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The situation wouldn’t have been as bad if Damian’s rebreather hadn’t been broken.
He didn’t know. He hadn’t known it was broken. Still, as soon as he had seen the gas pouring from vents dangling from the warehouse ceiling (it was always a warehouse. Why was it always a warehouse?), Damian had reached for his rebreather. He’d pulled it out, gone to put it on.
“Robin!” Drake shouted. Then, suddenly, he was in front of Damian. A hand was held over his mouth and nose. Blinking, Damian scowled at him. Drake snagged Damian’s rebreather. His own was already fixed on his face. He was about to talk. Then, he realized what Drake had seen.
Damian’s rebreather was broken.
It must have gotten shot in the fight, he thought. There had been a gunfight. They were working with some random no-names. No-names were worse than the Rogues. They were unpredictable at best. They were harder to fight no matter what. They could cause a lot more damage. Maybe they would have guns—or, in this case, they might have some kind of gas. Even Damian knew that they were difficult to fight.
Drake flipped the rebreather over in his hands. The rebreather’s filter had been shot off. It was somewhere else in the warehouse. They weren’t going to be able to find it. Not in time, at least. If they were lucky, they’d be able to pick it up before Gotham PD did. Bat tech out in the wild was rarely a good thing. The Gotham PD’s unfortunate corruption problem (there was a reason they only trusted Gordon and Montoya, plus a few other, carefully-selected and vetted officers) also influenced that, of course.
Frowning, Drake glanced up. His gaze met Damian’s. The solid white lenses of his domino mask didn’t give anything away. The furrowed brow and the downward curve of his mouth behind the rebreather, though—that gave away plenty. Damian searched the windows for some sort of escape. All of them were shut. The warehouse doors were sealed shut, too. This will be fine. Father and the others will come and handle it, once Drake goes and gets—
Crouching down, Drake grabbed Damian’s shoulder. Damian turned to him. “Look at me.” He signed, one-handed. Then, with a smile, he added, “You’re okay. Promise.”
He shoved his rebreather onto Damian’s face.
Before Damian even had a chance to think, the fool had secured the straps around his face and then broke them. What. No. No! Reaching up, Damian grabbed the straps. His fingers tangled around them, in them. In front of him, Drake wavered once, twice.
Drake dropped to the floor hard.
His body hit the concrete with a thump. Staring at him, Damian stood still. His heart caught in his chest. That—I can’t—
The weirdest part was that some small part of him remembered when he snapped Drake’s line. When he nearly killed him another time. And the time after that. It just—some part of him remembered that, and he wasn’t sure if it was satisfied but it still horrified him. Now, though, he was standing in front of Drake. He was standing there, and Drake had collapsed on the ground, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. Gasping, he looked down at Drake’s form. Something welled up in his chest.
Panic.
He was panicking.
He could hear his own breathing, raspy and panicked and—why was he acting like this? This wasn’t him. This wasn’t appropriate for the son of Batman, of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. This wasn’t appropriate behavior for him, he shouldn’t be acting like this, he shouldn’t—he wanted to scream. He wanted to—he didn’t know what he wanted—he needed to get Drake out of the warehouse but he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He needed to move, he needed to—
Drake jerked on the ground. Seizing. He was seizing, and Damian wasn’t doing anything because he couldn’t move and he couldn’t do anything and he needed to—
“Robin!” Someone barked, and then there was a black cape and black-and-gray costume in front of him, a black bat sigil. Hands settled on his shoulders. Someone was crouching in front of him.
“Drake.” Damian choked out, looking up at his father. “Help—help Drake. I’m fine.”
His own voice sounded distant. Everyone’s voices sounded distant. Wrong. He sucked in a breath. His father was replaced by Todd. Crouching down in front of him, reaching up, Todd hesitated. He set a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “Hey, let’s get you out of here, okay?”
There was an agonized choking sound behind him, something strangled. Drake. Drake was—Drake had sacrificed himself for Damian even though they had fought and Damian had sliced his line and—
He was outside the warehouse.
Todd was still crouched in front of him. Reaching up, he prodded at the edges of the respirator. Jolting, Damian grabbed him by the wrists. “Don’t.” He hissed out.
“Okay, okay. No removing the respirator. Got it, little guy.” Looking around, Todd narrowed his eyes. Damian knew that just from the way he turned, from how he looked around. Damian swallowed. He wanted to be home. Where was Drake? Something was wrong.
Damian turned around, looked back at the warehouse—
A hand wrapped around his face, tilting his head so he was looking back at—back at Cass. She had swapped out for Todd at some point, worried eyes just visible above her mask. “Don’t look.” She whispered. “Don’t look. Come. Home.”
Weakly, Damian nodded.
Damian was the first one at Tim’s bedside when Leslie and Alfred had finished their work.
It wasn’t fear gas. He’d been given some kind of neurotoxin. It wasn’t even some kind of bastardized version of Joker or Fear Gas, or Ivy’s pollen. It was something else. By the time they’d gotten Tim back to the infirmary, he’d been vomiting, seizing. Bleeding internally. Jason hadn’t interacted directly with him, but—he’d heard Bruce. He’d heard Dick. It’d taken both Cass and Jason to get Damian back. The kid was just…in shock. He’d been so off, almost pliant, able to be dragged around. That wasn’t normal for him. He would normally have fought them, duked it out with anyone he had to so he could find whoever had caused this.
“Has he done anything?” Dick asked. Glancing at him, Jason sighed. Cass had managed to get Damian off the motorcycle, pulled him over to the bed. Afterwards, he had just sat there. His eyes were focused on Tim’s slack face, pale beneath the oxygen mask. He hadn’t moved at all.
“No.”
“I am fine.” Damian said, breaking the silence. “I am listening to Drake’s heartbeat. Monitoring. You should do the same.” He didn’t even glance their way, both hands folded over one of Tim’s. The one with the IV in, actually. Jason didn’t want to say how much that hurt, that Damian had pulled away from his usual behavior to clutch Tim’s hand. Damian didn’t do touch. He would allow it, but he rarely did so unless the being touching him was a close friend or an animal. Even when he did initiate touch, he and Tim barely interacted. Maybe it was because of Damian’s previous murder attempts, the time he had cut Tim’s line, the fact neither of them knew how to interact with one another especially with how Damian had ended up being Robin in the first place. There was pain there, and Jason knew it. All of them had pain.
On the bed, Tim’s fingers twitched. His hand tilted in Damian’s grip, pale fingers wrapping around Damian’s own brown ones. Shit, he looked awful. Jason felt his heart twist in his chest as he settled down at Tim’s other side. Eyes closed, deep shadows under them, Tim let out a soft noise. His lips peeled back into a grimace under the oxygen mask. His breath fogged up the mask as he exhaled. It was a good sign. A reassurance, he was breathing. He was okay. They’d gotten him anticonvulsants in the meantime while Bruce worked with Babs on making the antidote. Duke and Cass were helping since they knew what to do with neurotoxins.
Worst comes to worse, we can call in someone, Jason thought, we can call in Zatanna or Zatara. One of the magical healers. We have access to them, why not utilize it?
And if we have to drop him in a Lazarus Pit—
Jason cut himself off there. If something happened to Tim, then—then he would. Jason would take him to the Pits himself if he had to, fight everyone on the way, because he could help in the aftermath and even though he hated to put Tim through that he couldn’t just not do something—
A hand settled on his shoulder. Jolting, Jason turned to see Alfred. “Might I get by, Master Jason?” Alfred asked.
Swallowing, Jason nodded, shoved himself up and stepped away. As he watched, Alfred gave Tim another injection. A few moments later, Tim’s face slackened a bit. “What was that?” Dick asked, voice hollow.
“An antidote. We will have to thank Miss Zatanna for her help. She was the one who helped magic it together.” Alfred replied. Pressing a bit of gauze to the needle wound, he added, “Master Timothy will recover quickly. Though his immune system is not what it used to be, there is more to strength than just physical.”
“We’ll have to explain this to Bernard somehow.” Dick sighed. “I’ll handle that. I might need help from Duke and Steph to explain. The guys are in prison, but…Jason, would you and Cass be alright staying with Tim in the meantime?”
“I will. Not sure about Cass, but—” Jason turned to see her standing right behind him. Jolting, he turned back to Dick, “how about you ask her? How do you do that?”
The second part was lower and said only to Cass. She smiled, then turned to Dick. Whatever she said, Jason ignored it, going to Tim’s head instead. Damian was still sitting at Tim’s bedside, hands clutched over Tim’s. Crouching, he glanced at Damian’s face. Narrowed green eyes focused only on the rise and fall of Tim’s chest.
Gently, Jason touched his arm. Damian finally pulled his gaze away to look at him. Cracking a smile, Jason tilted his head slightly.
Damian let out a shaky breath and turned back to Tim.
Tim hated hospitals.
There was a mask fixed to his face, monitors beeping, and the familiar annoyance of an IV digging into the back of his hand. There was tape stuck to his skin. Shifting, heels digging into the infirmary bed, Tim sucked in a deeper breath. He hated the feelings—sterile gloves, the infirmary blankets, the cold air, the plastic of oxygen masks and tubing and so many other things. Cracking his eyes open, he hummed lowly. There was someone sitting right beside him, holding their hands over the IV to hide it from him.
When he tilted his head to the side, he found Damian and Jason there. Jason had one ankle kicked up on the opposite knee, reading some book or other with his other hand rubbing circles on Damian’s back. It was an unconscious move. As for Damian, he was the one holding Tim’s hand, hiding the IV. His eyes were focused on Tim’s face, but he didn’t say anything.
Moving his hand, Tim reached up to brush his knuckles against Damian’s cheek. “The—gas?” He rasped out, voice rough and scratchy like he had gargled rocks and lava. Swallowing, he took another few breaths of the increased oxygen. “You’re…okay?”
Damian nodded. “The only one injured was you, Drake.”
Blinking, Tim nodded. He must have drifted off between blinks, falling back asleep, because the next thing he knew Damian and Jason were asleep on the floor and Cass and Dick had taken their places on either side of him. Cass was the one hiding the IV from him so he didn’t tear it out. Meanwhile, Dick was running his fingers through Tim’s hair, brushing it back from his eyes. He grinned when Tim focused on him. “Hey, there, Babybird. You alright?”
Slowly, Tim managed a nod. “Everyone okay?” He said it a lot slower than that, and much more slurred to boot, but Dick waited until he finished the sentence. His fingers combed through Tim’s hair. Closing his eyes, Tim leaned into the touch. “Don’t…make me sleep…how is—”
“They’re okay. Everyone’s okay, sweetheart. The only one who needs help is you, okay?” Tim shook his head, trying to push himself up because he needed—he needed to help the others, he needed—
“No, no, down.” Someone else said, pressing him back to the bed. He was—was he in the infirmary? He didn’t think so. It didn’t quite look like the infirmary anymore. He was either moved to his own room while he was unconscious, had never been in the infirmary and just imagined that he had been due to fever or something else, or—
Nope. He was in Dick’s room.
Of course.
“Lemme—up—” He managed to say. Cradling the back of his head, Dick sighed and shook his head with a smile. Thankfully, though, he did help Tim up, with Steph arranging the pillows behind him so he could sit up properly. “When did I end up in your room?”
“When Damian insisted the Cave was too cold for you and we needed to get you warm.” Huffing out a laugh, Tim glanced at Damian.
“And he says he doesn’t care.”