Chapter Text
The catwalk under Damian’s feet groaned. He could almost hear the rusty bolts squeaking against the metal sheeting they held into place. It was as if the whole thing was about to sway and then burst apart like Damian’s Lego structures did when Titus ran through them, completely unaware of the hours of work that had gone into them.
He shifted his feet and turned his attention back to the control pad he was working on. The catwalk would would hold. It had held for the number of years since it had been constructed, and had held under countless feet trampling across it to do repairs on one side of the waterworks or the other. What he needed to worry about now was stopping the virus implanted in the facilities systems.
Damian had no idea what it was supposed to do, but from the way the man his father was fighting below had been monologuing it couldn’t be good. His fingers danced along the keypad as he attempted to log in. One good wash of the whole system should clear the bug from the computers and put things back to normal, he just had to break the code and get in.
He spared a single glance down at Batman. His father was busy dealing with a handful of thugs and their ringleader. Mr. Monologuer wasn’t even Gotham enough to warrant a mask or fancy name, he was simply a thug who’d thought he had a good idea and had gotten caught by the Batman. Damian wasn’t worried, but he’d be happier below helping his father all the same. It wasn’t good to underestimate anyone, goofy name or not.
He cracked the code and allowed himself a small smile at the victory. It took him a few seconds to reboot the system. All around him came the sound of hums and whirs slowing as systems ran through shutdown procedures, the lights above even flickered for a moment.
With the entire place slowing down, Damian could hear sounds of a fight still going on below him. He stepped back away from the control panel towards the edge of the catwalk. His plan was to pull his grapple out and use it to jump down to help his father in the fight.
The structure groaned then metal screeched as rust gave way and bolts popped out of their sockets and the catwalk under Damian’s feet began to jerk and shudder violently. Segments began to drop away, one after another, shaking the one Damian was standing on and sending him tumbling forward with a yelp.
His stomach hit the protective rail and, in another moment, the failing catwalk shook again. This time, the grating below his feet gave way, dropping and spinning below him to splash into a tank of water. Damian scrabbled for the rail, gripping it tight with both hands before looping one arm around it, his other hand going to his hip for his grapple gun.
The rail snapped and dropped along with a shower of other bits and pieces. One of them, part of the railing, smacked Damian’s hand with the grapple, and sent the gun spinning down, below him. He sucked in a quick, too shallow, breath of air and tucked his body in preparation for impact with the water below.
He hit the water a second after the grapple did. The force of the impact broke Damian’s tuck and he splayed in the deep container, sinking for a moment before he could get his bearings. The water around him shifted and roared with life as more metal rained into it, breaking and dragging through the once still water, creating currents that shoved and spun him in dizzying waves.
He had to get up, had to right himself. His lungs were already beginning to strain against the pathetic gulp of air he’d taken in. He’d manage if he could only get himself righted. He flipped over in the water, from his back to stomach, ready to pull himself up. Something heavy hit his back, pushing him further down and forcing the trapped air in his lungs to escape.
Shock had Damian gasp in a mouthful of water, only to spit it out the next moment. His lungs burned, jerking against his windpipe as if to say “We are empty and writhing” His vision was spotty, and all he wanted to do was breathe.
Like a child trying to stay underwater longer than his brother, Damian threw a hand over his mouth, pinching his nose with two fingers. He shifted again, and kicked against the side of the container closest to him, pushing himself up towards the top. His free hand pushed at the water, his legs kicking at anything to give him that burst he needed.
His chest caught again, and Damian swallowed, as if that would stop the burning need for air. The spots were worse now as black inched in from all sides. It wasn’t dizzy spots from a fall but instead those of encroaching unconsciousness and the ache for oxygen.
An arm reached in and caught him around the middle and pulled him up, sputtering and coughing into clear air. The hand, and another helped sit him down on a platform. Damian let himself sit there, a puddle forming around him, while he caught his breath, and refilled his lungs. Batman knelt by him, resting one hand on Damian’s shoulder. He watched him carefully, his jaw tight with worry.
It had taken time, but Damian had learned the difference between his father’s worried and angry jaws. Anger usually came with other body language of the sort, balled fists or a vein in Father’s neck that jutted just at the point where chin turned into neck and met the rest of the suit. Worry was almost pursed lips, one side drawn in further than the other like an inverted dimple.
He coughed, the water still coating the inside of his mouth and tickling the back of his throat. It tasted funny, tangy and odd. Damian passed the flavor off as being because it had only been partially treated in the plant so far. He ran the back of his hand across his nose, trying to stop the seeping watery snot, overflow from his body trying to keep him from drowning when he’d tried to breathe water.
“I’m fine.” he rasped, and coughed again, “Swallowed some water, but I’m fine.”
“Hm.” Father said, “We are done here.” he announced.
Damian peered around him to get a better look at the floor below them. Everyone, including the ringleader, had been knocked out and zip tied. They really were done.
“Should we--” Damian broke off to cough again, water tickling the back of his throat, “take some time to check things out?” he finished.
His father hummed, “I’ve already contacted the police, if there’s anything else wrong they’ll find it. We are going home.”
He fiddled with the cape around his shoulders, detaching it, and pulling it from his back. Then Father swung it around and wrapped Damian in it. The cape was like a weighted blanket, heavy and comforting on his shoulders, even if it did little to help soak up the wet.
“It’s cold outside.” Father explained, helping Damian stand.
Damian nodded, tugging the edges of the cape closer to himself so that he was wrapped snugly in it. The edge dragged behind him as he followed Father out of the building and on the too long trek back to the car. He still hadn’t managed to clear up the tickle in his throat and once outside the cold air caught at it and stirred up more coughing. Cold air whipped at his wet hair, tangling it as it tried to freeze the water dripping off it. Damian’s cheeks burned, and he tugged the cape closer, trying to bury his face in it and still see where he was going.
He’d left a bottle of water in the car, and chugged it down after he climbed in, attempting to dislodge the tickle with the application of more water. He even made one almost disastrous attempt at gurgling, the act teasing out another string of coughs instead of clearing up the problem, and ending up with more water dribbling down his face.
Father had not appreciated that moment.
Damian skipped showering before bed in favor of drying himself off and slipping on comfortable pajamas. The shower could wait until morning, all he wanted right now was his bed, soft and dry and blessedly warm. Father’s cape had helped keep him from freezing, but he’d still returned home with teeth chattering, and shivers down to his bones. He hated the cold.
He curled up in his bed, tugging his knees close to his body, and the comforter up to his chin and sighed as the chill of the sheets gave way to toasty warmth. Damian’s door cracked open, and the patter of paws preceded Titus’s joining him by only a few seconds.
His dog puffed warm air into his face, prompting a giggle from Damian. He pulled his hands out from under the blankets to bury them in Titus’s soft fur, and give him a kiss on his head.
“Good boy. Stay and keep me warm tonight.” Damian murmured to him.
Father hummed from the doorway. Damian rolled over to look at his father, as Titus settled down on his side of the bed. When green eyes met blue, Father moved into the room, a small smile on his face.
“Already in bed?” he asked, tone teasing, “You should fall in water more often on patrol if it means we skip the bedtime argument.”
Damian rolled his eyes up at his father and yawned, “It has nothing to do with my accident, I am simply practicing good sleeping habits. As you should.”
“Brat.” Father said, reaching out to adjust the blankets Titus’s entrance had messed up, before running his hand through Damian’s hair. He swatted lightly at the hand with a small smile.
Father surprised him then, leaning down to wrap him in a hug, “I’m glad you’re alright.” he said.
Damian felt heat rush his cheeks at the display of affection, and at the realization of just how badly his fall had scared his father. He returned the hug, messing up his covers again to wrap his arms around Father’s neck. Father gave him another light squeeze before he let go.
“Goodnight, Damian.” he said, moving towards the door.
“Goodnight, Father.” Damian replied, another yawn already rising to remind him of why he was in bed already.
The next day the tickle plaguing the back of Damian’s throat was still there. To make matters worse, his head felt stuffy, his ears ached, and his nose was so backed up he was surprised he hadn’t woken the house snoring the night before.
He wrinkled his nose and sniffed, allergies. The cursed things were a gift from living in Gotham. He had not dealt with the issue while with mother. Nothing he was allergic to bloomed in the desert.
Damian took an allergy pill, followed by the shower he’d skipped the night before. He lingered too long under the hot water, letting the heat and steam work on opening his sinuses again. It worked for a few minutes before he was stuffy and miserable again.
He managed to hold back the worst of his symptoms until patrol. There he could not sip hot tea or rest his head for a few minutes while he powered through a growing headache. It only took a few hours for Damian to finally admit to himself he was sick.
Not that he would admit that to Father. Dread welled up in him at the thought of stopping them because he wasn’t feeling good. Father tended to be less upset with him when Damian announced something before they left. He did not get grounded for simply being sick. Lying about not being sick was what got him grounded.
Damian sniffed and readied his grapple to follow Father from one building to another. He managed the shot and the swing. As he arched through the air his vision swam and his stomach did it’s best impersonation of Richard when he was feeling particularly acrobatic, twisting and turning as if it were on high bars. His feet hit the concrete of the rooftop and he stumbled, crashing to his knees to throw both hands over his mouth as saliva welled up in the tell tale way it did prior to throwing up.
He swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the way his knees ached from his knee pads not quite absorbing the shock of hitting concrete, and tried to focus on keeping himself from throwing up. He breathed in and out through his nose, wishing Gotham’s air was even colder than it’s almost freezing temperature.
He was hot. His face was sweaty, the liquid trying it’s best to slip past his domino and find his eyes to join the beads of sweat already building under it. He wanted to tear the mask from his face so he could breathe. Instead he curled forward, pressing ribs into stomach in an attempt to stop the welling need to throw up.
“Robin?” the word was spoken a moment before a hand brushed his hair back, a second cupping his cheek to tilt his face upwards.
Father wore his worried jaw again, and every heartbeat that passed between them made Damian think the angry one was soon to follow. Damian dropped his hands from his face, choosing to wrap his arms around his middle.
“I don’t feel good.” he whispered, worried anything louder would invite his stomach to release its contents.
“Can you stand?” Father’s voice was gentle.
Damian swallowed, “I believe so.”
Father helped him rise, hands on his shoulders for balance, almost pulling Damian to his feet. He swayed for a moment, before gathering his bearings. His arms wrapped back around his stomach, pressing as if he could hold everything in. His head felt too light, his throat tight and hot and sick. That stupid tickle was still there, itching away.
Damian focused on steadying himself enough so he could manage at least climbing down the building to get to the street. While he stood there, willing his body to cooperate, Father was calling the car around to their location.
He did manage the climb down on his own. A fire escape connected to the building’s side made it easier, and he was thankful for it. He wouldn’t want to be forced to lean on Father or make him carry him down. He was already interrupting patrol enough for one night.
Neither he nor Father spoke until they were in the car on the way back to the cave. Damian decided he didn’t want to leave Father to his own imaginings about why he hadn’t spoken up earlier. It was better to get the explanations and groundings out of the way now.
“I’m sorry.” Damian started, pulling his legs up in the chair to be closer to his center. For some reason the position helped ease some of the pain in his stomach. “I did not realize I was as sick as I am.”
“Oh?” Father asked, his tone mildly curious, but mostly disappointed.
Damian glanced over to find Father staring out at the road, cowl outlining his jaw. It was tight, not quite angry, but no longer as worried as he had been. He pulled his legs a little closer to him.
“I thought it was a case of bad allergies.” Damian said, “I did everything I could to mitigate them earlier by taking an antihistamine and indulging in hot tea and honey through the day. I was feeling better by patrol.”
The last bit he’d tagged on as a lie. He hadn’t felt any better by patrol, but he also hadn’t felt any worse. Patrol was not supposed to make allergies magically turn into upset stomachs and dizzy spells.
He let his head rest on his knees, “The sickness came on quickly. If I had realized it earlier I would have told you. Both you and Richard have made the dangers of attempting to patrol while ill clear. I would not endanger Batman by going out if I believed I was at risk of collapse.”
Damian slid his eyes over for another look at Father, little had changed about his appearance, aside from a slight relaxing of his hands on the wheel. Damian looked back away and actually buried his head in his knees. This was twice now he’d inconvenience patrol. Two times in one week was bad.
Even as patient as Father had become, Damian still knew he was stretching things with him. He had ruined, or at least interrupted, patrol two days in a row. For foolish, avoidable, things. He could have prevented himself falling in the water if he’d been faster with his grapple line. If he had prevented that, it was probable he would not be ill today. Even so, he should have marked the correlation between his waking up feeling bad and being soaked the previous evening.
Father returned Damian to the cave, staying only long enough to inform Pennyworth of Damian’s illness before he left again to finish patrolling. Damian gave Pennyworth a report of his symptoms, and their development, falling into a coughing fit (brought on by that inane tickle) halfway through.
He took the medicine handed to him and went straight to bed. Not moving helped his stomach feel a little better, so Damian tried his best not to shift or shuffle in bed as he tried to fall asleep. His body ached and he was still too hot, made worse now by the blankets. He kicked them off and felt his stomach kick back.
He groaned and curled in on himself, hoping the technique would work again to still his rebellious stomach. He tried squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to fall asleep. When that didn’t work he attempted to watch videos of cats on his phone until the bright light sparked a headache.
At last he dozed, only to wake up freezing, his body feeling like he’d been shaken down to his bones. Damian pulled every blanket he had back over himself, wrapping them tightly as if he were cocooned in them. Still, he could not get warm. He looked around the room, his vision bleary and surroundings dim, searching for Titus to call up to lay with him.
His dog seemed to have found somewhere else to wander off to, perhaps down in the cave with Pennyworth. Or curled up in a different room. The point was, he was not around to help.
The tickle at the back of his throat was still there, teasing out coughs now. Damian coughed, and coughed, and coughed until it felt like his lungs were trying to claw their way up his throat. All the movement sent his stomach rolling again, and Damian tumbled out of the bed in a panic to get to his bathroom.
He flung himself down on the tile and leaned over the toilet. It took a moment, as if his stomach was suddenly hit with indecision on if it wanted to go through with this whole ‘throwing up’ business. Then coughs racked his chest again, their force enough to make him heave. He couldn’t stop. He’d catch his breath only for his stomach to lurch again and again.
Finally, when he had nothing left to give, Damian sat back and leaned against the bathtub. He was freezing still, shaking but unwilling to move beyond where he sat. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, pressing his face down, so his forehead was squished against his knees.
He felt gross, sweaty and cold, his skin itched begging to be scrubbed clean. His stomach was hollow and sharp. His throat was thick and scratchy from coughing and throwing up. He could still taste the sour tang of bile when he swallowed, and feel the slight burn of stomach acid dredged up in his body’s attempt to expel anything and everything bad.
Damian let out a shaky breath, his chest rattling against his legs. He felt bad. Sick and gross and all alone. He wanted Father. Or Grayson. Or someone. He sucked in air and leaned his head back, blinking at the darkened doorway to his room, wishing Father would appear.
He didn’t want to go find him. He should be back from patrol by now, but Damian had bothered him enough already. He had inconvenienced him time and again, and by the end of the night father had not even been speaking to him. Damian pressed his lips together and held back a whine.
His eyes watered and he told himself it was just the stress of being sick, not the twisted familiar worry that he’d messed things up again. That he might have pushed Father too far. That he’d been lying to himself this whole time and maybe Father was little different than Mother, and his performance over the past few days had been enough to ruin things for him.
First, he had needed to be rescued. Then he’d ruined patrol by being sick. Now he was even worse off, and contemplating ruining Father’s rest. Even if he was just sick and his mind was lying to him, he’d still been too much trouble. He had to deal with this.
Damian pulled himself up and turned the shower on. He tugged his clothes off and jumped in as fast as he could, letting the hot water warm his chilled skin. Standing left him dizzy, so he sat down, curling under the spray of steaming water, and letting it beat the back of his neck and spine.
He stayed in long after the water had gone cold, the chill pulling sudden heat from his skin. He managed, at last, to drag himself up and back out. He dried quickly and dressed in fresh pajamas that didn’t smell of sick. He still felt terrible, even the shower hadn’t seemed to alleviate his symptoms this time.
He was exhausted, but he didn’t want to get back in his bed. He still wanted his father. He didn’t want to be alone. He hated the feeling, but-- He moved to his door instead of his bed, reaching for the handle. It turned under his palm and pulled back, opening to reveal Bruce.
“Damian?” he frowned, “You should be resting.”
Damian’s chest caught, “I--I am not feeling too great.”
Bruce stepped closer to him, the back of his hand brushing Damian’s forehead, “You’re burning up. Why is your hair wet?”
Damian looked down, “I threw up.” he explained, “I had hoped the shower would help me feel better.”
“And?” Father asked.
Damian shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed against hot welling tears. He sniffed, sucking them back.
“Symptoms?”
Damian detailed them out as best as he could, listing them mechanically. This was a problem and Father was here to help sort it out. He would know what to do, he just needed the right information.
Father knelt before him, and brushed his thumbs under Damian’s chin, against his neck, searching for something. Damian had the vague memory of Richard doing the same when he’d caught a case of strep throat, perhaps Father was checking for that?
“Alfred said he sent you up here with some medicine, did that help at all?”
Damian shook his head again.
Father’s frown deepened. “Where were you going?”
This had been something Damian was dreading being asked. With Father standing here all the doubt and worry Damian had been fighting came rushing back. He wanted to back out and hide in his bed, and force himself better.
“I was thirsty.” he lied. He didn’t want to trouble his father any more, and this seemed the easiest way to do that.
Father nodded, and stood. “Alright, think you can make it down to the kitchen okay?”
Damian swallowed, “Yes.”
He pushed past Father and hurried down the hall, hoping he would not be followed. He found that he did want something to drink now that he’d admitted to it. He made a cup of his favorite blend of tea for feeling sick, chamomile, lemongrass, and spearmint.
The cup was carefully held between his palms when he returned to his room and discovered Father still there. He was just tugging Damian’s comforter back into place, with a pile of discarded sheets on the floor beside him. He looked up and smiled seeing Damian.
“Father?”
“I always liked having fresh clean sheets after I got sick.” Father said, “I figured you’d like them too.”
Damian nodded, “Thank you.” he said, throat thick.
Father held his tea for him while he crawled back in bed, the fresh smell of fabric softener sharp and delightful even to his stuffed nose. Father then tugged his blankets up and over him, even as Damian rested against his headboard sipping on the warm tea. The mint actually felt like it was helping his stomach a little, and the warmth was helping ease him back into feeling sleepy.
“Feeling any better?” Father asked, sitting down on the edge of Damian’s bed.
“A little.” Damian said, into his mug.
Father hummed, and lifted his phone, the screen brightening. Damian swallowed, Father was already bored with his presence. He wasn’t sure how to react.
“I left our copy of The Jungle Book in my room, but I’ve got an eBook version. Give me a second and I’ll find the chapter we were on.”
Damian couldn’t stop a smile from tugging at his lips. He liked reading with Father. Sometimes they read quietly together, working their way through the same book in silence. Others they read aloud to each other. Damian loved the way Father’s voice was always warm and rumbly when he read, like he was telling a story he was fond of, or speaking with an old friend.
He nodded, and sipped at his tea again. Father found the chapter and started reading, his voice soft in the night. It didn’t take long for Damian’s eyes to get heavy and hard to open. The mug in his hand started to slip. He felt it pulled from them, his head tucked into his chest.
Father helped him ease off the headboard and snuggle down into the sheets proper. The blankets were tucked close around him, and Father’s lips were whisper soft against his head, “Rest up, son.”