediately.

Tim’s throat tightened.

The question hit harder than it should hhave Duke’s arm shifted slightly on Tim’s shoulder, a silent encouragement.

Tim forced himself to stand. His legs felt weak.

Dick stopped a few feet away from him. “Tim,” he said carefully. “Where is he?”

Tim opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Jason frowned, stepping closer. “Tim.” he said, sharper now. “What happened?”

Tim swallowed hard. “He’s in the Batcave.”

Dick’s expression tightened instantly. “What?”

“He’s stable,” Duke added quickly.

Jason’s head snapped toward him. “Stable?”

The word came out like it didn’t belong in the same sentence.

Tim’s hands started shaking again.

Duke noticed immediately, Jason noticed too.

Jason’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’ve been crying,” he said.

Not a question. A statement.

Tim looked away.

Jason’s jaw tightened “What happened,” he repeated.

Tim took a slow breath. Then another.

The words felt heavy in his chest, like if he said them out loud they would become more real than they already were.

“This morning,” Tim started quietly, “I went to check on him.”

Dick didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Jason.

“I thought he was still asleep,” Tim continued. “But he wasn’t in his room.”

Jason crossed his arms slowly.

Tim’s voice faltered slightly. “His bathroom door was locked.”

Dick’s expression shifted.

Jason went completely still.

“I could hear water running,” Tim said.

The hallway seemed to go quiet around them.

“I knocked,” Tim continued. His voice was getting tighter. “He didn’t answer.”

Jason uncrossed his arms.

Tim rubbed his hands together like he couldn’t keep them still. “So I called Bruce.”

Jason took a slow step forward. “And?”

Tim’s throat felt dry. “Bruce broke the door down.”

Dick’s face had gone pale.

Jason stared at him “And?” he repeated quietly.

Tim forced the words out “He was in the bathtub.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Tim looked down at the floor. “He was underwater.”

Jason sucked in a sharp breath.

Dick didn’t move.

Tim’s voice cracked slightly. “He wasn’t breathing.”

Jason turned away immediately. Like he needed space.

“Bruce pulled him out,” Tim said quickly. “He started CPR and—”

Jason started pacing.

Fast, restless steps that carried him from one side of the hallway to the other. His boots struck the floor harder than necessary, echoing through the quiet house.

He dragged a hand through his hair, frustration written clearly across his face.

“–and he got him breathing again.” Tim finished quietly.

Dick finally spoke. "..Bruce had to do CPR?”

Dick’s voice had gone quiet, like the words themselves were hard to say.

Tim nodded.

Jason ran a hand through his hair again, harshly. “Jesus–”

He kept pacing, faster now.

“Where the hell were we?” he muttered.

“Jason—” Dick started.

Jason cut him off immediately. “I should’ve been here.” His voice was sharp. Frustrated. Angry. “With him.”

Dick watched him.

Jason kept pacing. “I knew something was wrong,” Jason said. “Tim literally called. Said the kid wasn’t sleeping, said he was acting weird.”

He looked at the floor. “And I still didn’t get here fast enough.”

“You couldn’t have known—” Duke started.

Jason turned toward him. “He was drowning in his own house.” The words came out harsh.

Then Jason’s shoulders dropped slightly. His voice lowered. "..our house.”

Silence again.

Dick looked back at Tim. “Is he conscious?”

Tim shook his head. “No.”

Dick didn’t hesitate, he turned immediately toward the hallway that led to the Batcave entrance. “I’m going down there.”

Jason stopped pacing. He looked toward the same hallway.

Then back at Tim. “Bruce is with him?” he asked.

Tim nodded.

“Yeah.”

Jason exhaled slowly.

Then he followed Dick. Neither of them said anything else.

Tim watched them disappear down the hallway.

The hidden entrance to the Batcave slid open.

Then closed behind them.

Dick didn’t slow down as he descended the stairs.

The hidden entrance had barely finished sliding closed behind them before he was already moving down the stone steps that led to the Batcave. His footsteps echoed sharply in the narrow passage, quick and uneven in a way Jason rarely heard from him.

Jason followed a few steps behind.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence between them wasn’t comfortable–it was tight, heavy with everything Tim had just said.

𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳.

Jason clenched his jaw as they reached the bottom of the staircase. The cave opened in front of them, dim lights reflecting off the black water below, computers humming quietly across the far platform.

Then Dick spotted the medical bay. And Bruce.

He was sitting beside the medical table, shoulders slightly hunched forward, one hand wrapped firmly around Damian’s.

Dick’s chest tightened.

Damian lay completely still beneath a gray blanket, the bright lights of the medbay casting pale shadows across his face. His skin looked almost too pale against the dark strands of hair that clung damply to his forehead.

Thin wires ran from his chest to the monitor beside the table.

A slow, steady rhythm blinked across the screen.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound echoed softly through the cavern, steady and mechanical. In the vast space of the Batcave it felt strangely small, like the fragile rhythm was fighting to be heard against the quiet hum of the computers and the distant drip of water from the cave ceiling.

Dick found himself staring at the monitor longer than he meant to, watching each line rise and fall across the screen.
Every beep meant Damian was still here.

Still breathing.

Still alive.

Jason was right, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘳.

Dick started walking again, slower now. Jason followed beside him.

Bruce looked up when he heard them approaching.

For a split second something like relief flickered across his face, but it vanished quickly, replaced by the quiet controlled focus he always wore when things were serious.

“You’re here,” Bruce said quietly.

Dick didn’t answer immediately. He stopped beside the table and finally looked at Damian properly.

Up close, the details were worse. His lips were slightly pale and his eyelashes rested against his cheeks like he was sleeping–but there was something wrong about the stillness of it.

Dick reached out instinctively, brushing a hand lightly over Damian’s hair "..How long has he been out?” he asked softly.

“About forty minutes since we brought him down,” Bruce replied.

Jason moved to the other side of the table, his eyes scanning the monitors quickly. Heart rate. Oxygen levels. Breathing.

Everything looked...stable.

𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. Jason hated that word right now.

“He’s still out” Jason muttered.

Bruce nodded “He woke briefly,” he said.

Dick’s head lifted immediately. “When?”

“Earlier.”

Bruce’s hand tightened slightly around Damian’s. “He was disoriented.”

Dick leaned closer. “What did he say?”

Bruce was quiet for a moment.

Then he answered. “He...apologized.”

Jason froze.

Dick looked up sharply.

“For what?” Jason asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

Bruce’s eyes shifted toward Damian again. “For causing trouble.”

The words hung in the air like a weight.

Jason stared at Bruce for a moment like he hadn’t heard him correctly.

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦.

The words replayed in his head, sharp and unbelievable.

Damian had been unconscious on a medical table, hooked to monitors, barely breathing an hour ago and somehow the kid still thought he was the one who had done something wrong.

Jason looked back down at him. Damian looked smaller like this, lying still under the blanket, the usual stubborn tension gone from his face.

It made Jason’s chest feel tight in a way he didn’t like.

He ran a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Dick’s expression softened painfully. “He said that?”

Bruce nodded once.

Jason started pacing. Not far—just a few steps back and forth beside the medbay.

“He almost died,” Jason said quietly, anger simmering under every word. “And the first thing he does is apologize?”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Jason stopped pacing suddenly and looked at Damian again. “I bet he said something stupid like 'you shouldn't have saved me',” Jason muttered bitterly, ”Idiot."

Dick brushed Damian’s hair back gently from his forehead.

The boy didn’t stir.

“He’s cold,” he murmured.

Bruce nodded. “He’ll warm up.”

Jason walked closer again.

He looked down at Damian for a long moment. "..Kid scared the hell out of everyone,” he muttered.

Bruce’s grip on Damian’s hand didn’t loosen. “I know.”

Jason crossed his arms, staring down at the medical table. “..He gonna wake up again soon?”

Bruce looked at the monitor.

Then at Damian. “Yes.” His voice carried quiet certainty.

Dick pulled a chair closer to the table and sat down beside Bruce, one hand resting lightly near Damian’s shoulder as if he was afraid that moving too far away might somehow make things worse.

Jason leaned back against the edge of the nearby console, arms crossed but eyes never leaving the medical table.

Bruce remained exactly where he was, still holding Damian’s hand.

The cave stayed quiet except for the steady rhythm of the monitor.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Damian still hadn’t opened his eyes.
_______________

Damian didn’t wake all at once.

Consciousness returned slowly, like drifting upward through deep water.

At first there was nothing but darkness. Not the kind of darkness that existed when lights were turned off, but something heavier. Thicker. A quiet that pressed in on every side, muffling thought and sensation alike.

For a long time he floated there, or at least it felt like floating.

His body didn’t seem to exist in any meaningful way. There was no sense of movement, no sense of time passing. Just the dull awareness that something–somewhere–still held him tethered.

The first thing that broke through was sound.

Faint and distant but a soft, steady rhythm.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound was mechanical, regular, almost gentle. It pulsed somewhere nearby, repeating itself with patient consistency.

Damian didn’t understand what it meant.
Not at first.

His mind moved sluggishly, thoughts slow and heavy, as if every idea had to fight through layers of fog before reaching the surface.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound continued.

Something about it felt familiar. Important.

But the meaning slipped away before he could grasp it.

Then came another sensation.

Warmth. It rested lightly against his hand.
The feeling was small but unmistakable, a steady pressure, it was fingers curled loosely around his own.

Damian’s mind struggled to process it.

Someone was holding his hand.

The realization drifted through his thoughts slowly, like a leaf floating across still water.

He tried to move his fingers, nothing happened. The effort itself felt distant, as though the command had traveled from far away but never quite reached its destination.

The warmth didn’t disappear.

Whoever was there didn’t let go.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The sound continued to echo softly through the darkness.

Gradually, other sensations began to return.
Weight.

His body felt heavy, like it was resting against something firm beneath him.

A faint tightness lingered in his chest, dull and persistent. Breathing felt strange—too shallow, too deliberate, as if his lungs were working harder than they should.

Each breath came slowly.

In..

Out..

In..

Out..

The rhythm was clumsy, uneven. Damian didn’t like the feeling.

He tried to move his hand again, but nothing happened.

His thoughts stirred uneasily.

Something was wrong.

That awareness hovered just beyond full comprehension, unsettling in its presence.
Fragments of memory drifted closer, like shapes beneath cloudy water.

A bathroom.

The sound of running water.

The smooth curve of porcelain against his back.

The silence of the room.

Damian’s mind recoiled slightly, the images dissolved before they could fully form.

Another sound broke through the haze.

Voices. Soft and low. They echoed somewhere nearby, distorted and distant, like hearing people speak through thick walls.

“..still unconscious.”
“..stable..”
“ ..breathing..”

The words were difficult to understand.
They blurred together, slipping in and out of clarity before fading again.

Damian tried to focus, and he tried to listen. But the effort made his head feel heavier.

Another voice spoke.

Quieter.

“..he’ll wake up.” Something about that voice felt familiar and safe.

His mind tugged weakly toward the sound, but the connection refused to settle into place.

The warmth around his hand shifted slightly.

A thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. The movement was small, almost absentminded, yet the contact remained steady.

Whoever it was hadn’t moved away. A strange feeling crept into Damian’s chest.

Confusion.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥?

The question drifted through his thoughts slowly.

Then another followed close behind.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦..?

The idea came quietly. Not with panic or urgency, but with the dull acceptance of something inevitable.

Damian tried to remember.

The bathroom. The water.

He remembered lowering himself into the tub, the water rising slowly around him and the cold silence that followed.

The decision had been simple then.

Clear.

The house had been quiet. Everyone asleep, there were no interruptions and no expectations. Just stillness.

He had thought about it for a long time before.

About how tired he was. About how heavy everything felt. About how much easier it would be if he simply...stopped.

The memory sharpened slightly.

He remembered the moment he had leaned back, letting the water close over his face. The silence beneath the surface. The strange calm that followed.

And then nothing.

The memory ended there.

Damian’s thoughts grew heavier again. If that was the last thing he remembered..

Then why was he here?

The question lingered in the dark space of his mind.

Why had it stopped? 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱.

The warmth around his hand shifted again.
Someone squeezing his fingers gently. The motion was reassuring and protective.

Damian didn’t understand it.

He didn’t deserve that kind of attention.

The realization formed slowly but firmly.

𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯.

The thought settled into his chest like a weight.

Of course someone had found him.

Of course they had interfered.

They 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 did.

Damian’s mind drifted uneasily.

He could almost hear Father’s voice again.

Disappointed. Controlled. Measured.

The same way it always sounded when Damian failed to meet expectations.

Except this time the failure was worse. This time he had forced everyone to deal with the consequences.

The voices nearby shifted again.

“..heart rate’s steady.”
“..just needs time.”

The words reached him faintly before fading once more.

Damian wanted to disappear back into the quiet darkness. The place where thoughts moved slowly and nothing demanded anything from him.

But the warmth around his hand refused to fade.

Whoever was there remained steady.

Present and waiting.

The steady rhythm continued.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Damian’s breathing felt heavier now. Each inhale dragged through his chest with uncomfortable effort.

A dull ache lingered beneath his ribs. His throat felt dry.

Everything felt wrong.

He didn’t understand why they had brought him back.

The thought returned again.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘨𝘰?

He would have slipped away quietly.

There would have been no more arguments, no more disappointment, no more expectations he couldn’t live up to.

The family would have been better without the constant strain he brought with him.

Without the mistakes. Without the silence he had filled the house with for months.

The idea felt painfully obvious, Damian couldn’t understand why no one else seemed to see it.

His thoughts slowed again.

Drifting in circles.

He became aware of another sensation. Soft fabric beneath his fingers, a blanket.
Someone had covered him.

Another gesture he didn’t deserve.

The warmth of the hand holding his own never left.

Whoever it was remained patient.

Damian tried once more to move his fingers.

This time something happened. A faint twitch, so small it barely registered but it was there.

The hand around his tightened slightly.

A reaction.

The movement must have been noticed. A voice spoke close by.

“..Damian?”

The sound stirred something deep inside him. Recognition.

But his mind couldn’t quite reach it.

Everything felt too heavy.

Too distant.

He tried to open his eyes, the effort barely worked. Light flickered faintly against his eyelids before fading again.

The darkness closed back in.

Exhaustion pulled at him. Stronger now.

Dragging him downward again toward the quiet place where thoughts moved slowly and nothing hurt quite as much.

Damian didn’t fight it.

The darkness pulled at him again, heavy and quiet, like deep water closing overhead.

His thoughts were already fading, slipping away one by one as exhaustion dragged him under.

His last clear thought before the darkness took him again was simple.

They shouldn’t have saved him.

He hadn’t meant to cause so much trouble.
_______________

When he woke again his awareness returned slowly, like the first weak light of dawn spilling through a long, endless night.

At first there was nothing. Just darkness, dense and heavy, pressing in around him. His body felt impossibly weightless, or maybe impossibly heavy–he couldn’t tell which. There was no sense of time, no sense of space, only a vague sensation of being held, tethered to something that existed beyond the edges of his foggy mind.

Then came sound.

Soft, steady, and distant at first, like something just beyond the reach of his consciousness. Beep. Beep. Beep. The medbay monitor, always repeating, always patient. A rhythm that somehow mattered, even if he couldn’t remember why. His chest ached faintly, each breath pulling through him with effort. Something was off–wrong, but the sharp panic he had felt earlier hadn’t returned yet.

Warmth touched him.

It started small, just a pressure against his hand. Fingers curled loosely around his own.

Someone was holding his hand.

Damian’s foggy mind registered it slowly, the concept of touch sinking in like a distant echo finally reaching the surface. He tried to move, to shift, but his body resisted, weighed down by lingering weakness. The hand didn’t let go. The warmth stayed, steady and patient.

He became aware of a soft presence fully beside him, not just near him, but lying close enough that he could feel the rise and fall of another chest against the mattress. Tim.

His mind blinked in disbelief. Tim. Here. Fully beside him. Reading. Calmly reading.

The words reached him in broken fragments through the haze. Tim’s voice was soft, even, careful. “..and when the wind whipped across the rooftops, the shadows seemed to stretch longer than the night itself..” Damian didn’t understand the story, didn’t even remember the words after a few seconds, but he didn’t care. The rhythm of the voice, steady and familiar, grounded him in a way that nothing else had in a long time.

He reached out instinctively. His fingers found the fabric of Tim’s shirt–arm, side, sleeve, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 within reach–and he gripped it. Just a light hold at first, almost unconscious. But the contact anchored him. It reminded him that he was not alone. That someone had come for him. That someone stayed.

Tim paused for only a brief moment, felt the movement, then continued reading in the same quiet, gentle tone. Damian inched slightly closer, drawing himself nearer to the warmth beside him. His body was weak, trembling, but his need to stay connected outweighed every ounce of fatigue. He pressed against Tim, half-draping over him, letting the security of that presence seep into him like water through dry soil.

The bed was enormous, more space than Damian had ever needed, yet in this moment he craved only to be pressed into the steady weight of Tim beside him. He felt the faint scent of Tim’s hoodie, the subtle heat radiating from his body, and the soft hum of calmness that surrounded him.

Damian’s mind wandered in small fragments. The bathtub. The water. The locked door. The panic and the helplessness. Each memory tugged at him, heavy and sharp, but the warmth of Tim’s presence softened it, blurred the edges of the fear that had clawed at him so fiercely just hours–maybe even days ago.

His hand tightened slightly on Tim’s shirt. He drew himself closer without thinking, and in the quiet medbay, the world shrank to two bodies and the faint beeping of the monitor beside him.

Tim’s voice, reading from the book in his lap, continued, steady and unbroken. "..and he realized that sometimes the smallest light could illuminate the darkest corner..”

Damian’s eyes fluttered open slightly, just enough to see the dim outlines of the room. Shadows clung to the edges, cast by the medbay lights overhead, and for a moment, he didn’t register anything beyond Tim. Tim’s face, calm and gentle, and the quiet patience in the way he continued speaking. Damian’s heart clenched with a pang of relief he couldn’t name.

He tried to speak but found his throat dry, weak. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, he clung tighter to the fabric under his fingers, pressing himself just a little closer. The small, steady pressure was enough to communicate what his voice could not: 𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦.

Tim’s hand shifted, the one resting lightly over Damian’s, thumb brushing across the back of his hand. The gesture was small but precise, deliberate in its quiet reassurance. Damian relaxed slightly against it, letting himself trust the presence beside him.

Tim’s calm voice and steady presence kept the terror at bay. Damian’s body, still weak, didn’t protest as he rested against Tim, hand still gripping the fabric near his shoulder.

Slowly, fragmented thoughts crept into Damian’s mind. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥. His thoughts faltered, then twisted into heavy guilt. He hadn’t wanted to survive the morning, yet now he found himself clinging to life not with fear, but with a fragile need to stay close to the one who had stayed by his side.

Tim’s voice carried on, soft and rhythmic. “..and in that moment, he realized that courage wasn’t the absence of fear, but the decision to move forward despite it..” Damian’s heavy eyelids flickered again.

The story didn’t matter. It was the cadence, the comfort, the unspoken promise in Tim’s presence that held him.

He shifted again, nudging himself closer, letting his forehead rest near Tim’s shoulder. The movement was subtle but deliberate. His hand remained curled around the fabric, a lifeline anchoring him to this world. He felt safe in a way he rarely allowed himself to feel, wrapped in the warmth and patience of someone who didn’t demand words, didn’t demand explanations, just simply 𝘸𝘢𝘴.

The weight of exhaustion pressed against him again, threatening to drag him back under, but Damian didn’t resist completely. He let himself sink slightly into the comfort, hand still holding, body pressed close. He allowed a small, fleeting thought to slip through: 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬, 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦– 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦– his breath hitched.

Tim’s voice shifted slightly, pausing, as he noticed the faint change in Damian’s breathing. “Hey...that’s alright,” he murmured softly, not looking down fully, not breaking the flow of the reading. “Just breathe.”

Damian’s fingers flexed against the fabric in response, a weak but conscious acknowledgment. He let himself settle closer, forehead brushing Tim’s arm now, eyes half-closed.

Minutes stretched without measurement, unbroken by conversation, filled only by the quiet voice and the gentle touch. Damian drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, comforted by proximity and patience. His thoughts meandered in fragments, guilt fading slightly with each inhale and exhale. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, but his grip tightened subtly once more, drawing himself closer in silent plea.

Tim’s hand moved to rest gently on the line between Damian’s hair and forehead, thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles. The small, repetitive motion communicated a silent promise: 𝘐’𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦.

Damian let his body relax further into the contact. The dark, heavy thoughts of the morning and the guilt softened under the weight of that care.

He felt the faint pressure of a heart nearby, steady and warm. He felt Tim shift slightly to accommodate him, offering more space and warmth. And Damian, exhausted and overwhelmed, finally allowed himself to surrender to it. He pressed closer, hand still gripping, forehead resting gently.

For the first time since that morning, he didn’t feel the need to hide anything. He didn’t push away the care offered. He didn’t fight the gentle insistence of presence.

The last thought that lingered before his consciousness drifted again was quiet, almost lost: 𝘔𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦...𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸.

And for a moment, Damian was still, held in a warmth that didn’t demand, didn’t question, only supported.