Archive of Our Own ^beta

Damian gritted his teeth. It was always Isley.

He could manage Crane’s fear toxin. He had the antidote to Joker’s laughing serum. But the only way to get past Ivy’s pollen was to wait.

Ivy had broken into a powerplant, destroying everything in the vicinity with her vines. Batman and Robin had intercepted her, knocked her out, and sent her back where she came from. All in all, it was a quick mission. Half of the powerplant was reduced to rubble, but it wouldn’t be difficult to rebuild. Batman and Robin had grappled back to the Cave, filed a report, and been on their way.

During the fight, he’d gotten scratched by a vine. It wasn’t deep—it had barely drawn any blood—so Damian had deemed it unnecessary to report. Besides, he’d been trained by the League of Assassins. He could manage a scratch.

But now, Damian was starting to feel symptoms.

The effects of Ivy’s pollen could last anywhere from a few hours to a few days, an unpredictable amount of time where one would only be able to discern the crippling feeling of emptiness.

Damian was no stranger to this sensation. He’d felt it all throughout his years with the League, though he hadn’t known a name for it back then. It was when he’d moved into the Manor with his family that he realized loneliness didn’t have to be the norm.

He’d gotten used to it, he supposed, which was stupid; he’d been raised by the feared Ra’s al Ghul himself. Damian was capable of killing without breaking a sweat. He shouldn’t be affected by something as trivial as being alone.

But curled up in his comforter, a pillow barrier pressing against him from all sides, heat pads resting between his knees—he was freezing.

The void inside Damian ensured he would freeze until provided with human contact. Alas, Grayson was off in Bludhaven and Father was finally taking a forced rest, and Pennyworth would surely punish anyone who dared disturb it. Damian would sooner give up the Robin mantle than face the humiliation of asking any of the others.

He could manage. He’d gone through much worse in his time already; loneliness wouldn’t kill him.

But it sure felt like it would.

——————

Hours passed, and sunlight broke through the clouds. Damian hadn’t been able to sleep, his heavy eyes and fatigue no match for the cold shroud wrapped around him.
 

With great reluctance, he managed to extract himself from the blankets and pillows. An absence at breakfast would not go unnoticed in a family of detectives. He would make an appearance and exit under the excuse of homework. With any luck, the rest of the family would be too busy to notice his lack of presence for the rest of the day as he stayed curled up in bed. He’d need another plan for the following days, but he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Sure enough, Damian arrived in the kitchen to find Drake huddled over reports (typical), Brown typing away urgently on her phone, and Cain away at a ballet rehearsal. Todd must have retired to his own apartment after patrol last night.

Quickly, Damian poured himself a cup of water. He grabbed an apple from a bowl in the center of the counter and scurried past Brown to exit.

“Hey, demon brat,” a deep voice said through a yawn.

Damian’s head jerked up as Todd stepped through the threshold. What is he doing here?

Caught off guard, Damian tripped over his own feet to duck away when Todd raised a hand to ruffle his hair. He usually let it happen, but he knew, he knew that if Todd so much as laid a finger on his head he’d be unable to resist shoving himself into the crime lord. One glimpse of warmth was never enough—but obtaining it would mean humiliation. It would mean admitting that he’d practically failed. It would mean that he’d gotten somehow worse at his technique since leaving the League.

Todd raised an eyebrow. “Everything alright there?”

No, he wanted to say. I am all but at gunpoint with this stupid, frivolous feeling that shouldn’t faze warriors. I’m cold, and I’m empty, and all I want is a hug and—

“Quite,” Damian said instead, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes as he left.

——————

The cold was unbearable.

It had only gotten worse in the time that had passed, the icy void consuming his every thought. Damian hadn’t moved from his bundle of blankets and heat pads since returning from breakfast, which must have been at least four hours ago, according to his internal clock, but he couldn’t be sure. It was getting increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than the pressing loneliness.

He berated himself. He was a warrior. A trained assassin. He had survived the likes of the worst villains to roam the earth.

He was heir to the Demon and son of the Bat.

In all truthfulness, his incapacitation was a blow to his ego.

Hours later, the small rays of sunlight began to fade from their position peeking through Damian’s blinds. It would be time for patrol soon.

With incredible disinclination, Damian made his way off of his bed and trudged to the closet. He grabbed his Robin uniform with little enthusiasm, putting it on and sticking his mask to his face as the pool of dread in his stomach grew.

He succeeded in getting to the Cave, grabbing his katana and throwing his hood over his head. Tonight’s patrol would hopefully be uneventful, and he could retreat back to his bed as soon as possible. He’d be with Batman tonight, so even if there were a couple of thugs along the way, they’d be a simple task.

He hoped.

——————

The breeze against Damian’s back cut through him like a knife.

He and Batman were perched on the roof of some apartment building in the Bowery, observing a potential mugging below. Batman was already tensed in an about to grapple down kind of way, and Damian bit back a curse as he jumped down to the alley below, forcing Damian to follow.

Without speaking, Batman stood in between the thug and victim, silently daring the mugger to continue.

Much to Damian’s dismay, the thug glowered at them and brought out a concealed gun. Damian let himself curse out loud this time, dodging right before the bullet could slice through his heart.

Batman lunged at the criminal, swinging his fist in a right hook to the other man’s jaw. The criminal stumbled back at the hit, ducking out of the way a mere second before Batman could land another.

Damian threw a batarang, carefully avoiding contact with anyone around him. The sharp metal collided with his enemy’s arm and he let out a scream, aiming the gun at Damian now.

He should’ve been able to dodge.

But he only managed to twist enough for the bullet to lodge itself in his left arm instead of his skull.

It hurt like hell, but even the fire spiraling from his arm couldn’t drown out the icy nothingness he hadn’t been able to escape.

Damian growled, using his right arm to blindly throw another batarang, and Batman managed a punch that knocked out the thug. Batman pressed a button on his belt to alert Commissioner Gordon of the unconscious man in need of arrest, and turned to Damian.

Instinctively, Damian backed away at Batman’s step forward.

“We need to get to the Cave,” Batman said, trying to grab on to Damian’s uninjured arm. Damian jerked back before he made contact. Batman narrowed his eyes under the mask.

“You were shot,” he said, trademark growl not quite able to mask the concern in his voice.

Damian pressed his lips together in a fine line. “I have had worse,” he fought out through the pain.

“Robin, I am not having this discussion right now.” His voice took on a more authoritative and scolding tone, and normally that would make Damian straighten up, apologize, and follow orders—but today is different.

“I am fine,” Damian insisted through gritted teeth. He turned away, grabbing his grappling hook from his belt and aiming it for a nearby building. He wobbled on his feet.

And then the air behind him changed. Immediately, he leapt to the side, turning around as Batman’s hand gently passed over what would’ve been Damian’s shoulder.

“Robin—” Batman started, alarmed, but Damian was already on the next rooftop.

——————

Bullet wounds were notoriously hard to walk off, and any notion inside Damian that may have suggested otherwise was quickly stamped out by the searing pain emanating from the wound on his arm as he sat, curled up next to an air conditioning unit on a rooftop somewhere in downtown Gotham. At first, he’d tried to get the bullet out himself, but even gently grazing his fingers over the bloody skin sent waves of alarm to his brain. He settled for wrapping a bandage from his utility belt around it to staunch the blood flow, clenching his teeth together to discourage any screaming.

The blood loss was starting to make his head spin.

His cape pulled over him, he’d manage to escape being spotted by the rest of Gotham’s vigilantes in the dark of the night. In the beginning, they’d been all over the comms—shouting for Damian’s location and what was wrong with him and did he even have an inkling of sense—until Damian had gotten fed up with their incessant jabbering and yanked the device out of his ear.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, fine, but Damian figured he could wait on the rooftop until the pollen wore off, head back to the Manor, and deal with whatever lecture or punishment he had waiting for him when he didn’t have to worry about the ice.

His plan worked for all of fifteen minutes before he heard the thump of a pair of heavy-set boots landing a few feet away.

“Hey, kid,” a gruff voice said. “Forget to disable your tracker?”

Damian let out a few colorful phrases. What was going on with him? He’d never been this incompetent before.

The Red Hood took a few steps closer. Despite himself, Damian curled up tighter. The hood of his cape covered his expression, so it was a small blessing that Hood couldn’t see the anguish on his youngest brother’s face.

To his credit, Hood paused. Damian couldn’t see anything; could only listen as Hood crouched down beside him—close enough to reach out to Damian if he wanted to, but just far enough that they wouldn’t touch.

A click, and Damian heard the sound of a metal helmet hitting the concrete. A minute of silence went by, and then,

“What’s up, kiddo?”

Damian scoffed. “I am fine,” he said, voice wavering even as he fought to keep it steady.

“You’ve been off this whole day, skipped training, and went ballistic when Bruce tried to check your injury. We’re past the point of denial.”

Refusing to give a reply, Damian just clutched himself tighter.

“Is there any specific reason you’re acting like this?” Jason asked, traces of amusement laced in the question. “Or are you just having a temper tantrum? If so, Bruce won’t be—” Jason stopped abruptly. “...Damian?”

“Don’t touch me!” Damian snapped, flinching back when he heard a soft rustle. He was starting to hyperventilate now. He was cornered, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t escape this godforsaken pollen, he was sorry, okay, he didn’t mean to get scratched, he should have been better and I won’t do it again, Mother, I promise—

Warmth.

Real, true warmth for the first time in what already seemed like years as Jason’s arms wrapped around Damian’s trembling body, holding him close.

He couldn’t help but melt into the embrace, finally, finally warm after all this time.

“Wait,” Damian said through gasps for air, “How did—”

“You and I are not so different, buddy. Now shut up and let me take you to the Cave.”

For once, Damian was too tired to protest.

——————

“Attachments will make you weak,” Mother said, a cold hand on Damian’s shoulder as they stood before fallen warriors. “Our weaknesses plague us. Do not make the same mistake they did.”

Damian didn’t know the story behind the bodies. He knew better than to ask. 

——————

“Now, Master Damian, I trust you have been made aware of the importance of bullet wound care?” Pennyworth chided, wrapping Damian’s arm in bandages.

Damian was lying between Todd and Brown on a cot in the medbay, arm slightly lifted as Pennyworth finished tending to his wound. Drake slouched at the foot of the cot, hunched over his ever-present laptop and typing away at some unknown project. One-handed, apparently, as Drake’s right arm was raised to rest a hand on Damian’s as Pennyworth continued working.

The bare minimum, Damian noted. But deep down, he appreciated the gesture.

“I suppose,” Damian conceded. No promises for the future would be made, but perhaps he could take the butler’s concerns into consideration next time he found himself on the receiving end of a gunshot.

Unlikely, though, since Damian would be sure not to allow any similar occurrences. Once was already enough to inspire teasing for days; twice, and he’d never live it down.

Pennyworth didn’t look quite convinced, but he let the subject drop.

Todd shifted beside Damian, draping an arm across the latter’s stomach. Damian would deny until the end of his days how good it felt against the aftereffects of the pollen.

The antidote had been administered as soon as Todd brought Damian to the Cave, huddled and shaking in his arms. While it offered a subdued relief, the pollen would only be completely fought off an hour after dispensation.

Originally, Damian had put up a fight when Todd called down his siblings.

“Such requests are beneath me, Todd. I have no need for their assistance.”

“You know, I might just believe you if you weren’t busy burrowing your poky little nose into me right now.”

“Tt.”

And while this was a humiliating scenario, Damian had to admit that it worked.

His thoughts were clear, his teeth no longer chattered. The frost in his blood was no longer debilitating. Brown’s gentle hand carding through his hair, Todd’s arm across his torso, even Drake’s somewhat reluctant grip on his wounded arm…

It all kept the cold at bay.

Not that he would ever say such a thing, of course.

Steps echoed from across the Cave. Damian tilted his head up to see Father descending the staircase, suit still on but lacking his cowl. When he caught sight of Damian, his steps picked up speed. Soon, he was leaning over the pile of his children, glancing down at his youngest with his eyes twisted in concern.

“Damian,” he said, reaching out a hand to cup Damian’s cheek.

“Father.”

Father pressed his lips into a thin line before saying, “You went against protocol.” Ah. Yes.

Damian turned his head to the side, unwilling to look his father in the eye. “I have had worse injuries than a bullet wound, Father. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I wasn’t talking about your arm.”

Damian hesitated for a moment, then said, “I reiterate: I can take care of myself.”

A deep sigh. “We just want to help you, son.”

Damian blinked once. Then again, as something behind his eyes started to burn. Rapidly, now, as tears threatened to spill over and—he settled with squeezing his eyes shut, quelling the flow of the traitorous water. He would not fall prey to such juvenile responses to discomfort.

The room fell silent for a few minutes as it seemed no one was quite sure of what to say. Pennyworth finished dressing Damian’s wound and placed his arm back down. Drake’s hand, peculiarly, kept its grip.

—————

“You know, we would’ve helped you.”

Damian opened his eyes. Whoever had spoken had woken him up from a light sleep.

“I did not think it necessary,” Damian said quietly for what seemed like the thousandth time tonight.

“Is there a reason you didn’t come to us?” the person said again, and this time Damian recognized the voice as Drake’s.

Perhaps it was the exhaustion or an unknown side effect of the pollen that made Damian blurt out, “I did not want anyone to know of my failure.” Because that’s what it was. That’s what he was—no one worthy of the al Ghul name would allow themself to be so careless.

“Damian…” Drake began. “You didn’t fail. Everyone here has gotten in the way of pollen at some point or another.”

“But I am not you,” Damian said, gritting his teeth.

Drake scoffed. “Yeah, you’ve made it exceedingly clear that you’d rather die than be associated with most of us. You know, it wouldn’t kill you to—”

“That’s not it!” Damian shouted. Was no one in this godforsaken family of detectives capable of common sense? “I am not able to request help from each of you as easily as you all can! I can stomach help from Grayson, who is incapable of seeing me as anything other than someone to protect and care for. But you all have different opinions of me. I am not affectionate like Brown, I am not touch-starved like you, Drake, and I have not ever been able to fail and come back with the same amount of respect as before!” Oh no, now he was crying. Hot tears were streaming down his face and he couldn’t stop it—if he were still in Nanda Parbat, he would surely be whipped for such hysterics.

No one spoke for a long while. Damian furiously wiped away the water on his face, almost rubbing the skin raw. Todd shifted in his sleep, and Brown must have been awake, but she remained silent.

“You’re not there anymore,” came Drake’s quiet voice. “Ra’s, Talia—they’re not here.”

“I know that,” Damian said in a small voice.

“Maybe you know that they’re not in the Manor,” Drake continued. “But we won’t ever treat you like they did.”

“We love you, Damian,” Brown said beside him, finally piping up.

Oh.

Well.

Damian didn’t respond.

But he felt warm.