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It hadn’t seemed too bad in the beginning. Well, not as bad as their usual kidnappings had been. Granted, they were stuck in a tiny room with no discernible features, but they’d been given a mattress, a sink and a toilet, which was more than they were usually graced with in temporary holdings. Food and water were provided through a cut-out in the door, though after counting the time between drop-offs they quickly found it was done randomly and wouldn’t be useful in trying to keep track of the days. The worst part had been the fluorescent lights overhead being garish.
They’d theorised some ways to break out when they first woke up and adjusted to the sudden change in their surroundings, but they didn’t have anything to work with. Their utility belts had been taken from them, as were all of the tricks they had hidden up their sleeves, both figuratively and literally, and they had no context for where they were. Reluctantly, they made the decision to hunker down until they were sure of things or until someone finally came looking for them.
Dick did his best to goad something from the mysterious set of hands that briefly appeared with their meals, but his efforts were in vain. He hadn’t been granted so much as a sigh. It was the first time Damian saw him fail to get some sort of reaction, although they hadn’t seen a face, so maybe he was getting one, just silently out of view. With each attempt, Dick seemed more desperate to get something out of it and increasingly annoyed that he didn’t. Damian was tempted to assure him that their disappearance would be noticed but concluded it would be a bad idea to tell him something he already knew.
Damian assumed a day or so had passed before things took a turn. Again, it was difficult to accurately get a grip on how long they’d been there, so he could only go on his own body clock. He noticed Dick was getting antsy. Too antsy for it to simply be boredom getting the best of him or anxiety surrounding their delayed rescue. It was different somehow. As he watched Dick pace around the small space, it seemed foreboding. The acrobat wouldn’t sit down, instead picking at his shaking fingers and, when that wasn’t enough, biting at his nails until they bled, at which point he’d just move on to the next finger until he’d gone through all ten and took to excessively twisting and twirling his hair.
“Would you sit down?” Damian snapped, unable to stand the tension any longer.
“Moving helps me think,” Dick argued back.
Whilst he knew that to be true, he also knew it wasn’t pacing that brought Dick’s best ideas forward. He did tricks like he was making a show of his pondering to an invisible audience. If he did pace, he’d be pacing on his hands, stopping occasionally to see how long he could keep himself up on one hand. He moved with motive, but this was just aimless and made worse by the proximity. It was somehow both sluggish and hyper, swinging madly in between and refusing to settle for long.
“And chewing on your fingers like a dog with a bone? Is that bringing about any groundbreaking ideas?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Dick replied, more venomously than expected, but they were locked up in an unknown place with their rescue being unpredictable. Irritation was expected.
“Then enlighten me to the benefits of slathering your fingers in spit because right now all it’s succeeding in is making me disgusted.”
“There’s such a thing as inside thoughts.” He scoffed, still watching the older move to and fro.
“So?”
“So what?”
“So what are your ideas that you can’t possibly think of sitting down?”
“Nothing that’ll help us.”
Damian had known from the moment he got that answer that he wasn’t getting the full story and it would later come back to bite them, but he didn’t know much more than that. The conversation swiftly died, and he didn’t bother trying to inject any life into it. If Dick didn’t want to talk about something, then backing him into a corner would only result in a fight both of them would regret.
On what he assumed was their second day, Dick had gotten worse. He usually jumped between topics at the best of times, finding connections where others wouldn’t. Damian was used to filling in the blanks himself to keep track of conversations. Now, the acrobat struggled to focus on any topic before coming back to the issue of being too warm and hating the feeling of sweating despite the room remaining a normal temperature. Not too hot, not too cold. Just room temperature. Yet he looked visibly warm, warmer than the pacing should’ve made him. Damian was sure he'd paced through the night too, but he knew it hadn’t caused this.
Then something seemed to snap.
All the boundless energy he’d barely contained prior was completely gone. He crawled onto the mattress and didn’t get up. He remained curled tightly around himself, hiding his head in his arms and digging his knees into his chest. It’d been more worrying than the kidnapping situation itself, and Damian didn’t have the faintest idea as to what caused it. It couldn’t be from drugs because they’d been given the same food and, even if it’d been different, Dick hadn’t touched it. He kept giving parts of his meals to Damian and promised he was eating his portion later. They never left the room, and they hadn’t been separated, so there wasn’t any chance to slip Dick something without him knowing.
Dick refused to leave his bed when Damian insisted he move. He didn’t sleep either. He simply tossed and turned, seemingly never comfortable no matter what position he ended up in. Sometimes Damian woke up to the sound of sniffles, but he made an effort not to stir too much and forced himself to go back to sleep. It felt like intruding on the final piece of privacy they had.
Conversation had all but died between them, every attempt going down like a lead balloon, and Bruce would rival the former chatterbox in social engagement. A tree would frankly do better. At least he wouldn’t have to pretend not to notice the lack of eye contact.
He had to be sick. The restlessness, the heat only he could feel and the lack of appetite all pointed to illness, but this wasn’t how Dick usually handled it. He wasn’t this lethargic. He just simply wasn’t well, and it was driving him up the wall trying to figure out why. It wasn’t like Dick would break down so quickly when there was no sign of rescue. This was the same man who clawed himself out of a grave, and his first thought was to hum a Beatles song. This was the same man who quipped and flipped like he hadn’t come terribly close to losing his mind with grief.
"What's wrong with you?" Dick looked impossibly tired, exhaustion you simply didn't get from a lack of sleep painting his features as he stared at him. There was no reply for a moment as the acrobat seemed to be going over his question in his head, but his expression didn't change to the slight smile that Damian was familiar with whenever they spoke. His face looked odd without it.
"I really don't want to talk about this."
"Well, I want to! It's only been a few days at most, and yet you're content to sit there and rot. You're not eating. We don't know how long it will take for the others to collect us, so tell me why you seem so content to rot away here." His outburst stirred something in the older man. Maybe fear of being caught out or a need to comfort his younger brother, but it was something Damian relished in it since it was the most he'd gotten since the symptoms began. That didn't seem so long, but it felt like forever.
"I-"
Whatever answer he had was quickly lost in his rush to the toilet and poured out with his bile. He’d crawled the entire way, and as he clung to the bowl, his legs sat brokenly underneath him. It was like they weren’t even a part of him. His body went rigid for a second before he heaved, coughing and spluttering, gagging and gasping. Damian had heard dying breaths before and couldn’t stand hearing the similarities.
“Grayson?” Damian asked, his voice unusually small. He could’ve put some force behind it, pretending to be annoyed at the sour smell infecting the air or bitter that their already bad circumstances had taken a turn for the worse, but he couldn’t quite get there. He thought back to their capture, flicking through his memories for clues.
Did he miss Dick hitting his head particularly hard? Had he been showing symptoms before their kidnapping? Was there anything different about his reaction to chemicals gushing from the gas canisters? Nothing struck out, but something must’ve differed because Damian was perfectly fine and Dick was doing a poor job of hiding his vomiting.
Eventually, he raised his head without the threat of dipping it right after, and fought to even his breath. He smacked his lips uncomfortably, and his body shook as if to grieve the loss.
"Tell me what's wrong. I need to know- I deserve to know."
Dick's eyes went glassy, focusing on the opposite wall rather than on his face, seemingly ashamed about whatever he was going to admit, and he had to admit that he was more than worried about what was coming.
"I'm going through withdrawals."
Oh.
That wasn't what he was expecting at all. He was expecting some kind of admission that Dick feared they weren't going to be rescued or that he’d been hiding some worsening sickness, not realising how bad it would get during their wait. Damian didn't know what to do with the answer he'd received. He sat down on the end of the acrobat's mattress, letting himself sink into the springs and settling his gaze somewhere else.
Anger was the first thing to come to mind. How could he? Dick going through withdrawals? He'd been on drugs when they were captured, and Damian never suspected a thing. How long had he been on them? Had he worked whilst high? Disgust at the audacity to do their job high followed, then shame for not realising sooner. Maybe he’d never known a sober Dick Grayson. Maybe that’s why he always moved, always chattered. Less of a character trait and more of a symptom.
"What're you on? What dealer am I to dispose of when we return home?" he asked through gritted teeth. With more energy than he'd seen in the last few days combined, the older shot up and shook his head.
"Prescribed drugs! Jesus, I'm not- I'd never!"
Relief rushed through him. Good, that made him feel less like a naive child. Unfortunately, it was still a problem they would have to tackle without a medical professional in sight and rescue no closer than before. He still felt wrong for not noticing sooner. He’d assumed they were close, and with that closeness had come vulnerability he’d never encountered. It would be easy to take offence at not being told outright what medication Dick took, but he couldn’t work himself up to it.
"What do you take? What are they for?"
"I don't want to talk about my medical history."
"I should know if in their absence your health has diminished," Damian insisted.
A beat passed, and he narrowed his eyes as he navigated the question. Damian wanted to jump in and rush an answer, but he thankfully stopped himself. Dick wiped his brow with the back of his hand and swallowed thickly. He pushed his greasy bangs out of the way, his fingers wrapping around the ends and pulling slightly.
“I’ve got a fun little mix of mental conditions that I treat with medication.”
“What type of mental conditions?”
“ADHD for starters. Psychotic depression for the main course. Some anxiety for dessert. CPTSD to round it all off when I wait for the bill,” he answered sardonically. “The medicine helps. Keeps my head on my shoulders long enough for me to actually use the therapy shit they drill into you.” His eyes never met the emerald ones inspecting him closely, searching his expression for any type of lie.
Damian let that fact settle in his mind. It’s easy to forget it isn’t just their bodies on the line when they don their suits and set out to make Gotham safer, even for just an hour. Dick had been in the business since he was nine, and he hadn’t been bred for it, not that you could ever train a mind to take on the trauma they faced. Perhaps Dick just made it that easy. He was so loud in presenting the best parts of himself that you overlooked the worst bits. His anger the first to come to mind.
"It wouldn't be this bad if I were just on one of them," Dick mentioned. Maybe it was an attempt to fill in the dead air or simply a statement to the room. Either way, Damian made a curious sound to make him continue. "My psychiatrist said that if I ever wanted to come off them, I'd have to do it gradually. Otherwise, it would make me worse."
"How long have you been on the medication?"
"Started when I lived with the Titans. Stopped here and there but never for long. I’d get a couple months in, have a breakdown, go back on it," he replied. His voice was quiet and croaky, but it wouldn't be fixed by water. It was the same as the bone-deep exhaustion. There was just no fixing it, and Damian felt so utterly helpless. "Do you...do you think of me differently now?"
"No, why would I?"
"I don't know. People get this perception about it. Especially about the psychotic part. Blame our villains for that." Damian nodded thoughtfully.
“I think,” he paused. “It’s like painkillers. Some people can manage their pain holistically and without medication, and others can’t. I don’t think any less because you’ve acknowledged you need the support." He heard Dick laugh. It was quiet and soft and nothing like his usual cackle, but it did lift a weight off his chest. A small part of him swelled with pride that he'd been the one to cause the laugh, but it was overshadowed by dread of how this was going to play out.
"Sometimes you say such wise shit it's almost impossible to remember you're the same guy who bit someone because they chose your character in Mario Kart."
If Damian had known that would be the last time he’d see Dick in his right mind, he would’ve savoured it more. He would’ve drawn it out, setting up punchlines and feigning annoyance to egg him on further. Instead, he’d chosen to let it end on a high note.
It wasn't even that big of a thing that set Dick off. Damian had passed him a cup of water to wash his mouth out with and, thanks to his trembling hands, he’d accidentally knocked the cup to the floor. It would only leave a small puddle they could easily avoid until it evaporated or one of them decided to sacrifice their only clothes to mop it up. It wasn’t like Dick had struck him across the face, yet he was quick to tears. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. He rambled from apologising about the water to apologising for his behaviour both in the past and in the future, to insisting that he was being left here as a punishment from Bruce, then apologising again for dragging Damian down with him. He briefly thought Damian was in on it, being the one to lure him into the trap, but that idea didn’t seem to stick.
Damian sat with him as he cried, pausing only to vomit and then resume crying, but it seemed to bring about more hysterics because Dick didn’t want to put the responsibility on his shoulders yet the moment he was left alone, he looked broken and lost. He eventually stopped, though not through his own volition, more so from his body not having any more energy to pour into it. He looked like a forgotten doll the way he’d draped himself over the toilet bowl, his head resting on the side and his limbs still.
It took some convincing and manhandling to get Dick onto the provided mattress. Damian kept him on his side in case his body wanted to empty itself again, and he didn’t have the chance to move. He stared through his companion, lost somewhere the younger hero could never find. He took the time to slowly undo the knots in Dick’s hair from his stressful tugging and twirling. It was weirdly domestic given their circumstances, and there was a vague sense of nostalgia from unclear memories of his mother doing the same to him when he was little. He chose not to focus on the latter.
“They will be here soon,” Damian promised. It hadn’t been silent since they last spoke. Dick whispered and muttered too low for him to make out, but he knew it wasn’t good. Nothing could be when he lay there almost comatose. He just couldn’t listen to it anymore, and in a desperate attempt to keep his own sanity intact, he decided it was better to listen to his own voice lie.
Damian glared at the wall, silently berating and cursing his family for taking so long. He knew most of the symptoms of withdrawal were being hidden from him, and he couldn't believe that they were not here to stop it from going on. It's not fair. They better have the best excuse for not finding them sooner.
"You're going to be okay."
When food came, Dick made no attempt to eat. He made no attempt to drink. He wouldn’t move from his curled-up spot on the mattress. His hands periodically squeezed his forearms, sometimes his nails dug in to leave crescent-shaped indents, and Damian would slap his hands to get them to stop before he drew blood. At least it gave him something to do.
He must’ve drifted off at some point as he woke up to the sound of distant shouting. He jolted and whipped his head around to see if Dick had heard it too, hoping this would bring some much-needed levity, yet the older didn’t acknowledge it. He continued to lie still. Damian wasn’t sure what was happening outside, but he was sure that he’d have to be the one to handle it once it got inside. He jumped to his feet and stood defensively, preparing himself for whatever may come.
It felt like hours before the noises stopped outside and the heavy metal door that had entrapped them finally opened. He reeled back, adrenaline rushing through his body, every worst-case scenario playing through his head-
Batman stood in the doorway, the light behind him illuminating him as some grand saviour, but Damian felt resentment threaten to overwhelm his relief at their rescue. There was an air about his mentor that said he knew he’d taken too long. His jaw was set tight but not from the prior fight. His eyes set on Damian then landed on Dick, who he rushed over to greet, his cape billowing out as he crouched to his side.
"He went through withdrawals," Damian stated.
"I assumed," Batman replied, facing his oldest but also not looking at him properly. His tone suggested that the withdrawals had come as no surprise to him. It only made the anger Damian held come back up because if this came as no surprise, then he'd been completely aware that the longer they were left, the worse things would become.
"You knew? And you left us here?" the teen asked, his voice bordering on shouting.
"I didn't leave anyone anywhere. They were blocking the signals from your trackers." Before Damian could argue further, he put a hand up. “I wouldn’t put him through this on purpose.”
“He didn’t think so.”
“It’s the nature of his mind.” He turned back to Dick and hooked his arms underneath his limp body, hauling him up onto his feet, and Damian stood on the other side for support. “I’ve got you, chum.” Now you do, Damian thought vindictively. They’d be having words for certain once Dick was safe in a hospital.