Chapter Text
Tim knows he has the tendency to hallucinate– he spends countless nights awake, and usually by hour 48, he’s grown accustomed to the shadows he sees in his peripheral vision.
What he didn't expect to see however, was Damian coming into the kitchen dead at night, raiding the cabinets like a raccoon.
He stops and stares, and Damian pays him no mind as he takes out a bowl of cereal of fruit loops, a bagel slice with strawberry cream cheese, and just when Tim thinks he’s done– Damian walks back and takes out a whole tub of marshmallow fluff.
Huh. One of the weirdest hallucinations he’s had, indeed.
–
There were numerous reasons Damian had decided to start experimenting with the medicinal herb known as marijuana.
Cannabis. Ganja. Pot. Grass. Weed. The good old Mary Jane.
Whatever name people wanted to give it, the substance hadn’t been difficult to obtain.
Damian was fifteen years old, living in Gotham, and had more access to drugs than most pharmacies. That wasn’t even counting the assortment of opioids sitting in the medicine cabinets– medications he strongly suspected were acquired through less legal means, but it’s not like he particularly cared.
At the very least it was light years better than some of the traditional remedies his grandfather had him taking while living in the League. To this day, Damian still shudders at the thought of chewing raw ginseng root. He’s thankful his mother had caught up to modern medicine.
The first time he tried weed had been at– surprise– a high school party. Normally, Damian would rather rip out his fingernails than attend one– but unfortunately, his father was still holding out hope Damian would be able to have a “normal teenage experience.” Whatever that meant.
After enduring one lecture too many, he relented, if only to stop hearing about it. So, when some rich idiot whose name Damian had immediately forgotten, invited him over, he’d accepted. Now, he had the excuse I tried, and it was a fairly solid one.
But then the room he’d been occupying to escape the party was abruptly filled with teenagers. He considered leaving, but the newcomers had effectively blocked the doorway. One of them produced a bong from seemingly out of nowhere and began lighting up. Within minutes, the room had devolved into a haze of smoke and giggling. The bong made its rounds through the group until, for reasons Damian still couldn’t comprehend, it ended up in his hands alongside a lighter.
Everyone looked at him expectantly, and well, there was no better “normal teenage experience” than this. Damian copied what he’d seen the others do, a slight burn in his throat as he did so.
A boy beside him raised an eyebrow– someone he vaguely recognized was in his gym class. “Didn’t know you were chill like that.”
Damian shrugged. Neither did he.
The bong continued around the room, Damian knew that later on he’d be revolted at the germs spreading around but as the minutes passed by, he began noticing the effects. There was a pleasant warmth spread through his limbs, his fingertips tingling, his thoughts felt slower– hazy in a way, but it wasn’t an awful feeling.
More surprisingly of it all was what happened to the pain. It was to no surprise that years of training, injuries, being Robin, the metal spine, that the aching in his body never truly disappears. Now, it had receded into a distant buzz. The constant tension underneath his skin– the instinct that was always ready for danger had quieted.
There was no mistaking it. Damian felt… relaxed. It was incredible.
When the party finally ended and he returned to the manor, Damian collapsed into the mattress. The next thing he knew, sunlight peered through his window and throughout the entire night he wasn’t awoken by nightmares, or waking up every few hours, no– he awoke feeling rested.
It was the best sleep of his life.
–
The experience quickly became a habit. Damian experimented with numerous methods of consumption. He went from prerolls to edibles– and quickly learned he would never forget his first brownie. Specifically, the mistake of assuming that one entire brownie was a reasonable serving size.
Half an hour passed of Damian assuming that it was a dud, and then it hit him. One moment he was sitting at his desk. The next he was sprawled across his bed in a starfish position, staring blankly at the ceiling while his brain felt like it was being fried. His limbs felt heavy, and he remembers reaching for his phone and putting in his headphones and playing music to distract him from the fact that he was getting even more high by the second. The song bled into his ears and he never noticed that there was a chorus of piano in the song. He felt as though he was melting into his bed.
The ordeal lasted for hours, and for a brief period Damian seriously considered never getting high again.
Fortunately, he learned. After that, like a responsible up and coming stoner, he learned proper dosages, different strains, ways to minimize smell and avoid detection.
Discretion was of the utmost importance. It wasn’t as though he could openly discuss this newfound habit with his family– his father is Batman, Grayson’s a police officer, Drake’s an asshole, and while Todd had undoubtedly encountered substances far stronger than weed during his years on the streets, Damian suspected he would react very poorly to the discovery that someone was selling drugs to underage teenagers.
So he kept it to himself, the secrecy was annoying, but the good far outweighed the bad. His pain lessened, his sleep improved drastically, and his mind felt quiet.
Tim’s senses were tingling. Something was wrong with Damian. Not that Tim usually devoted that much attention to his youngest brother. Usually, that responsibility falls onto Dick– who possesses the patience only the eldest could handle.
Still. Something was extremely off– it wasn’t that Damian was picking fights, or that he was antagonizing everyone, or slipping Benadryl into his tea– no. The problem was that he wasn’t doing any of those things.
…Aside from putting Benadryl in Tim’s tea.
Damian had been calmer lately. He sat through briefings without clicking his tongue, when Bruce assigned him something, he would nod and do it. When Tim would make a jabbing comment, Damian rolled his eyes instead of throwing a dagger at his head. It was unnatural and Tim didn’t trust it.
“You know,” Jason said from his seat, cleaning one of his guns, “most people would call this him growing up. He has mellowed out over the years, Timbo.”
Tim wasn’t convinced. “Damian and mellow shouldn’t even be allowed in the same sentence.”
“See, this is why nobody likes you.”
Tim ignores him. He’s mentally reviewed the past few weeks, there hadn’t been any major fights, any injuries, or even a family confrontation. Had something happened on patrol? Had Bruce said something? Was Damian secretly plotting something? There’s no way Damian randomly woke up one day and decided to become emotionally stable.
“Do you think he’s depressed?” Tim asked suddenly.
“Shit, who isn’t depressed living in this fuckin’ family?” Jason didn’t even look up from his gun.
Tim groaned. “You're not helping.”
Jason finally sets the gun down and looks at him . “Who the hell sees somebody acting better and immediately jumps to depression?”
To that, Tim has no response.
Jason pointed at him. “Yeah, thought so.” Jason says, a tinge of smugness in his tone. “He’s gotten older, you can’t expect him to be the same ten year old kid forever.”
Tim lets out a disbelieving laugh. “The same ten year old who almost murdered me in this very cave? Forgive me if I’m a little apprehensive.”
Jason shrugged. “Pretty sure all of us have tried to kill each other at least once.”
“That’s not reassuring.” Tim deadpans.
“Wasn’t supposed to be.” Jason grinned. “Hey. Maybe the third time’s the charm.”
“You’re an awful person.”
“Yeah,” Jason agrees easily. “But I’m not the one who’s launching a conspiracy investigation because my little brother started being nice.”
Tim hates how Jason somehow always made him sound like the unreasonable one.
Dick tries not to obsess over his siblings, tries being the operative word. Because, unfortunately, years of experience had taught him that leaving any member of his family unsupervised for an extended period of time often resulted in catastrophic events.
As the self-appointed glue holding his family together, Dick has reluctantly accepted that monitoring everyone’s wellbeing was part of the job description. Not that he could trust Bruce to do it.
When Dick finally dragged himself back to the manor after a particularly brutal month of police work, paperwork, and being Nightwing, he noticed something strange. Damian was lounging on the couch, he wasn’t studying or training– no instead a sketchbook rested on his lap, music quietly leaked from his headphones, and one leg was stretched across the cushions while the other hung off the edge of the sofa. He looked, in simpler words, comfortable.
A tiny alarm bell rang in the back of his head, there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with what he was seeing. Damian had been through a lot lately, and seeing him unwind should have been a good thing. Still, the sight feels…unfamiliar.
Dick dismissed the feeling as paranoia, he’s had a long month.
“Hey, Dami,” Dick said as he leaned over from behind the couch.
Damian glances up, and pulls one headphone away from his ear and…smiles. It wasn’t much– hell, most people would have assumed it wasn’t a smile at all, but Dick had spent years learning Damian’s expressions. He saw the slight upward twitch of Damian’s mouth, and for a moment it rendered him silent.
“Richard,” Damian greets. Dick feels his suspicion levels skyrocket as now he’s full on smiling.
Remain calm, Dick told himself. There was no reason for concern– Damian smiling was a good thing. Sure, historically speaking, Damian smiling was accompanied by the revelation that he’d been secretly plotting something for weeks, but there was a possibility this was entirely innocent. Maybe he was just happy to see him– and the thought alone made Dick feel oddly emotional.
“How’s Bruce been treating you?” Dick asks as he then settles himself onto the couch, draping Damian’s legs over him. He partially asks because he’s curious, partially because it was a way to gauge the current state of their father-son relationship. With Bruce and Damian, there was rarely any middle ground, either they were getting along perfectly fine, or they were one screaming match away from ruining their familial bond.
Damian shrugged lazily and Dick immediately noticed. His movements were usually precise– he looks…
“The same,” Damian answers simply– there wasn’t any irritation or an exasperated sigh, or a muttered complaint about Bruce’s inability to be a normal human being.
“That’s it?” Dick asks cautiously.
Damian raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused. “Yes?”
“You’re not mad at him?”
“No.”
“Annoyed?”
“No.”
Dick narrows his eyes. “Planning to run away and create your own hero crew?”
Damian rolls his eyes. “No, Richard. I’m not you or Drake.” He picks up his pencil once more and begins sketching. “Besides,” he continues, “I’d put both you two to shame if that ever came into fruition.”
Dick can’t help but smile at the taunt. Maybe he really is overthinking this– maybe he’s simply in a good mood and nothing’s wrong.
It’s dinnertime and Damian’s in a predicament.
Usually, he dislikes being impaired. His highs are typically mild, merely a faint buzz in the back of his mind, just enough to take the edge off and leave his body feeling lighter than usual. He keeps the dosage low, especially when it comes in gummy form.
Unfortunately, he made a rookie mistake. A brand-new package, he didn’t check the label. Twenty-five milligrams. Not good.
The world feels delayed. Every movement seems to happen half a second after he expects it to, and his thoughts drift lazily through his mind. Luckily, he doesn’t feel nauseated– instead, it feels as though he’s been shoved into the backseat of his own consciousness, his vision akin to watching himself through a television screen. He knows that the feeling will only heighten– given that gummies are usually a gradual process.
It’s fine, Damian tells himself. Probably. All he has to do is survive dinner. No matter that most of his family will be attending– a tradition that has been more strictly implemented in the months following Alfred’s death.
The thought causes unpleasant feelings to twist in his chest– and Damian immediately shakes his head. He will absolutely not deal with that– he refuses to unpack his complicated feelings of grief while high.
The nerves are beginning to set in. In less than ten minutes he’ll be sitting beside one of the world’s greatest detectives– hell everyone in that room had more experience than a seasoned detective.
Objectively speaking, Damian should be more concerned, and yet a small irresponsible part of him is curious. He wants to see if he’ll be able to get away with being, forgive his juvenile wording, zooted, out of his mind. A smirk tugs at the corner at his mouth despite the dire circumstances.
-
Once seated, Damian knows he’s made a grave mistake. The smirk from earlier has long since vanished, and the gummy is hitting significantly harder now. If he wasn’t gripping the edge of his chair with one hand, he’s fairly certain he’d be on the floor by now. Dinner is served and around the table sit Bruce, Richard, Tim, Cassandra and Duke.
Cassandra to his left, Dick to his right. Damian had briefly considered retreating to his room the moment he spotted Cassandra– he would’ve preferred faking an illness, possibly several– anything would have been preferable to spending the evening trapped beside someone with the observational skills of a bloodhound. Unfortunately, Richard had spotted him lingering in the doorway. Damn it. Just like that, his escape plan had been foiled.
“Jason never responded to your text?” Tim asks across the table.
Richard shakes his head, “Nah. Last I heard he was holed up in one of his safehouses. He messed up his elbow on patrol so he’s probably still recovering.” As he speaks, Richard opens up a take-out bag and begins passing around food around the table.
Damian watches as three burgers are placed in front of Tim, oddly mesmerized by the action.
“I thought you said you were cooking tonight?” Bruce asks as Richard places a burger in front of him.
Immediately, Duke visibly recoils. “It would be the last time I ever join family dinner.”
Richard gasps. “Rude!”
“No offense,” Duke continues, completely ignoring him, “but the last time you made pasta from scratch I had a stomachache for two days.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Richard defends himself.
Tim shrugs. “It was undercooked.” Duke nods along with him.
Richard looks betrayed. “Bruce ate it and didn’t say anything! Neither did Cass!” He points accusingly at the both of them.
Bruce, without a word, continues eating his dinner. Cass merely shrugs.
“Uh, yeah,” Duke says. “Both of them have iron stomachs. Not all of us are immune to poison.”
“You did not just compare my pasta to poison.”
The argument continues while he passes out the remaining food. A burger is placed in front of Damian. Damian stares at it. The burger stares back. He blinks. No it doesn’t.
Everyone else is busy arguing, so Damian carefully reaches for it– or attempts to because the burger disappears from his grasp and Damian freezes. Richard quickly replaced it with another.
“Sorry! Sorry! Wrong one.” Richard points to the confiscated burger, “That one’s meat and this one’s vegetarian.”
Damian nods– speaking right now feels dangerous, he doesn’t trust anything that might come out of his mouth. Unfortunately– he quickly realizes he’ll need both hands to unwrap the burger. One hand is currently gripping the edge of his chair. Slowly, carefully, Damian removes it– and nothing happens. Excellent, he’s still sitting upright.
His movements feel sluggish, even blinking requires effort. Eventually, he succeeds in opening the wrapper. He takes a bite– and his eyes immediately slide shut. Oh. That’s good. The burger might actually be the best thing he’s ever eaten. He takes another bite. And another. And another.
The conversation around him fades into background noise– something about Jason, something about Duke being dramatic, something about–
“Damian?” The voice cuts through his haze.
Damian slowly lifts his head and Tim is staring at him.
“Yeah?” Damian says.
Tim points toward Damian’s hands. “You’re eating the wrapper.”
Damian looks down. Huh, Tim is correct. The burger is gone and the wrapper isn’t– in fact, half the wrapper appears to be missing. Damian considers this information carefully. “Oh.” A pause. “Okay.” He places the wrapper down.
Tim looks mildly concerned, but Bruce asks him something before he can investigate further.
A more pressing issue has presented itself, he’s still hunger. No– he’s hungry. Damn it, his thoughts have devolved into those of a caveman. Food– he needs more food. His gaze slowly drifts toward Richard’s fries. Without a word, and with the stealth only a highly-trained assassin could possess, Damian reaches over, snatches a handful, and shoves them into his mouth.
Richard remains unaware. It’s a successful operation.
Dinner passes relatively uneventfully after that, which is either a blessing or an insult. Damian isn’t entirely sure whether he should be offended that nobody seems to notice how little he’s contributing to the conversation, but then again, considering his current state, perhaps it is for the best. Thankfully, Cassandra left as soon as she finished her food because of an urgent call coming from Stephanie– but another problem arises.
He.
Is.
Still.
Getting.
Higher.
Damian hadn’t even known this was possible. Surely there had to be a limit– the last time he’d been this impaired was after the brownie incident, but at least then he’d been alone in his room to suffer in private– and now he’s trapped at a dinner table surrounded by some of the most observant people on the planet.
“Dami?”
Damian blinks. Richard is standing now, gathering whatever trash left behind and throwing away wrappers.
“Are you sleepy?” If Damian were in his right mind, he would have clicked his tongue at the childish wording. Sleepy, just say tired. They weren't six years old.
Tim glances over and his eyebrows immediately rise. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “your eyes are like… half shut.”
Damian resists the urge to groan. If he wants to survive this, he needs to commit. “I do feel somewhat unrested,” he says. Perfect– a flawless execution at an entirely normal response. Damian nods confidently.
The action only causes a concerned crease to form between Bruce’s brows and Damian can feel his confidence falter.
“How much sleep did you get last night?” Bruce asks.
“More than Drake will ever hope to get,” Damian can’t resist the jab. It isn’t even a lie– ever since beginning his stoner adventures, he’s actually been sleeping consistently and peacefully without waking up every few hours.
Across the table, Tim rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says, “but you’re swaying and you look like you’re about two seconds away from falling over.” There’s a hint of concern in his voice despite the sarcasm. Tim pushes back his chair and stands. “Good luck wrangling him into bed.” The comment directed at Richard and Bruce. “Let’s go, Duke, before Damian starts throwing pots and pans.” Duke laughs and follows him out.
“Come on, Damian,” Richard lightly taps his shoulder. “I know it’s early but you should probably head to bed.”
Damian considers this– but there is, unfortunately, another major problem. His legs have gone numb, and he’s reasonably certain that if he attempts to stand, gravity will pull him down. The sensible thing would be power through it, but instead, in a moment of illogicality, Damian hears himself say,
“Carry me?”
There’s silence. Richard freezes, and Bruce, who’s halfway to the doorway, stops walking. Richard looks genuinely stunned, looking at Damian like he’s grown a second head.
“Carry you?” Richard repeats carefully.
Damian considers taking it back– but that would require admitting he said it in the first place, so instead– he doubles down. “Yes.” The word leaves his mouth with far more confidence than he actually feels.
Richard looks at Bruce and Bruce looks at Richard– neither of them knowing how to proceed, which, frankly, Damian finds offensive. He asked him to do something so simple.
Eventually, Richard crouches slightly– cautiously.
“Okay…” Richard says, then after a moment’s hesitation, he picks Damian up.
Damian, while Richard struggles internally, discovers that being carried is way more comfortable than walking, and immediately settles against Richard’s shoulder. He knows– internally, he should be mortified, he’s fifteen acting like he’s ten, but he’s too comfortable to care.
He’s carried up the stairs. Through half-lidded eyes, Damian glances over Richard’s shoulder and notices Bruce following behind them, of course he is. Once Richard sets him down on the bed, Bruce immediately shifts into concerned-parent mode.
“Damian, are you feeling nauseous?”
“No,” Damian replies with a yawn.
Bruce crouches beside the bed, “Headache? Dizziness?”
The room faintly buzzes around him, not unpleasantly, and Damian considers the question. Then gets distracted by an entirely different thought. “Remember when I first came to the manor?” The words leave his mouth before he could stop them, and he sees Bruce go still, Richard does too.
Damian frowns– why had he said that? “And you had to tuck me in because I had nightmares?”
Bruce doesn’t answer, instead he waits for Damian to continue. Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees Richard glance between them.
“Tuck me in.” The demand comes out softer than he intends, it’s more tired than commanding.
Bruce’s expression does something strange– for a brief moment, he looks caught between concern and heartbreak, and Damian doesn’t have the mental capacity to figure out why. Bruce exhales softly, then without a word, he gives in.
He pulls the blanket up to Damian’s chin, tucks the edges around his shoulders– the same way he had years ago when Damian first arrived at the manor. A hand briefly rests against his chest– and to Damian’s immense embarrassment, he feels himself relax instantly. A quiet sigh escapes him, the mattress under him feels warm and like it’s swallowing him.
Bruce’s hand lingers for a moment before withdrawing. “Get some sleep, Damian.”
Damian hums in agreement, his eyes drifting shut. Across the room, Bruce meets Richard’s gaze, the look that passes is a brief one– mixed with concern and confusion. Neither of them understand what just happened, but they both know they’ll be discussing it the second they leave the room. Damian is halfway asleep, thinking of the fruit-flavored gummies on his nightstand.
“Okay,” Tim raises a finger. “He told you to carry him, and then asked you to tuck him in?” The disbelief in his voice is palpable. “Are you absolutely sure he doesn’t have a concussion?”
Bruce sighs, “He didn’t appear disoriented,” he says, “His balance was off, but his cognitive abilities seemed intact. There was nothing to suggest a head injury.”
Tim narrows his eyes at this, “That’s somehow more concerning.”
“Hey, maybe your depression theory wasn’t completely wrong.” The sudden voice causes everyone to glance toward the cave entrance. Jason strolls in carrying a takeout bag.
“Your elbow’s fine.” Is the first thing Dick says to him.
Jason looks down at his arm. “Yeah.”
“Then why didn’t you come to dinner?”
“Uh, ‘cause I didn’t want to? Dick-shit.”
Dick opens his mouth to retort– but pauses. “Wait,” Dick says, “What depression theory?”
Jason immediately points at Tim. “Timmy here thinks Damian’s depressed because he’s finally acting emotionally stable.”
Tim swats his arm. “THat’s not what I said.”
“It is absolutely what you said.”
“It’s not.”
“It literally is.”
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why didn’t any of you tell me you thought Damian was depressed?”
“Because almost everyone in this family is?” Jason says obviously, which causes everyone to stare at him. “You all are in denial.”
“Because it was a stupid theory,” Tim says.
“That too,” Jason nods as he drops into a chair, looking far too amused for someone who allegedly wanted nothing to do with this conversation. “I think you’re all overreacting. You said he was tired.”
“He looked exhausted,” Dick agrees.
“Exactly. Maybe the kid’s sleep-deprived.” Jason shrugs. “Maybe he’s following Dick’s steps and becoming a family guy.”
Tim scoffs. “Since when are you the optimist?”
Jason leans back, a grin spread across his face. “When I want to be.”
Dick frowns, despite Jason’s assurances, there’s an uneasy feeling in his chest that refuses to disappear. “I don’t know..” he admits, “he was weird today.”
Tim immediately points. “Thank you!”
Dick ignores him, “Not weird weird, just…” he struggles to find the right words, “happy. And not to sound paranoid like Tim–”
“Hey!”
“But it felt off– I don’t know, he just hasn’t really been the same after…” The words die in his throat, the name Alfred, goes unspoken. The name hangs in the air anyway, and suddenly the conversation feels much heavier.
“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Bruce says eventually, his hand on Dick’s shoulder reassuringly.
Across the room, Jason lets out a sigh. “Yeah, Dickiebird. Give it a week, he’ll be back to making our lives miserable.”
And a reluctant smile tugs at Dick’s mouth.