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The night started quiet. Damian supposed that’s always how it goes. He and Batman weren’t even doing anything, simply sitting on the edge of a Gotham rooftop.
Then Todd’s voice, desperate in their ears.
“Tim’s down!” Todd himself was wheezing, and the sounds of gunfire echoed across the link. Father had already thrown himself off the roof, grapple shooting out towards Crime Alley, where Red Hood and Red Robin were supposed to be on a stake-out. Evidently, it was not going well.
“Status,” Batman said. Damian hastened to catch up. He would be the first to admit that Drake could take care of himself, and Damian liked to tell himself that he didn’t care whether he lived or died, but even he had to concede that the urgency in Todd’s voice, as well as the casual manner with which he threw Red Robin’s real name out, was enough to have his heart speeding up.
“Three entry wounds, at least,” there was some swearing, some gunfire, louder, presumably Todd’s. “No idea about exits - this fucking idiot why’d he have to make his suit goddamn red of all things-”
“Oracle,” Batman clipped.
“Car’s enroute,” Barbara assured. “Alfred’s getting the medbay ready.” More swearing on Todd’s end. “How are his vitals?”
“Tachycardic, unconscious but still breathing,” Jason’s voice trailed off. “It’s really bad, B.”
Father’s entire body tensed, muscles pushing harder, further, faster. Damian’s eyes were peeled across the horizon.
“There,” he pointed to what looked to be red smoke billowing up out of one of the alleys. Batman twisted in one smooth motion, Robin right behind him. He landed, and slipped, oddly enough, brows creasing. His balance was impeccable. He frowned down at the ground and tensed involuntarily.
Blood. He’d slipped in blood.
Father was already at Todd’s side, who cradled Drake across his lap like he was something precious. Several patches of his uniform were noticeably darker than the rest, blood seeping through once-white gauze pads that Todd held to Drake’s side in a death-grip.
It pooled across the alley, squelching the bottoms of Robin’s boots and turning his stomach. He swallowed, heartbeat echoing in his own ears.
It wasn’t his first time seeing blood. Wasn’t even his first time slipping in blood, so why now was he queasy? He blinked, and then Todd was clambering into the backseat of the Batmobile, Drake in arms. A hand settled around Damian’s arm and he startled, then flushed. Father was frowning down at him.
“Robin, we have to go,” he said, pulling Damian away from the blood (Drake’s blood) and pushing him into the passenger seat. He buckled his seatbelt just in time for Father to floor it, wheels squealing and a faint burning rubber smell as they tore through the Gotham streets. The only other sensation even similar to this was when Grayson insisted on taking him out of the state, to an infernal circus he called Coney Island. Damian’s stomach churned dangerously, but that still didn’t make sense - it was feeling out of sorts before they’d even gotten in the car.
A sharp cry tore through the air - Todd’s - and Damian jumped (again?!). Father only urged the Batmobile faster.
“Jason-”
“Starting CPR,” Todd said, and Damian couldn’t quite help himself from whipping around to stare. Todd was as large as their Father, 6 feet and 220 pounds of pure muscle. He was large, built like a fridge, Brown once joked, but Damian had never considered his and Drake’s size difference before now. Drake was by no means scrawny, but even one of Todd’s palms took up a formidable amount of space on his chest. He counted under his breath, harsh whispers. Then, a cracking sound that had Damian nearly leaping into the backseat.
“You’re hurting him!” burst out of his mouth before he could help it, twisting and pulling against the seatbelt he’d forgotten about. Jason startled, head whipping up to stare at Damian, but he did not stop in his ministrations. The lenses of his domino were cracked, and Damian hated the pained look he saw in his left eye.
“I know,” he said, voice strangled. “I know, but I gotta- Dames, I have to-”
“1 minute,” Father grit out, gear-shifting with practiced ease and swinging them around the bridge that connected Bristol to the rest of Gotham. Damian had the inexplicable urge to clamp his hands over his ears and squeeze his eyes shut, like he used to do when he was young and encountered this odd squeezing tightness in his chest. It hadn’t happened since before he came to live with his Father.
After what felt like the longest minute in the world, they screeched to a halt in the Batcave, the seatbelt digging uncomfortably into Damian’s chest at the sudden stop. Todd was already out and sprinting across the cave, Drake held tightly against his chest. Damian just sat, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. His door opened and he recoiled, breaths coming in urgent pants.
Grayson was there, crouched at Damian’s side. Mask off, so Damian was able to see how red-rimmed and teary his eyes already were. He wasn’t smiling though. In fact, he looked concerned for Damian.
What’s wrong with you? He wanted to ask. I’m not the one injured. It’s not my blood. This, absurdly, made him queasy again, and he must have turned positively green, because it wasn’t even thirty seconds later that he was leaning out of the Batmobile (when did he unbuckle his seatbelt?) and depositing his stomach contents all over the floor.
He blinked, and then he was seated, leaning against the car while Richard fussed over him.
“You with me, baby bat?”
“Of course I am,” Damian rasped, but the words were clinical, methodical. Like he was just parroting himself. Something flashed in Richard’s eyes, but it was too brief, too there-and-gone-again for Damian to properly analyze it.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Fifteen minutes later saw Damian changed and showered, his hair still drying. He sat stiffly alongside his brothers. Todd had since discarded of his armor, and his hands looked as though they’d been hastily wiped, but not properly clean. Otherwise, Damian wouldn’t have been able to see the drying flecks of Drake’s blood still on his palms.
Father was in the operating room with Pennyworth. And Drake. Obviously.
“What happened?” Richard asked. Todd flinched, eyes fluttering shut.
“I have no idea,” the admittance clearly pained him. He squeezed his hands together, widening his stance to rest his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t even know we’d been caught until Tim went down.” Richard ran a haphazard hand through his hair. His knee bobbed rapidly. Eventually, he stood. Todd groaned.
“If you’re gonna pace, can you at least go get some food?” he asked.
“Sure,” Richard said absently. He glanced at Damian. “Dami? You want anything?” Damian shook his head. His eyes were affixed to the ground.
His traitorous mind would not forget what had occurred in the Batmobile. That horrific crunch that Drake’s chest had made when Todd administered CPR. Couldn’t forget his own voice, ripped from his throat without his consent.
You’re hurting him
Richard left. Damian remained blinking at the floor.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” Todd’s voice broke the silence. Despite the softness of his tone, Damian flinched.
“I wasn’t scared.”
“I was.”
Damian’s head whipped up to stare at his older brother. His akhi. “You?”
Todd scoffed. “‘Course,” he said gruffly. “Seeing Tim like that…” They lapsed back into silence. Richard, despite Damian’s insistence he was fine, brought him a ginger ale.
“For your stomach,” he said unnecessarily.
“Tt,” Damian said. Still, he sipped from it sparingly. If it would help him avoid such an embarrassing upset like when he’d temporarily lost control over his faculties earlier, he would take it.
Father appeared some hours later. At the sight of him, Damian, whose eyes had begun to droop, sat up ramrod straight. Todd pushed to his feet. Richard froze, eyes quietly assessing.
“He’s alive,” Father said.
A muscle jumped in Richard’s jaw. “How bad?”
And Father… shuddered, would be the best word for it. Damian did not like it one bit.
“One grazed his heart. He was bleeding into his lungs. Alfred managed the repairs. Tim just,” Father inhaled. “He just has to make it through the night.”
Damian didn’t think that sounded very optimistic, but Richard sucked in a great breath beside him and bowed his head.
“Thank God,” he whispered. Todd was similarly affected, especially when Father brushed a hand against his shoulder.
“You saved your brother’s life,” he told him, and Damian was horrified to see tears welling in Todd’s eyes. “You can see him, if you want.” That was all the invitation Todd and Richard needed, on their feet and pushing past Father before Damian could blink.
Father came and crouched before him. “Are you alright, Damian?”
Damian bristled. “I’m fine,” he snapped. “I’m not the one who was shot.” Father’s eyes were too-knowing, soft in a way that was still strong. Absently, Damian wondered how long it took his Father to learn that. He wondered when Damian himself would learn it.
He followed his Father into the medbay, insistent that he wasn’t a child and that he could handle seeing Drake, when he stilled. Father’s hand on his shoulder suddenly felt like a vice.
Even in sleep, Timothy was never still. He twitched like a nervous rabbit, chest heaving with great breaths. Now, Damian could barely count his breaths. There was a tube down his throat, and perhaps that was the part Damian kept getting stuck on. Drake looked, suddenly, and similarly to how he had under Todd, very small in that hospital bed. Damian’s chest did that weird squeezing thing again, and his stomach somersaulted. He was distantly thankful that he’d drunk that ginger ale.
“He needs a Lazarus pit,” he said. Everyone stiffened, even Pennyworth, who was adjusting Drake’s saline drip.
“Damian…” Richard started. His voice was soft, and Damian got the sudden impression that he was being treated with kid-gloves. He bristled instinctively.
“He needs a Lazarus pit,” he spat. “He’s clearly circling the drain. A pit would cure him instantly.”
“Yeah,” Todd scoffed, eyes dark when he shot a glare at Damian. “And turn him into a homicidal maniac.”
“Damian,” Father said, and Damian had to fight a flinch. “Even if we had access to one, Tim was very clear. He does not wish to be healed via Lazarus pit, not under any circumstances.”
“What do you mean?” And oh, how Damian loathed how small his voice sounded.
“In his medical directive,” Richard spoke up. “Tim made a specific note that he wasn’t to be put in a Lazarus pit.” Damian’s heart did a funny jump. Paired with the tightness in his chest, his heart felt like it was pushing against invisible bonds.
“Wha…” he trailed off, tongue flapping uselessly. Surely, Timothy would understand. Surely, Timothy would want to live, no matter the consequences. Surely, Timothy couldn’t-
Damian turned and bolted. Someone shouted after him, but Father’s voice, soft and placating, followed him.
“Let him go,” he said. “He needs a minute.” Damian weaved through the cave, finally coming to the Batcomputer. He ducked under the desk, making himself as small as possible and tucking himself far beneath the console. His eyes stung, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his middle, feeling the anxious jump of his aorta in his stomach.
Who was he kidding?
Of course he cared whether Timothy lived or died.
Over the past six months, Drake had gone from, well, Drake, to Timothy. Timothy, who whenever he had to pick Damian up from school and bring him to Wayne Enterprises, would let him sit in on board meetings and was actually interested to hear what Damian thought. Timothy, who never treated him like a kid; who would swing by Batburger without Damian needing to ask, and who knew his order by heart; who had begun teaching him how to play Animal Crossing, and Mario Kart, and never sulked when Damian beat him, only laughed and held up a hand for a high-five.
Timothy, who had against all odds, became Damian’s brother.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep, only knew that he was roused when Todd poked him with the end of a bō staff. He glared. Todd grinned.
“Tim’s awake.”
Timothy wasn’t sitting up, still slumped in his sickbed, but the tube had been removed from his mouth, and he was managing a tired smile when Damian rounded the corner. When his eyes fell on Damian, his smile widened.
“Hey, brat,” he said.
Damian hesitated in the doorway. Honestly, he’d already sort of thrown his dignity out the window when he scrambled out from under the Batcomputer and sprinted away from his akhi. But maybe Timothy didn’t want him here. Maybe he-
Timothy frowned. “What are you doing all the way over there for?” Damian’s breath hitched, and slowly, he stepped up to Timothy’s bedside, Richard naturally backstepping to allow Damian an audience. Timothy’s head lolled to the side, smiling dopily at Damian.
“I was wondering where you were.”
Damian was absently aware of Richard, Father, and Pennyworth leaving the room. He wanted to be irritated, but found that he could feel nothing but gratitude. The privacy allowed him to relinquish whatever hold he had left on his emotions, because before he knew it, he was crying. Timothy looked as horrified as Damian felt.
“Dames-”
“Timothy,” Damian whined, a high-pitched keen that he could be embarrassed about later. He felt so much like a child, then, so much younger than his 12 years. And Timothy - Timothy was only 17. Speaking of, his brother scooted back as much as he was able and patted the cot. Damian blinked at it, all the while tears continued to roll down his cheeks in fat droplets. “Wha-”
“Get up here, idiot,” Timothy said. Face flushing, but figuring he had nothing to lose (especially not now that Timothy pulled through), Damian acquiesced. He was mindful of all of Timothy’s wires and bandages, but the older boy had no such reservations, pulling Damian tightly against him even while wincing. Perhaps if Damian were less selfish, he would’ve protested. Would’ve argued that Timothy was still too weak, his wounds still too fresh for such contact.
As it was, Damian only curled into his brother.
“Your ribs,” he mumbled. Contradictorally, Timothy only held him tighter.
“I’ll live.”
Damian’s breath hitched again. “Don’t joke,” he said, dangerously close to pleading.
“Okay,” Timothy hurried. “Sorry. Too soon.” Damian swallowed, nodding as much as he was able to.
“You aren’t allowed to die,” he said. “I forbid it.” Timothy chuckled, a wry, tired thing.
“Whatever you say, brat,” he said. Damian nodded, but his body was already betraying him. Despite Todd only having woken him a matter of moments ago, he was already fighting sleep again. Timothy seemed to know, for his hand carded gently through Damian’s hair to cup the back of his head. “Now shut up. I need to rest.”
They were both out in a matter of minutes, but each with a small, relieved smile on their lips.