Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“High blood pressure is a killer, Robin. Maybe if you weren’t so angry all the time, you’d live past thirty,” Tim quipped, swinging his bo staff like a baseball bat and cracking it against the skull of one of Penguin’s unlucky henchmen. He suppressed a laugh as Damian’s face scowled with disdain from beneath his domino mask.

“At least I would succumb to natural causes instead of my own stupidity,” Damian spat while unsheathing his katana, yellow light from the nearby street lamp glinting off the steel. “Which is what your fate will be.”

Static hissed through the comm nestled in Tim’s ear, and Dick’s voice filled his head.

“Hey, guys? A little less bickering and a lot more beating people up, please?”

“Thanks for the advice, Nightwing,” Tim muttered, ducking as a fist whizzed over his head. “Never asked for and never appreciated.” His eyes narrowed at the glaring absence of Damian’s insufferably grating voice, which would have snapped a slew of insults into the comm by this point. Tim expertly swept the last goon off his feet, knocking him out with a swift blow to the head. “Where are you, Robin?” he growled, scanning the abandoned alleyway, but all he found was a dozen unconscious henchmen under a thick blanket of darkness. Suddenly, the night’s quiet was shattered by the Demon Brat’s obnoxious voice, echoing from the rooftop of a nearby building, because, of course, he had to be on the rooftop of a nearby building. Tim scrambled up the nearest fire escape and had barely reached the top before the goon that Damian was chasing grabbed for his holster, the gun’s barrel glinting in the moonlight.

“Drop your weapon,” Damian sneered, his back to Tim, showing not an ounce of hesitation as he sprinted toward the man, whose finger was wrapped tightly on the trigger. Tim sprang into action, tackling Damian just as a bullet whirled past, missing his shoulder by mere inches. Damian and Tim tumbled onto the rooftop’s asphalt as the man sprinted away, leaving a single shell in his wake. “What the hell, Drake?” Damian hissed, twisting away from his older brother and scrambling to his feet. “He was an imbecilic street thug! I almost had him!” He spat on the ground in frustration, his white-knuckled fists baring their ugly teeth.

Tim rolled his eyes, even though he knew Damian couldn’t see his face. I should have just let the kid get shot. “All you were going to have was a bullet to the fucking brain if I didn’t stop you,” Tim said, brushing the dirt off his Red Robin uniform. Even through the domino mask, Tim could picture Damian’s emerald green eyes blazing with prideful fury as he strode toward him, chest heaving.

“I refuse to believe that pathetic excuse for a henchman got away,” Damian breathed, tangling his green-gloved hands through his mop of black hair, frustration so palpable Tim could almost taste it. “This was my fight, and you interfered. Because of you, he escaped!”

Tim threw his head back, scoffing in incredulous disbelief. “Because of me, you’re alive! You should be thanking me, you ungrateful brat.”

“Thanking you? I should—” Damian’s threat of violence died in his throat as Nightwing emerged from the rooftop’s shadows with a grin on his face.

“So,” Dick said, leaning casually on Tim’s shoulder, “how’d it go?”

“He’s an egotistical, narcissistic murderer.”

“Timmy.”

“No, a bloodthirsty psychopath with an insatiable taste for violence.”

“Tim, he’s—”

“Just an insufferable, arrogant brat suffering from a glorified god-complex.”

“Tim.”

Dick’s sudden change in tone forced Tim to look up from furiously typing on the Batcomputer. He swiveled his chair, pale blue eyes adjusting to the cave’s dim light after hours of staring at the illuminating screen. Still in his bloodied Red Robin uniform, Tim studied his brother, subconsciously noting how different Dick’s jet-black hair looked after being freshly damp from a post-patrol shower.

“Damian’s just an 11-year-old kid,” Dick said as he leaned back and pressed his palms against the edge of Tim’s desk. “No matter how hard he tries to convince people otherwise.” Tim scoffed, feeling a painful twinge of indignation and betrayal bubbling up from deep inside.

“How can you possibly defend him? He tried to kill me a year and a half ago,” he spat, gathering up the slew of paper coffee cups littered across his desk. Dick dragged his hands across his face with an audible groan.

“Come on, Timmy. You know how he was raised. Any one of us could have ended up the same way.” Dick rested his hand on Tim’s shoulder and pulled him closer. Tim put down the cups, stacked absurdly high, and sighed in exasperation.

“No, I don’t know. All the files that Bruce does have on Damian’s history with the League are encrypted, and it’s not like he’s eager to talk about any of his past trauma.” Tim muttered, leaning into Dick’s touch. Silence lingered in the air for just a few short moments before he added, “But I don’t trust him, not in the field, not in the manor. He’s too violent. Too hot-tempered. Too impulsive. And all the bullshit that happened tonight proves that he hasn’t changed. I want to understand Damian, I do. But he makes it so hard.”

“I know,” Dick said gently, rubbing his thumb in slow circles on Tim’s tense shoulder, coaxing the tight muscles to relax.

“And Bruce needs to come back. He’s been off-world with the League for, like, a month.”

“I know,” Dick murmured, pressing his cheek into Tim’s tangled black hair, savoring the moment with his little brother before breaking the news that would surely ruin the rest of the night. “You two just need more time in the field together. I’m headed to Blüdhaven with Jason on a drug bust tomorrow, so you’re on patrol with Dami. Please try not to kill each other…unless one of you actually deserves it.”

Tim scowled, eyebrows furrowing as he shoved Dick back and snatched the stack of cups off his desk.

“I’m not the one who needs reminding.”

Chapter Text

“Robin, you can’t just run off after the guy with a gun. That’s how you get killed.” The words had barely escaped Tim’s lips before he winced, silently cursing himself for how much he sounded like Dick. “You have to think.” The two boys were perched on the ledge of a tenement roof, carefully surveying the narrow street below. The moon hung behind them, its pale glow slicing thin streaks of light across uneven cobblestones.

“Thinking is how you get killed,” Damian muttered. He shifted to perch on a length of rust-colored railing that jutted out from the rooftop’s edge with practiced grace. “You have to rely on instinct.” For a moment, Tim wasn’t sure if it was the shadows playing tricks on him, but Damian’s mouth seemed to curl into something that could be considered a smile. “Well…maybe not you.”

Tim scoffed, clutching his heart with a gloved hand while pretending to be affronted at the insult. Before Tim could fire back a witty retort, he heard the sound of chattering goons echoing up to the rooftop from the street below. He readied himself to leap down, already piecing together half-formed plans in his mind.

“Robin, remember to—” 

He pursed his lips in frustration as he realized that Damian had already slipped down the fire escape and was slowly stalking behind the pack of men, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Tim cursed silently as he scrambled down after him, praying his brother hadn’t engaged with them yet. Just as Tim closed the distance, reaching out to snatch Damian back into the safety of an abandoned alleyway’s shadows, the reformed assassin had already become a blur of red and gray as he moved to attack with deadly precision. 

“No!” The word ripped out of Tim’s mouth before he could stop it. He whipped the retractable bo staff from his utility belt with expert speed, just as Damian sliced the back of his first victim’s legs with the unforgiving edge of his katana. The two brothers fought side-by-side as they incapacitated most of the gang with expert precision. Then Tim spotted it—the unforgettable gleam of steel catching the moonlight as one of the goons unsheathed a knife. His gaze lingered on the blade, and he could have sworn that the tip was dripping something. He didn’t have time to look for long as another henchman whipped him around and punched him square in the jaw. Tim stumbled back, stars dancing on the outskirts of his vision momentarily as he quickly regained his bearings, connecting his staff solidly with the man’s head in seconds. His head still ringing, he paused for a moment and then heard Damian cry out. Tim had never heard him make that sound before.

“Red Robin! Move!” 

Tim spun on his heel, just in time to see Damian shove himself in between him and the 6-inch blade. He cringed at the sound of the knife burrowing deep within Damian’s upper right torso, the small boy recoiling as the goon twisted it with a gleam of cruelty in his eye. Head quickly forgotten, Tim clenched his jaw in pure rage and dropped his staff, opting for fists instead. He drove his knuckles into the man’s jaw, each strike fueled by pure, unfiltered anger. After two swift punches left the thug’s face permanently indented on the street, Tim scanned frantically for another target, but the rest were all unconscious. He snapped back into reality when he heard a sharp gasp of pain pierce the air from behind him. Damian. The boy lay on his back, writhing in pain, hands pressed clumsily against the wound with the knife still protruding from his side. Tim dropped to his knees beside him, analyzing the injury and pressing his larger gloved hands against the wound, wincing at the force he had to apply.

“Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Hey, Demon Brat? You have to stay with me, okay? I need you to stay with me. You’re okay, it’s not bad. It’s okay,” Tim repeated, maybe trying to comfort himself as much as Damian.

“I…I’m fine. Just a flesh wound,” Damian gasped, tilting his chin back while squeezing his eyes shut as Tim pressed harder.

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry, Dames, I have to keep putting pressure on this,” Tim muttered, scanning his brother’s pale face. He was already slipping into shock. “Why the hell did you do that? Why did you have to step in front of the fucking knife?”

“Tt.”

Tim pressed a hand to his ear as the comm crackled to life, ignoring the fact that Damian’s thick blood was probably smeared across his face and hair. The street corner was silent except for the harsh rasp of his little brother’s breathing.

“Robin’s down,” Tim managed to say, his voice tight with panic. “He’s been stabbed with a knife. It might have had some kind of substance on it.”

“I’m on my way. Red Robin, listen to me. Keep your hands where they are and don’t let go. Put pressure on the wound, and I need him conscious when I get there. Just keep talking to him. I'm taking the Batmobile— three minutes out.”

Dick’s voice filled Tim’s ear, calm and controlled, slipping effortlessly back into the role of Batman that he had played for so many months.

“Did you hear that, Dames? Dick is going to be here really soon,” Tim whispered gently, ignoring the code-name protocol in favor of reassuring Damian that his favorite person was coming to help. Damian’s eyes were glassy, unfocused, his body wracked with what Tim was sure to be unbearable burning pain. Beads of sweat slid down his forehead, and his fingers clenched desperately over Tim’s hands, which were pressed firmly against the wound. 

“You fucking idiot,” Tim muttered, shaking his head. “I wasn’t worth it. I mean, you hate me. What were you thinking?” 

Damian’s gaze flickered towards him, teeth gritting, with the ghost of a smirk on his taunt face. He rasped, blood spurting from his mouth, “Instinct… beats thinking.”

Chapter Text

Damian gazed up at the stars scattered across Gotham’s ink-black sky, like flecks of paint on a canvas. As soon as the knife had entered his stomach, he knew something was different. He had been stabbed countless times in the League of Assassins, well-acquainted with the white-hot burn of steel ripping through flesh and the searing hole it left behind. But this wound carried a distinct edge that Damian had never felt before, and he could feel it spreading, pulsing through his veins and contaminating his bloodstream. 

Though Damian would never admit this to anyone, some shameful part of him secretly hoped that his body would surrender and let him slip into the sweet release of unconsciousness, away from the merciless agony ripping through his core. Years of conditioning in the League had hardened Damian, forcing him to stay awake, alert, and aware even in the most dire of physical circumstances. Because if you were unconscious, you were vulnerable. And if you were vulnerable, you were dead. 

His eyes flickered back to Drake’s face, hazy in the foreground of his blurred vision. Even through the mask, Damian could make out the furrowed brows, clenched jaw, and tight crease on his forehead. He concluded that if Drake was showing this much visible concern, the wound had to be even worse than Damian initially believed. Damian was snapped out of his thoughts when Drake adjusted his grip on the gash, and a jolt of pain tore through Damian so violently that a hiss escaped his lips before he could stop it. He bit hard on his tongue to stop the pathetic noise from continuing, and the metallic taste of copper filled his mouth.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Baby Bat,” Drake muttered through gritted teeth, his tone laced with so much sympathy that Damian took personal offense. “I know it hurts. Just two more minutes until Dick gets here.”

God, this was humiliating. There was nothing Damian hated more than being vulnerable in front of someone else—especially when that person was Tim Drake. Their mutual disdain, distrust, and disregard had been constant since the day Damian moved into the manor, only growing worse once he took up the Robin mantle. The thought of Drake seeing him like this gnawed at Damian’s pride so viciously that he forced himself to preserve what little dignity remained, if only to deny his pain.

“I’ve been through worse,” he rasped, but the faint quiver in his voice betrayed him. Damian knew this was bad, and judging by the way Drake’s eyes darkened with concern, he knew it too.

“I don’t doubt it,” Drake said softly, easing up on the pressure for a moment to card his fingers through Damian’s hair, freeing it from the beads of sweat that clung to his ashen forehead, and then immediately pressing back down. Usually, this display of physical affection would have cost Drake an appendage, but right now, Damian couldn’t find it in himself to care. And, irritatingly enough, Drake’s gentle touch offered a fleeting semblance of relief from the fire coursing through him. 

Suddenly, a fresh wave of pain tore through him, making it nearly impossible to lie on his back, and he jerked upright. Panic surged through Damian’s chest as the new position dug the blade deeper into his gut. He struggled in vain to push Drake’s hands away from the source of his agony, desperate to wrench the foreign object from his stomach and curl in on himself.

“Hey, hey, Dames, it’s okay. Just try to relax,” Drake coaxed, gently moving Damian’s hands to his sides and guiding him back down. “We don’t want to touch that right now. I promise Dick will be here soon.”

“Please… leave,” Damian begged, involuntary tears springing to his eyes as fresh ripples of pain shot through him. This could, in fact, get even more humiliating. “I can handle it myself,” he choked, bile threatening to rise in his throat.

Drake didn’t dignify the ridiculous request with a response and gently shifted his brother to the side, mindful of the wound, as Damian gagged. Almost immediately, he vomited, expelling streaks of bile mixed with blood that pooled in the crevices of the cobblestones. At the same time, Drake’s hand moved in slow circles along his back, whispering soothing words.

The jostling pain in his stomach made Damian’s vision darken at the edges. He closed his eyes, anticipating the darkness to overcome him, his body finally reaching its limit. He could hear Drake’s voice faintly in the background, but he chose to ignore it, letting his mind drift toward blankness while the pain faded further and further away.

His respite from the agony didn’t last long as a warm, firm presence jolted him back into reality. Damian could feel Drake holding him, still with a hand putting pressure on the wound. Damian tried to open his eyes, but a groan escaped instead, and he pressed his face harder against the armor of Red Robin’s vest.

“Oh thank God. Damian, are you awake?”

Damian resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“No,” he clipped, dragging out the end of the word. Even with his eyes closed, Damian could perfectly visualize the look Drake was undoubtedly giving him.

“Are you seriously being sarcastic right now?”

Damian hummed softly. The pain in his core had receded to a distant throb, but violent shudders had begun to wrack his body, with new beads of sweat trailing down his pale face. He pressed his ear to Drake’s chest, drawing comfort from the steady, strong rhythm of his heartbeat—a stark contrast to his own ragged breathing.

“Dames, I know it hurts, but you have to stay with me,” Drake said somewhere from above him.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Damian muttered softly, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Red Robin’s suit to wipe away the tear stains. He felt Drake tense beneath him, a soft curse escaping his lips.

The last thing Damian heard was the screech of tires on asphalt as he finally slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

“What the hell happened?”

Dick’s question cut through the night’s silence like a hot knife through butter. Tim hadn’t even registered his oldest brother’s presence until Nightwing was suddenly right by his side, wrapping a strong arm around him in a warm embrace. With a tender urgency that made Tim feel sick, Dick gently pried Damian from his blood-soaked hands, cradling the boy’s head on his shoulder.

“Someone came at me with a knife, and Robin…” Tim’s throat went dry as the sound of Damian’s strangled gasp ripped through his memory. “…stepped right in front of it.” Dick’s dark eyes flickered to the several unconscious figures scattered throughout the street, narrowing with silent fury.

“He’s been drifting in and out,” Tim continued, now unable to stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “And the knife—it was dripping with something. Before it…” His eyes screwed shut. “Before it went in.”

Dick gritted his teeth. “I’ll call Gordon to clean this up. Red Robin, get the Batmobile ready for medical treatment. There are clean bandages, two bags of Robin’s blood, and an oxygen mask in the passenger-side compartment.” His voice was firm, but there was a faint crack of unmistakable worry in the words.

Nightwing’s command snapped Tim back into motion from his frozen state of fear. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the Batmobile, nausea churning in his stomach when the door handle slipped beneath his grip, fingers slick with blood—Damian’s blood. His little brother’s blood. Tim’s hands trembled as he shoved the rear seat back as far as it would go, while Dick gently eased Damian onto the makeshift cot. Tim slid into the back seat beside his brother as Dick hurled himself behind the wheel. Tim could barely think straight as his fingers pressed to Damian’s neck, simultaneously pulling up his sleeve to find a viable vein for a blood transfusion. Thready. Weak. But not dead.

“Leslie and Jason are back at the cave, prepping for emergency surgery,” Dick muttered as he swerved around another corner.

Tim didn’t bother to reply as he gently strapped the oxygen mask to Damian’s face, noting how his typically olive skin had turned sickly translucent. Tim was silently grateful that Damian was unconscious while he put the mask on, for his own sake. His little brother had never explained why, but he always hated anything that constricted his nose and mouth, even for a moment. Tim began to carefully work bandages around the knife protruding from Damian’s abdomen, having to circle the gauze around his torso several times before the blood was no longer visibly soaking through. He worked quickly, tearing open the IV tubing from its plastic casing and steadying Damian’s arm on his lap, preparing to insert the needle into his vein.

"Two minutes out," Dick growled, stormy blue irises flitting in the rearview mirror toward Tim and Damian, eyebrows knitted with concern.

Tim was so focused on wrapping the tape around the IV catheter to secure it in Damian’s elbow that he didn’t notice his eyes fluttering open. It wasn’t until Tim paused to take a breath that he realized his little brother was slowly gaining awareness, specks of emerald darting around as he took in his surroundings. Tim immediately stopped fidgeting with the catheter and focused entirely on Damian as he stirred awake. From previous experiences—and with the scars to prove it—Tim knew that Damian often woke violently from unconsciousness, whether from blacking out or being sedated.

“Hey, Dames,” Tim whispered, “It’s alright, I promise. I’m here, Dick’s here, and we’re gonna keep you safe, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

Damian’s glazed eyes met Tim’s as he weakly fumbled at the mask on his face, instinctively trying to uncover his nose and mouth. Even in this state, Damian’s body was following a reflex drilled into him from years of training, ingraining a strong personal aversion that he never admitted.

“Come on, brat, you know that we’ve got to keep that oxygen mask on, okay?” Tim said apologetically, gently pressing Damian’s hand into his own to keep the mask in place. “It’s helping you breathe.”

Damian’s body went rigid. He closed his eyes in a sharp fit of pain, jerking his head back and forth as a desperate attempt to free his face, flinching for a weapon in his boot that wasn’t there. Tim carefully slipped off Damian’s glove and rubbed his knuckles gently in slow, reassuring circles, guiding him back into his seat.

“Hey, you’re doing so good, okay? I know it’s scary. But it’s going to be okay. I promise you, everything will be okay.” Damian eased into Tim’s touch, each ragged breath fogging up the inside of his mask.

Suddenly, his hand went limp in Tim’s as he slipped back into unconsciousness. Tim’s stomach lurched violently as he panically pressed his fingers against Damian’s wrist to check for a pulse. He closed his eyes in pure relief as Dick pulled the Batmobile to a screeching stop in the cave. Not dead.

The next few minutes passed in a blur of stark white as Damian was whisked away on a stretcher to the cave’s surgical wing, Leslie barking orders to a swarm of nurses with Dick close at her heels. Tim was left standing in silence, his uniform soaked with his little brother’s blood, one of Damian’s gloves still clutched in his hand.

With the last of Tim’s adrenaline drained, his knees buckled, and he was sent crashing to the ground. The reality of the situation slammed into him. He felt his throat close up, leaving him to breathe only in short, strangled gasps, hot tears clouding his vision. Tim swiped at them absentmindedly with his palm, only to smear a streak of blood diagonally across his face. Damian’s blood. His stomach lurched, and bile clawed up his throat before he doubled over, retching onto the floor. Tim froze there, on his hands and knees, the room filled with only the sound of his choked breathing as the world closed in.

“What the—Kid?” he heard a familiar voice cut through the ringing in his ears, the sound of boots against tile echoing through the garage, stopping directly in front of him. Tim’s vision darkened around the edges as he continued to gasp sporadically, unable to get a full breath.

Jason dropped into a crouch in front of him, and his firm hand rested on Tim’s shoulder. “For fuck’s sake, Kid, breathe,” Jason’s voice faltered, and when he spoke again, it was softer. “Just focus on that. Breathe with me. You’re good.” Tim’s fingers dug into the floor, arms trembling as he tried to anchor himself against the tide of panic.

“It should have been me,” Tim managed to choke out between hyperventilating breaths. “He stepped in front of that knife for me. He’s going to die because of me.” Without Tim noticing, Jason had gently shifted him so he was propped up against the side of the Batmobile, sitting down beside him.

“Fuck that. Part of the job, Timbo. None of this is your fault. The kid made his choice to step in front of that knife. Blaming yourself won’t fix a damn thing,” Jason said with such resolute certainty it almost made Tim reconsider his panic. Almost.

“You didn’t see him, Jay. He was so pale. Lifeless. He lost so much blood. Too much blood. Too much for an eleven-year-old to lose.” Jason stiffened for a moment, then slid an arm around his little brother. Tim drew his knees to his chest, feeling his breathing begin to slow.

“If there’s one thing I know about the Demon Brat, it’s that he would never give us the satisfaction of dying before us,” Jason muttered. Tim felt a choked laugh escape his lips, and for a moment, all that filled the room was the sound of their rhythmic breathing.

Jason cleared his throat and held out a hand to Tim. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Then I’ve gotta make sure Dickhead hasn’t grabbed a scalpel and started operating on the little shit himself.”

Chapter Text

Tim’s reflection stared back at him from the bathroom mirror, almost unrecognizable. His mask lay discarded on the counter, glue residue still ghosting his skin. Dried blood clung beneath his fingernails, streaked across his face, matted in his tangled cloud of black hair. Tim’s complexion was even more pale than usual, the dark shadows beneath his eyes etched deep on his skin like tattoos. 

Jason knocked twice on the door before stepping inside, a towel slung over one shoulder and a change of clothes in his arms.

“Thought you could rinse off while I check on Dickhead,” he said, setting the clothes on the countertop and pressing the towel into Tim’s hands. “Where the hell’s Grandbat?”

Tim blinked, breaking his gaze from his reflection in the mirror and taking the towel absentmindedly.

“Alfred? Vacation. First one in, like, a decade. Perfect timing, right?” Tim muttered bitterly.

Jason huffed. “Figures. We’ll deal with it—I’ll call Alfie, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling the Bat his youngest kid just got skewered like a fucking kebab. That’s golden boy’s problem.” He gave Tim a sharp once-over. “You good? Any injuries?”

Tim shook his head. “No, I’m good. Thanks.” Not my blood, he thought.

Jason grunted. “Good.” He slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

Jason hadn’t even noticed that he was still in his Red Hood uniform until the scuff of his boots echoed throughout the cave as he headed toward the medical bay. Unsurprisingly, he found his older brother pacing furiously outside the doors to the surgical wing, fingers tangled in the roots of his thick black hair.

“Leslie kicked me out of the room. What if Damian wakes up during surgery and freaks the fuck out?” Dick’s eyes were wide with panic as he wrung his hands together. Oh fantastic. Another brother to talk off the ledge tonight, Jason thought.

“Listen, Dickhead—”

“What the hell am I going to tell Bruce if he dies?”

“Dickie—”

“And Tim is fucking traumatized. I’ve never seen him so scared.”

“Dick,” Jason snapped, grabbing both of his brother’s shoulders and shaking him, “quit panicking for two goddamn seconds and take a breath. We can’t help the Demon Brat when you’re like…” He gestured at all of Dick. “…this.” Dick took a sharp breath, rubbing a hand over his face and squeezing his eyes shut.

“You call the old man yet?” Jason asked, loosening his grip on Dick’s shoulders. Dick sucked in another shaky breath. 

“Yeah. He took it… Well, yeah. He was off-world. It’s gonna be a few days before he can get back.” Jason nodded grimly.

“And Alfie?” Dick shrugged.

“Somewhere in rural England. Can’t get a flight back until Monday. He’s losing it.” Dick’s eyes flicked away from Jason's gaze. “How’s Tim?”

“Showering. Changing into clean clothes. Which is what you should be doing right now.” Dick’s head shook adamantly.

“No. Jason, no. I can’t leave. What if Leslie comes—”

“Dick, shut the hell up. She said it would be a few hours. Take a shower, eat something. I’ll drag your ass back here if anything happens.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Stop whining like you were the one who was stabbed and leave.”

“I can’t.” Dick gritted his teeth, words barely escaping his lips as a strangled sob forced out of his throat. Jason sighed, letting go of Dick’s shoulders and pulling him close, rubbing his back in slow circles. He wrapped his arms protectively around Dick, fully prepared to support his brother's weight if he collapsed. Dick crumpled against him, silent tears soaking his shoulder. Jason could feel them wetting through the fabric of his shirt.

“Look, you can’t fix this right now, okay?” Jason muttered softly into his ear. “I get it. I’m freaked out, too. But you gotta take care of yourself, or we’re all fucking screwed.” Jason felt Dick further relax into his arms, and his breathing finally evened out.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Batman’s three ex-Robins (all now freshly showered and changed) sat in the cramped waiting room adjoining the surgical wing of the Batcave, pressed into tiny chairs, the suffocating silence only broken by the sound of Tim’s foot on tile. It had been over three hours since Damian had gone into surgery, with no update from Leslie. 

“Replacement, I swear to God, if you don’t stop tapping that damn—” Jason’s threat to his brother’s life was cut off as the door swung open. Leslie stepped in, six eyes instantly on her. Dick and Tim rose immediately, while Jason leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. She pulled down her surgical mask, its imprint engraved on her skin, and cleared her throat.

“The surgery went well. I was able to repair the torn muscle, but the wound to his abdomen was very deep,” Leslie said, pushing her glasses up on her pointed nose. “He will have an extensive recovery process.”

An unspoken weight lifted in the room, and Dick let out an audible sigh of relief. Leslie paused for a moment to let the news sink in before continuing.

“However, when I recovered the knife, it was coated in an unknown substance. A… poison. More specifically, from what I can determine, it was some sort of nightshade compound mixed with a belladonna derivative. So potent it should have stopped the heart of anyone exposed within thirty seconds.” Beside him, Tim felt Dick going rigid at her words.

“Now, you know I’m not the type of person who asks follow-up questions—especially when it comes to the Wayne family,” Tim observed that Leslie was choosing her following words carefully. “And I don’t need to know. But to be frank, I am extremely confused as to how Damian is still with us,” she admitted candidly. Silence thickened the air. Dick broke it, clearing his throat, voice quiet but steady.

“Damian… his body built up resistance to certain poisons in the League.”

Leslie hummed in understanding. Tim tensed at the disturbing thought of his little brother having to ingest a poison often enough to become immune to it.

“Well,” Leslie continued, “we mended the muscle tissue and stitched him up. But the toxin has already entered his bloodstream, and we’re limited in what we can do to mitigate its effects. He may experience some unpleasant symptoms once the anesthesia wears off—nausea, fever, hallucinations. But nothing life-threatening. He should make a full recovery.”

Tim felt as though a thousand pounds had been lifted off his chest. Leslie paused for a moment, pondering.

“I have to admit, Damian has been one of the most unusual patients I’ve treated in my career,” she said quietly. “His metabolic system actively resists sedation. Every synthetic drug, medication, or anesthetic I’ve administered is broken down far quicker than expected. His body simply can’t tolerate even the mildest sedatives or painkillers without undergoing extreme stress. I can only suspect this reaction stems from his… unique upbringing.”

Tim heard Jason curse the League under his breath.

“So he's just going to be in pain?” Tim said, his voice tight, sounding more desperate than he intended. “There has to be something we can do.”

Leslie gave him a sympathetic look. “For now, the safest approach is supplemental oxygen, fever reducers, and over-the-counter pain medication. Anything stronger risks serious complications.”

“When can we see him?” Dick breathed.

“He’s in the recovery room now. Still unconscious, but I suspect he’ll stir within the night. The sedatives never seemed to work very well on him.”

Before she could finish, Dick was already hurrying past her toward the recovery wing. Tim lingered, pausing to shake Leslie’s hand.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Tim and Jason followed close behind Dick as he headed straight to the room where Damian was staying, Leslie deliberately lagging a few steps back to give them space. The door was slightly ajar, a thin strip of dim light spilling out and cutting the hallway’s harsh fluorescent glow in half. Through the crack, Tim caught the faint beep of a heart monitor and what he thought was the shallow rasp of breathing, and his stomach clenched violently at the sound. Dick’s fingers hovered over the handle, brushing across the metal as he hesitated for a long moment before finally easing the door open. 

“Dami?” Dick whispered faintly as he stepped into the dim room, suddenly freezing in place. The only light in the room was the steady red glow of the heart monitor and a small lamp in the corner, framed by a few cushioned chairs and a potted plant. Tim trailed behind, while Jason lingered in the doorway, leaning his elbow on the frame as he took in the scene from a distance.

Tim couldn’t hold back a sharp gasp. For the first time, Damian looked his age, seeming impossibly small as he lay propped up on the hospital bed like a human doll. His eyes were closed, but his face was furrowed in pain, teetering on the edge of consciousness. He moved restlessly in his sleep, his head jerking slightly every few moments as he struggled for uneven breaths beneath the oxygen mask. Tubes snaked along his right arm, furiously pumping blood and saline into fragile veins. A loose cotton shirt clung desperately to his sickly gray skin, drenched in so much sweat that the harsh lines of Damian’s thick bandages were visible around his abdomen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason spat, lunging past Tim and grabbing the decorative plant, vomiting into it. Tim barely registered his brother’s sudden movement, pressing a hand to his mouth as he struggled to keep his own nausea from rising. Dick clenched his jaw, snapping into action as he dragged a chair up to Damian’s bedside, hovering a palm over the boy’s forehead without yet touching him. Jason had finished emptying his stomach into the foliage and was crouched over the pot, breathing heavily.

“Damian? Are you awake?” Dick’s eyes swept over every inch of his brother’s face, searching for any sign, any microexpression that might indicate awareness. Tim rested a hand on Jason’s back, but Jason flinched away immediately.

“I’m fine,” Jason said gruffly. “Focus on the kid. I just… I need a second.” He grabbed the plant and hurried out of the room. “Leslie’s gonna kill me.”

Tim stood helplessly in the corner, watching Dick try not to crumble as he slowly brushed a thumb gently along Damian’s cheek. Dick flinched back when Damian jerked once more, eventually hovering his palm just above the boy’s head, clearly afraid to touch him again. Tim shook off his frozen fear and moved quickly to the opposite side of the bed when he heard Damian murmur something in a low, strained voice, barely audible.

“Shh, Dami… it’s okay. Take your time waking up. I know it hurts,” Dick murmured, letting his fingertips brush over Damian’s scalp, gently moving the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead to the side.

“Ana…la…min fadlik…” Damian choked out, shaking his head rapidly in distress. The heart monitor began beeping in a faster rhythm. Dick’s hand paused. Suddenly, Damian’s eyes shot open, darting wildly as he gasped for a strangled breath. He lurched forward, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. His gaze flitted between Dick and Tim, but he didn’t really see them—eyes clouded with a feverish daze, confusion, and panic written across his face. Dick instinctively shot an arm out, standing up to brace his hands against Damian’s shoulders to keep him on the bed, careful not to press against the bandaged wound. Damian’s chest heaved, and the monitor’s beeping spiked again, climbing in urgency with each sporadic breath.

“Tim, get Leslie.” Before Tim had even processed what Dick said, Jason was at the door with Leslie on his heels.

“Ana asif… Ana asif,” Damian repeated rapidly, straining against Dick’s hand, though the apparent weakness in his body made his movements slow and uncoordinated.

“He’s apologizing for something,” Jason muttered, sidestepping past Tim to get closer to the bed, helping Dick to keep Damian down. Both of his brothers shot him questioning looks, and he just shrugged. “Spend a year in the League, you pick up on a few words.”

“I know, I know… just try to breathe, Dami. You need to breathe,” Dick said, Tim noting that his voice was tight with discomfort, no doubt from being forced to restrain his little brother in this way.

“So he’s speaking in Arabic,” Tim said, voice tight. “Wherever he thinks he is… It’s not here.”

Damian jerked his head toward Tim’s voice before slowly sinking back into his pillow, the fresh dose of sedative Leslie had just administered taking effect. His rigid body began to loosen, and his eyes flickered toward Tim, recognition and trust shining through the fevered haze.

Dick immediately noticed Damian’s change in demeanor and stepped aside, gesturing for him to take his chair next to the boy. Tim eased beside Damian, only breaking eye contact with him when the boy’s eyes slipped close. He gently clasped Damian’s small hand in his own.

“Alive…” Damian’s voice trailed off as he forced his eyelids open, stubbornly fighting to stay awake.

“It’s okay. You can sleep, Dames. You’re safe with me,” Tim breathed, rubbing his thumb back and forth over one of Damian’s knuckles.

Damian exhaled a contented sigh, and for the first time, Tim watched him truly let go, welcoming unconsciousness with open arms.

Chapter Text

The first thing Damian noticed when he stirred was the boiling sensation festering beneath his skin. Years of training kicked in, forcing him to keep his eyes shut and rely solely on his senses to uncover his surroundings. He was propped up on a bed, too firm to be the one he had become accustomed to while living with his father. Even through Damian’s closed eyelids, he could tell the room was smothered in darkness. And that he was alone.

Blistering heat clung to him, suffocating him in a chokehold. Much different than the damp chill of Gotham he had grown to tolerate, but a distinct and unforgiving heat that belonged elsewhere. Home. Not Wayne Manor, but the hidden city carved into the Himalayan mountains of Pakistan. Nanda Parbat.

A jolt of fear shot through him, sharper than the pain radiating from the bandages around his torso, sharper than the leaden weight in his limbs or the throbbing of his skull. A feeling of deep dread pierced through the exhaustion that had settled in the foundation of his bones. What had brought him here, to this stiff bed, this sweltering heat, this body that felt so broken? What foolish mistake had hurled him back to the place he swore to never return—the place where he was molded into a weapon of destruction by his own mother’s hand, no matter if it cost Damian his humanity.

His thoughts crashed over him like the icy waters of Gotham Harbor against skin seared by the blistering air of Nanda Parbat.

I must have failed Father. I must have… I must have killed someone. Someone important enough to send me back. The thought tore into him, merciless and unrelenting. A scream clawed at the edges of his mind— Drake? —but never reached the surface.

Agony hacked at his insides, grinding his heart into dust. He had been a fool to honestly believe that the grandson of the Demon’s Head, the disgraced heir to the League of Assassins, could shed his bloodline like skin and don a cape instead. A fool to think he could forge his own legacy. His blood was poison, his lineage a curse. Violence was engraved into him, deep as the Al Ghul blood running cold in his veins. Predestination. Gotham’s alleys could never wash away the blood of the bodies he’d left behind—mothers, husbands, children. They were ghosts that haunted his every waking moment.

His thoughts halted as he felt something pressed against his face. Trapping. Restricting. Smothering. He let out a strangled gasp, panic surging, and tried to lift his arms. Nothing. His hands remained pinned at his sides, frustratingly useless.

Drugged. Mother’s methods.

The realization was like ice melting through his fevered body. Damian had felt this sensation before. A memory uncoiled in his head like a serpent slithering in the dark, pulling him backwards, toward the moment that had scarred him forever.

And suddenly, he was there.

The stone felt cold and unyielding from beneath Damian’s knees. He was bowing so low that his hair brushed the floor beneath him, eyes drilled to the ground, refusing to meet the gaze of the two figures before him. Their stare bore into him, locking him in place like invisible chains.

“This will be the greatest test of your eight years on this earth.” His grandfather’s voice bellowed through the chamber. Vast, powerful, eternal. Damian sank his head lower at the sound.

Damian’s fists clenched until his fingernails drew blood. The sting grounded him against his mother’s voice, smoother than his grandfather’s, sweet like honey laced with venom.

“My heart, your fondness for animals troubles me deeply. Such lives are insignificant. They are distractions, nothing more than obstacles that keep you from becoming what you are meant to be.” She paused for a moment, brushing a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “But we can help to strip that weakness from you.”

Silence. Then his grandfather’s voice again: harsh, vicious, final.

“The Heir to the Demon’s Head will never falter over something so trivial as the life of an animal.”

Damian’s chest tightened as the sharp rattling of metal reached his ears. The frantic chirping of a bird—a Himalayan Monal, a pheasant native to the forests around Nanda Parbat—made his stomach twist painfully. He slowly lifted his head. A cloaked figure appeared, placing a gold-lined cage and a bucket of water before him, then vanished wordlessly into the chamber’s shadows. Damian’s gaze met the bird’s wide, black eyes that were filled with fear and confusion. Its typically brilliant feathers looked dull and muted in the room’s dim light. Every instinct in Damian’s body screamed at him to grab the cage, run, and never look back.

Then his grandfather’s voice cut through the thick air, sharp and unforgiving.

“Drown it.”

Damian’s small hands trembled violently as his fingertips grazed the cage’s cold metal. The bird’s frantic chirping rose into a shrill screech, ricocheting off the chamber walls. He forced himself to reach inside, wrapping his hand around its tiny chest. The rapid thump of its heart hammered against his palm, and he recoiled.

In that moment, the memories of every punishment he had endured, every life he had taken, every order he obeyed without question, slammed into him. Damian could feel his humanity, the very essence that made him a person on this planet, slipping away like the sun at dusk. This was a choice that he had to make for himself, no matter the cost. 

Slowly and deliberately, Damian released the bird from his grip. It flung itself backward, frantic to escape, driven by nothing more than the raw instinct to survive. He closed the cage, and the weight of his choice pressed down on him, feeling as trapped as the creature he had just spared.

A sharp gasp cut the air—his mother—and he saw his grandfather’s lips harden into a cold, cruel line. Damian bowed his head once more, fighting to steady his voice.

“I am sorry, Grandfather. But I refuse.”

“How disappointing,” his grandfather sneered, voice full of utter disgust. With a subtle motion of his hand, shadowed figures surged into the chamber, seizing Damian and forcing him to his feet. His arms were restrained behind him, and a sharp tug of his hair forced him to look upward, meeting the unblinking, merciless eyes of the Demon’s Head.

“If you cannot kill a single, insignificant creature,” Ra’s spat, “then you shall drown in its place.” He gave a curt nod, and the shadows heaved Damian backward, slamming him against the ground. Air ripped from his lungs, and he gasped desperately, clawing for every breath, bracing himself for what was inevitably coming. 

Damian refused to give his grandfather and mother the satisfaction of begging for mercy; he knew from experience that it would only make the punishment worse. All four of his limbs were pinned, a hand clamped tightly around his neck, the back of his head pressed into the cold floor. He blinked—and a thick cloth was forced over his face, plunging him into suffocating darkness.

Struggling beneath the weight, he heard his grandfather’s merciless voice come close, bending down to hiss in his ear, hot breath brushing over Damian’s skin.

“I am utterly ashamed at the prospect of my blood running through the veins of such a weak, inept excuse for an heir.”

When the voice receded, Damian was left alone with his mother—and a small, shameful part of him clung to the hope that she might intervene.

“This is for the best, Damian,” she said simply, her footsteps retreating.

Damian thrashed violently as water soaked the cloth, clogging his airways and triggering a harsh gag reflex. He let out a strangled gasp as more water poured over him, his lungs burning for a single breath of precious air. Panic surged through him as his fingernails raked the floor, desperate to find something solid to cling onto.

The water seeped deeper into the cloth, filling his nose and mouth. Cold, merciless, suffocating. The world constricted around him, and just as he felt himself slipping toward unconsciousness, the cloth was ripped away. Damian gasped for air in pure desperation, fueled by a primal urge to survive.

“Ana…la…min fadlik…” he pleaded, shame abandoned, hoping that the pain might stop if he sounded apologetic enough. Damian would do anything just to make it stop. He would kill the bird. And then he would never defy his grandfather again.

But the shadows were merciless, pressing the cloth over his face again, cutting off his air once more.

“Ana asif… Ana asif,” he screamed, the words muffled by the damp cloth. Cold water poured over his head, the sensation unbearable—trapping, restricting, smothering. 

“I think he’s speaking Arabic…Wherever he thinks he is… it’s not here.”

The words pierced through his panic as darkness receded and warmth flooded his body. Drake. But that wasn’t possible. Damian had killed him—that was why he had been sent back to Nanda Parbat in the first place.

The world around him shifted. The soft comfort of a pillow replaced the hard ground, a gentle touch on his forehead instead of the cloth’s crushing weight. Rhythmic beeping filled his ears, steady and grounding. Relief surged through Damian as the realization hit him all at once: Drake was still alive. Father hadn’t sent him back to the League.

“Alive…” Damian managed to choke out, half expecting all the water he had swallowed to spill from his mouth. Consciousness threatened to slip through his fingers, yet he forced himself to pry his eyelids open. When had they closed? He needed to see Drake again—needed to know this wasn’t some cruel parlor trick, some figment of his imagination.

“You’re safe with me,” Drake said from somewhere nearby him. Never had Damian imagined that his voice could bring him this much comfort. 

Safe.

He let himself succumb to the darkness.