Chapter Text
When Damian returned to his private quarters, he locked the door carefully from the inside, sliding all four bolts into place, and propped a chair against the door for good measure. Then he lay back on his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, to make himself internalize a brief sense of security. He was safe. He was with allies. No one was coming for him.
Sleep didn't come. Something was missing.
It took him a minute to realise what it was. He stood up in a disoriented manner. The moonlights slipping in through the thin curtains flowing in the breeze. He crouched down near the corner of the grey carpet in his room, lifted it and under it, an askew wooden plank stood out. He squeezed his fingers through the cracks and lifted it slowly. Under it, he hid his most valued possessions that he couldn't afford anyone to find.
The journal had a dark leather cover, tied with a string that ended with what looked like a bow. He never properly learnt how to tie a bow so it looked pretty crooked and unpleasant. Beside the notebook stood a worn out dagger. He lifts it. The dagger is small enough to rest comfortably in a single hand, yet heavy with the weight of its years.
His mother's blade.
Once bright, now bears a soft patina, thin veins of darker steel running along the edge like the lines of an aging face. Through its dulled appearance, it still catches the light with a muted shimmer. The hilt however, wrapped in faded leather, carries the faint scent of old smoke and earth. A hands grip forever embedded in its shape.
This is the closest thing he has to holding his mothers hand like he used to when he was younger. Back when his little hand, without the weight of old callouses, would hold his mothers, tracing his fingers around her scars, and asking about each of them and the adventures they hid.
He puts the dagger back and picks up the notebook.
Damian's idea of a journal isn't the same as everybody else's. He doesn't write, he draws. He thinks one page drawn is worth more than a thousand words. Or maybe he just knows he could never express himself in words as well as he does in paint. It also feels safer, knowing that anybody can read through the lines, but a painting can be a real puzzle.
He does write sometimes, when his thoughts are not worthy of a drawing.
He picks up his pen and starts writing.
/////
“You can't be serious” the exasperated voice of none other than Red Robin himself greets him the moment he enters the cave. Batman doesn't give him an immediate response. But silence is an answer on its own.
Red Robin gets closer to his father trying to block his vision of the batcomputer.
“Out of all the people you're seriously going to pair me with Damian ?” he spits his name like it's an insult.
“We've already discussed this, Tim. We’re leaving soon, get yourself together." Batman doesn't take his eyes off the batcomputer.
They hadn't noticed his arrival yet.
He ignores them, heading for the weapons room. Getting himself ready. Slow murmurs are shared between Red Robin and Batman. He doesn't bother to try and listen. Once he's done he steps back into the cave. A silence stretches around them.
Their argument seems to be over, and it's pretty obvious who won.
They don't look him in the eye.
Tim turns his head towards him and sighs.
“Come on, Robin. Let's go.” And he starts walking. Damian follows.
/////
Like everything in Damian's life, things went downhill so fast he didn't have time to consider the consequences. Everything had always come to him in the form of instinct. From daily things like eating to fighting (and killing).
Right now though? Not so much.
A chair was flung towards him. He moved just in time to avoid it, and heard it smash against the wall. The guy grabbed a knife from the counter. Do people not hide their knives in their drawers anymore?
The kitchen wasn't big, that's why three people in it made it feel so suffocating.
His fighting is bad, he can feel it. He can only imagine what he looked like right now. Sluggish, reckless, stupid, exhausted. Because he is.
The guy threw the knife, but he grabbed a cutting board to intercept the knife just in time. He then disposed of it by throwing it towards the other guy's head. His strength must be failing him because it barely flew for 2 seconds, let alone be able to hit a guy hard enough to knock him out.
Two against one wouldn't usually be a problem for Damian. That of course if the stab wound in his leg didn't make it so hard to stand. The memory of getting stabbed is rather fogy.
Somewhere between getting split up from Red Robin and fighting 2 guys in someone's kitchen, he must've gotten stabbed. The pain didn't let him focus. That's why right now, he fell to the ground barely avoiding a knife to his neck.Damian's hands flew to his throat. Still attached.
He was cornered. One guy had a knife in his hand, hovering over Damian. The other, gun in hand, was pressing his finger slowly on the trigger. Before he could get shot. He made a bunch of desperate attempts in avoiding the bullets, the gun firing. He wasn't sure if the bullets reached him, but he heard the sound of a grunt, it sounded far away. Everything did.
He tried to register where the pain was coming from, but all the scrapes, bruising and the stab wound made it hard to know which is which. He assumes the one that hurts the most is the bullet. But he couldn't have gotten hurt in the same leg twice.
He opens his eyes slowly. He stares. The guy once hovering above him, now stands face flat on the ground next to him. He didn't hear him fall. The other guy, with the gun, stays stunned.He just shot his own partner.
Idiots.
He drops his gun and runs. Damian doesn't follow him. He instead stares at the corpse next to him. There's not really much to see. Maybe it would be different if it was his first dead body, but it isn't. Far from it. He doesn't know what he's supposed to see. Blood, there's so much blood. Only then does Damian realise the cold liquid on his clothes. A wave of pain runs through his leg. Right, his foot.
He glances down and is greeted by more blood. His foot is bleeding, the thug is bleeding. Why is there so much blood? He feels his breath stop. He doesn't want to stare at his injured leg, so he stares into the lifeless eyes of the man instead. He looks young. Maybe in his 30s? His breathing doesn't get better. He feels his body trembling. The adrenaline is wearing off. He feels the pile of red liquid he's in getting bigger, thicker. Damian can't recognise his blood from the man's.
It's the same. He thinks. They bleed the same. So why is he alive and the thug's dead? What makes him more worthy? He's sure that if they compared the pain they have caused. The scale would be much heavier on Damian's sins.
He suddenly becomes aware of the figure at the door, Red Robin. He holds back a sigh of relief. He waits for something, he doesn't know what. His breaths start to even out. Red Robin is standing there. He can't read his expression. He can only assume what he must look like. Bloody. Damian wonders if Red Robin is going to help him or if he is going to stand by the door forever.
The light from outside the door illuminates his shadow. He towers over Damian, but not in the same way the dead guy standing beside him did. This feeling is not new to him. Right now, he thinks he looks holy, grand, maybe even powerful. He also feels far away. Like something that is everything around you but untouchable. Something divine.
He looks up to him, closes his eyes, and falls to the ground.
/////
They had told him his injuries weren't life threatening. That they would heal in no time. He hasn't seen Tim since that moment, but he assumes he's the one who got him back to the cave . After a couple of nights in the infirmary, he finally gets to rest in his own bed.
He walked in and soon felt a familiar squeak. He lifted the carpet. Opened the secret chamber. This time, he didn't glance at the dagger. He grabbed the journal and headed toward his bed. He sat down. Pencil in hand.
However, when he got to the empty page, he saw something weird. A face drawn, in dark abstract colors. He doesn't remember drawing this. He does recognise it, it's the man who got shot. His face was more complete than it was in Damian's memory. He felt a weird sense of dread fall over him. He felt disgusting.
He threw his notebook across the room and felt satisfaction at hearing it hit the wall. He never thought he would feel so betrayed by a mere object.