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Damian is four years old when he first has the thought.
"No, rouhi," his mother is saying, as she opens the door to his private chambers. "He does not wake up. When someone is killed, they never rise again."
"Grandfather rises," Damian says, as he slips into the room behind his mother. "Even when he's stabbed a lot."
His mother sighs as she crouches down to his level. "Ra's is not mortal like everyone else is," she explains, softly. "Your grandfather does not follow the rules of life that everyone else does."
"Why?"
His mother presses her eyes closed as she pinches the bridge of her nose. "It's just the way it is. Your grandfather is immortal."
"Why does the man die?"
His mother lets out a long suffering sigh as soon as he's inside the room. She doesn't follow him in. "Because death is the end. That's the point of it. You kill someone so they don't exist anymore. So nothing about them stays."
"Oh," Damian says. And, inexplicability and unbidden, the first thought that comes to his mind is: I wish someone would do that to me. He walks over to his bed, and does not voice the thought.
"Good night," his mother says. She begins to shut the door to his chambers.
"Good night, mother," he replies, and tucks himself into bed. The door clicks shut, and his mother locks it.
***
He's seven when he learns that he's not allowed to want it to actually happen, even if he thinks it all the time.
"What were you thinking," his mother hisses more than asks, as she grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him. There's still blood on his face from when the man was stabbed whilst on he was sitting on Damian's chest.
"He…" Damian begins as his eye begins to itch. Some blood had sprayed in his eye, and it's irritating his left eye. He takes a breath in, erratic. "He beat me."
"So?"
"So," Damian says, as he looks down at his cut wrists from when he used them to block the man's sword. "So I die. That's what—that's what you always say. If someone loses, they die."
His mother lets go of his shoulders finally, and sighs long and deep as she gestures for the corpse of his teacher to be removed. "You are not to die to a teacher, rouhi," she explains, softer than before. "You are Ibn Al Xu'ffasch and the Demon Head's grandson," she grabs his forearm and squeezes it. "You are my son. You will not die to—to a teacher. A common man."
"Oh," Damian mumbles.
"You will die either with honour or by your own hand," his mother says, as she moves her hand up to grip his chin, forcing him to look up at her. His eye still burns from the blood in it.
Damian blinks. By honour… Damian could understand that. "I understand, mother," he says, as he nods and removes his chin from her hand.
His mother smiles. "Good. Now go. Wash your face. It's unbecoming to be visibly dirtied by blood."
Visibly, Damian catches, and tucks it away in his chest. He goes to wash his face.
***
By the time Damian is dropped off at his father's doorstep, he's fully understood the rules that his mother had set down (set down through many years and many trials, and never said explicitly—but she'd set them down nonetheless. Damian had asked and ensured they were all perfectly explained to him).
He finds that these rules do not match what his father sets down, so he learns the new rules, until he knows them off by heart again, just like he did with his mother's.
(The initial I wish someone would do that to me thought lingers, and presses itself to the forefront of his mind even his he sees that his father does not kill. He sees criminals and rogues alike kill and murder, and each day he thinks he might let himself slip so he can have the same end.)
He tries to kill Timothy, multiple times, and it does not work. He cuts the boy's line when he finds that Timothy had placed him on a hit list, and it does not work. Richard admonishes him for trying to harm others, and father does the same when he returns from being lost in the time stream. Damian does not try to kill Timothy again, though the urge itches under his skin.
He does not kill criminals because the Batman does not, and even when they are evil beyond even his understanding, he stands down (after many, many fights, and many arguments). He becomes vegetarian because he instills the beliefs of his father into his very core, and understands them to apply to everyone.
(He sees the way Jason is allowed to kill—to maim and shoot and stab and behead—and ignores the hypocrisy of it all. I wish someone would do that to me, he still thinks, staring at a woman's bloody chest, when his father berates Jason for shooting her in the heart.)
And then he dies.
(In the last seconds of life, just as Heretic was about to end him, he remembers thinking about what his mother said—how she said he would only die either by honour or by his own hands. He thinks that, maybe by a technicality, this death ticks both boxes.
I wish someone would do that to me, he remembers, and thanks everything above that he's—technically, anyway—the one who finally does it.)
The year that he's dead is—nonexistent. He does not remember or experience it. He doesn't feel it, nor does he understand it. He does not remember heaven or hell, does not remember a limbo that he wandered aimlessly in, and he thinks maybe that he understands his mother's point fully, finally. Death is not about peace or chaos or mundane. Death is about the lack of every single one of those things.
After, he's bought back to life—screaming and panicking and kicking, unable to breath and unable to think—and the thought of I wish someone would do that to me only persists.
He's thankful—as much as he can be—to be brought back to life, and he shows his appreciation. He lets his family hug and kiss him, lets them carry him home and lets them fuss over him like he is a child.
It doesn't change the fact that the thought lingers when he sees Jason kill on patrol the next time he's allowed out. It doesn't matter that the thought shouts itself hoarse in his mind when father has to put down Ace to 'sleep'.
I wish someone would do that to me.
He shakes when he makes it back to his room, and the thought is loud and persistent. He's sitting in the corner of his room, underneath his desk, as the thought overtakes his mind. His breathing is uncontrollable, his face red with lack of oxygen, his tongue dry.
I wish someone would do that to me, I wish someone would do that to me, I wish someone would do that to me, I wish someone would do that to me—
He picks up a pair of scissors he was using to make a card, and holds it to his wrist.
He thinks back to when he first almost allowed a man to kill him—back when he was young and stupid and did not know the rules—thinks about how the blood dripping from his arms calmed the thought, how it made it so quiet he almost forgot about it all.
He presses the blade against his wrist. It's an immediate feeling of calmness that overtakes his body, and the beading blood on his wrist only exists to make the calmness last that convinces him that yes, this is perfect.
He wraps his wrists, and does not allow his family to see it.
It continues to happen. Whenever the thought becomes too much—either on patrol or in talks or just in everyday life—Damian will sit in the corner of his room under his desk, and he will hold the scissors against his skin and press.
He's almost caught when he does it on his wrists—and he's saved only by Alfred the cat existing—so he starts using other expanses of skin to relieve the stress, to make the thought disappear.
The scars become… almost calming to look at. The proof of life and hurt and near death—it all makes him realise it will end, and it helps and it changes everything, at least for the time being.
Then Alfred dies, and nothing he did before makes the thought disappear, not for long. Not like he wants it to. So, he escalates. And escalates. And escalates.
Robin becomes a chore, eventually. With no real support there, with no one to check on his injuries beside himself, everything becomes a chore. And Damian… Damian shakes as he presses knives and swords and katanas into his skin.
And the blood and cuts don't help, for the first time ever.
Which brings him to now.
The wind whips his hair around his face—he hasn't cut it in a while due to Alfred not being… available to do it. It's longer than it's been in a while, so it's awkward on patrol and whenever he goes out.
He ignores it, for now. For the time being, he focuses on the long fall down Wayne Tower. He's sitting on the edge of the roof, appreciating the city from above.
The fall is long. It would kill him on impact, and if not that then the injuries he sustains would be enough to make sure he would never survive, no matter what doctors get to him.
He remembers the last time him and father had failed to save an unwilling 'jumper'—a Joker hostage, really—from the very tower he stands on now. He remembers the way father had cried on the scene as he picked up the man's body, as the blood was cleaned off the sidewalk before anyone else had the chance to see it.
I wish someone would do that to me, he had thought, as he'd looked up at where the Joker was being restrained by is father at the very top of the tower, then back down to the man who was being pulled into the ambulance.
With honour or by your own hand, his mother had said, all those years ago. This death might not be honourable, he knows, but at least it is by his own hand.
He stands up.
Father was with the Justice League in the Watchtower and would be for the night and following morning, Timothy had split off on the patrol an hour ago, Jason was off duty due to much pestering by father due to a broken bone, and Richard was with Jason to ensure he did not sneak out with a broken foot.
Damian was free to do as he pleases.
He allows his foot to hover over the empty air. He peels his mask off, and his eyes begin to tear up as the dirty Gotham wind blows into them.
I wish someone would do that to me.
He steps off the roof.
***
Dick was basically forced out of the manor due to Jason's annoyance with him, and the insistence that their two brothers weren't to be trusted alone on patrol. On account of being too young, supposedly.
"Tim travelled the world alone to find Bruce," Dick had pointed out to Jason, almost accusingly.
He gets the grandfather clock slammed in his face for that.
He wasn't necessarily upset at the change of plans—Dick would always worry about his brothers, no matter how old they were—but he was peeved at the way that Jason had gone about it. The least he could've done was be polite about it.
But of course he couldn't, because he's Jason.
And Dick doesn't mind. As long as Jason was there.
Dick had suited up slowly and listened in to the comm line at Tim and Damian speaking on, not letting them know about his late joining. He didn't know why, exactly, just—just felt like it was important.
Tim and Damian had split off a while ago, and had been quiet for a while.
Dick decides to check in.
"How are we doing, Robin III?" Dick calls, as he makes his way through the Diamond district. He wanted to get to the top of Wayne Tower to survey the city and see if he can catch any major rogues lurking about.
Tim squeaks. "Oh my god, I didn't realise you were on the line," he says, and Dick hears a swoosh as Tim jumps his way between buildings, presumably. "Hi, Wing. I'm doing good."
"No major incidents?"
Tim blows a raspberry. "Not really. I've just been making sure people got home safe. I haven't even noticed a mugging or anything."
Dick laughs. "That's good. It's rare we get such a quiet night."
"Bit boring."
Dick lets out an amused huff as he jumps across an alley where two people were making out. He ignores it. Mostly. "I'd rather boring than too much, you know? Where's Robin V? Isn't he on this comm line as well?"
"We split off an hour ago," Tim says, as a thud signals his landing on the floor. "I don't know when or why he disconnected, though. He never said anything. I saw him going south towards the harbour, so maybe check there." A sound of a grapple shooting. "I gotta go, N, duty calls."
"Good luck," Dick says, just as Tim disconnects.
He continues making his way to Wayne Tower. He can have a look there, and then make his way south to see if he could catch Damian whilst he's on his way back home.
Dick finally makes it close enough that buildings aren't blocking Wayne Tower, and his eyes zero in on the needle top. His favourite spot to—
A spot—dark and small and human shaped— steps off the roof and begins to fall.
Fuck.
Dick has to use all his power to leap across the last two rooftops to where the tower is, and he thinks quick as he tries to see how he could save the quickly falling figure—
He can't get to the top fast enough to catch them from there, and he thinks the shock would kill them if he were to wait and try to save them at the bottom. If he grapples—
He fires his grapple before he can finish his plan, and hopes desperately that he can catch the figure.
About two thirds of the way down the tower, Dick manages to collide with the figure, and he shuts his eyes as he grips them tight and tries to keep the momentum of his swing. He reaches out with his feet and skims the edge of one building, and then he jumps—he knows the city and it's layout better than he knows is own face—and lands on the roof. He has to tuck the figure into his body and roll forward with the momentum, and he apologises in his head as he feels the tumble begin to bruise even him in his protective suit.
The figure is still breathing. It's also unreasonably small. A child. A child—who—how could a child get to the top of the building, and Dick wants to know—?
He untucks the child from his chest, and holds them out in front of him. He wants to ask them why they would do that and how they even got the chance to get to the top, but his questions all die in his throat.
In his arms is, with eyes teary red and mouth down turned in a frown, is Damian.
***
Richard caught him.
Richard caught him.
Why, of all people, must he catch him? Why must anyone have caught him at all. Damian wants to shout and scream and tear himself away, but all he can do is open his mouth and—
And—
And cry. Like a baby.
Richard pulls Damian's face into his chest, and begins to whisper nothing meaningful in his ear as Damian sobs and sobs into his chest. His eyes were watering before, and now they're doing it even more so, like a waterfall out of his face. It's stupid and unbecoming and childish, but Damian can't stop himself from sobbing anyways.
The sounds are loud and ugly—he's sure the residents of the building they're on will complain, but he can't bring himself to care and nor can Richard, seemingly.
Richard is kissing the top of Damian's head, repeating, "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay," insistently like a mantra, like it will change something. Like it might erase the past thirty seconds or so. Maybe it is to make Richard feel better, rather than Damian.
Finally, after a lifetime of crying and sobbing and gripping to his brother's chest, Damian calms, and the hiccups leave him sooner than they usually do.
"Dami," Richard says, as he grips Damian's chin to make him look up. "Dami, please. Please tell me—please tell me that—that you tripped."
Damian does not lie. That is one of father's rules. He stays silent, because if he confirms what Richard wants him to, then he fears the man will have a heart attack and die right there.
"Dami. Please tell me it was—"
"You know I am trained enough to not allow accidents to happen," Damian snaps, because if he speaks softly then he will cry again. He does not wish to cry again, not so soon.
Richard pulls him closer. "Oh, sweetheart," he mumbles, right into Damian's ear. "I'm sorry, baby. I'm so sorry." He pulls Damian closer.
Damian begins to sob again.
Richard continues to hold him, soft and safe.