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ditzyredrobin · 4 months ago

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The Calling

Based on my Joker Jr. prompt here.

In which Tim was Joker Jr and is now Red Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, and Batman is lost in time (and Tim knows it).

This might turn into another series. Who knows. 😂

Tim had two and a half hours until his red eye to Heathrow when he heard the Batmobile’s deep purr. It was his last night in Gotham and he needed a chance to breathe.

He would be gone indefinitely, unsure when he was going to be back.

He heard it before he actually saw it. Batman pulled in beside his bike, headlights flooding the outlook. No, no, no, no, this was not what he needed right now.

“Damn it.” Tim hissed, holding a hand up to block out the light.

The engine turned off but the lights stayed on as Dick stepped out, closing the driver's door carefully behind him.

“Tim, we need to talk.”

“Why are you here, Dick? Are you and the demon brat supposed to be on patrol?”

“Damian,” Dick corrected gently and continued. “I wanted to see you. Cassie called me.”

Of course Cassie called.

“Please, Tim, you have to let him go. I know how much it hurts—I miss him too, more than you can understand but we have to keep moving forward. It’s what he would want.” Batman—Dick—was outlined by the headlights, casting long shadows across the overlook.

If it had been Bruce, he would have looked menacing. A monster made of darkness and shadows and fear absorbing the light. But this was the new Batman, who still looked awkward and uncomfortable in the cowl, who didn’t have his voice mastered yet. He sounded too much like Dick and not enough like the Dark Knight.

Bruce had told him once he didn’t struggle with Batman’s voice. He struggled to keep Bruce’s. (And, man, if that hadn’t thrown him through a loop).

He wasn’t sure Dick would ever suffer the same conundrum. If he rescued Bruce in time, he definitely wouldn’t have to.

“But he’s out there, Dick. You’ve seen it over and over again, anything and everything is possible. If you would just listen to what I’ve got-“ Tim started but was quickly cut off.

“No, Tim. You saw his body when Superman brought him back—we buried him. He’s gone.”

He had. The husk of a body that had once been Bruce. It haunted him in the same way Joker’s laugh did, plaguing his dreams, replaying over and over again until he woke up panting.

But that wasn’t always the end, was it? Not in their line of work, at least. Jason was brought back, Steph came back, it was only right Bruce came back too.

He could just feel it.

He wasn’t crazy—he knew what crazy felt like and this? He’d spent over a year in a state of insanity following his early years as Robin and this? This wasn’t it.

“But sometimes they come back.” Tim pushed.

“And most of the time they don’t.”

“But-“

“Please, listen to me, with every fiber of my being, I want you to be right but I—I just can’t, Tim. This time feels different.” Batman’s voice breaks and for a moment he’s all Dick. The mask comes down and sounds like a son who’s lost his father twice over.

“You’re not listening to me. He’s out there, I know it, I know he is.” Tim pressed.

“I’m trying but you’re not making sense! I understand the trauma you’re going through with how much has happened the past few months. I just want to help.”

“No.”

“Please, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” Dick pleaded, wrapping a strong hand around his wrist. “I have someone I want you to talk to, a doctor who deals with issues like this.”

“Issues like what?” Tim snapped, trying to pull his hand away. Dick only tightened his grip. “What issues do you think I’m dealing with?”

Dick sighed, “You know what I mean. You’re slipping, Tim, there’s no use in denying it. I can see it and I know you can too. You’re sick but it’s going to be okay. We can get you back on track.”

“Let me go. Right. Now.”

“No.”

“Let go.” Tim said with more force, using Dick’s grip against him. He squared his hips, using the forward momentum to throw him over his shoulder. Dick landed on his back with a grunt but Tim knew this was just the beginning of their fight.

If Dick wasn’t going to let him go willingly, he was going to force him.

Tim sprung back and away from Dick, who wasn’t stunned for more than a few beats before he was up again. Tim threw a carefully aimed punch that Dick quickly blocked.

“Don’t you think I know how it sounds? I’ve lost everything—Kon, Bart, my dad, my—Bruce,” Tim yelled, kicking out at Dick. “You gave Damian Robin without even talking to me. I can’t trust Steph. My world has burned down once again and you’re only here because everyone thinks I’m crazy—that I finally lost it, finally snapped, but I’m going to prove it.”

“You can’t, Tim. I know how you feel but you can’t keep going like this. You’re starting to sound like him.”

And that was like a punch to the gut. “Like who, Dick?” He didn’t mean…he couldn’t mean…

“You know who, Tim.”

“No, I don’t think I do because if you’re going to say-“ he swallowed hard, bile creeping up the back of his throat. Even after all these years saying his name still made him feel sick. “If you’re going to say Joker I’m going to lose it. Do you really think I’m acting like the Joker?”

Dick didn’t respond, taking Tim’s surprise to roundhouse kick, attempting to swipe his legs out from under him. Tim jumped but it was a close thing. “You really do, don’t you?”

“I just want to help you, Tim, please. I already have care lined up for you. You just have to trust me.”

“Or what? You’re going to drag me back to Arkham?” Tim blocked another hit. Dick obviously didn’t see this as a serious fight which Tim used to his advantage.

“You need help, Tim.” He grunted, catching his fist.

Something about the way he said it made Tim’s heart sink. He didn’t mean it… did he? He couldn’t. But the longer he stared at Dick, the longer he knew he was right. “…you are, aren’t you? You’re taking me to Arkham?”

“It’s not forever. Just until the doctors think you’re stable and then you can come home. Please, Tim.” He sounded genuine, like this was hurting him more than it was Tim.

Funny being Tim was the one who was actually tortured.

“How can you even consider that an option, Dick? You know what he did to me there!” Tim pressed down on the release on his harness, and throwing disks pop into his hand. Dick is fast but he’s faster, throwing what looks like one, but split into four midair, narrowly missing Dick’s face.

“Things have changed since then. There's contingencies in place and the Joker is-“

“Dead, I know. I was the one who killed him.” Tim cut him off, pressing the end of his bo to Dick’s throat. While Dick was distracted dodging, Tim had already released his staff from his belt. “I’m leaving, Dick, and you need to let me go. You said we’re equals, right? If we really are equals, brothers, you need to let me go. Haven’t I earned that much?”

Dick doesn’t respond and Tim sighs, pressing the hidden button on the side of his staff, causing it to collapse and slide back in on itself.

“Take care of Gotham while I’m gone. I—just, try not to let Damian destroy everything we’ve built together as Robin. Batman has given so much for us—for Gotham. If there’s even a chance he’s out there, I have to do this. I have to try.

The keys for his bike were still in the ignition. He’s not sure what hurt worse, Dick not stopping him, or the fact that he thought that he thought he was following in Joker’s footsteps.

He wasn’t crazy.

Bruce was out there and he would prove it.

Tags List (as promised):

@primthegreat , @derp-a-la-sheep

#tim drake #my writing #my fics #batman #dick grayson #tim drake is joker junior #tim drake is red robin #Dick Grayson is Batman #Red Robin #batman au #hurt no comfort #angst

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goldenraeofsun · 2 months ago

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Day 4: Hallucinations

Damian stares down at his hands, caked with dried blood. The horribly familiar scent of iron tickles his nose and makes his stomach churn. His head pounds.

“Robin?”

Damian jerks his head up, and his vision swims. He struggles to focus on the newcomer, a middle aged man in a boxy brown suit. Wire-rimmed glasses sit low on his nose, and he pushes them back on his face twice in the time it takes to enter Damian’s cell and take a seat at the lone table across from his bare cot. The man carries a clipboard and wears an ID badge that takes too much concentration for Damian to read, so he doesn’t.

“Do you remember me?”

“No,” Damian says, his voice cracking on the single syllable. He coughs, holding back a wince as his dry throat protests. But he can’t show weakness, not when he has no idea where he is, what he is doing here, or where his family is.

“That’s alright,” the man says. He sets something tall and clear-colored on the table. “We had to sedate you for your … the staff. I’m Dr. Vanne, the … we met last … if you don’t remember, you were … distraught.”

Damian blinks at him, catching every third word he says. “I understand,” he says untruthfully.

The man – Dr. Vanne? – nods. “You’ve been through … with Batman … harrowing for … let alone a child.”

Damian shakes his head, trying to clear it to focus. It’s ineffectual, but he needs to stay as awake and alert as he can. Only bits and pieces of the night before come back to him, a swish of a cape, the crack of a door splintering open, flickering lights. “Batman?” he asks. “Where is Batman?”

Richard will be able to explain everything. He’ll tell Damian why he’s in this cell, why he has none of his usual weapons, why he’s only wearing a mask and a hospital gown. He just needs to contact Richard –

Dr. Vanne’s mouth falls open as his brows pinch together with concern. “Robin,” he says as his gaze settles on Damian with an unnerving intensity, “Batman is dead.”

Damian’s whole body instinctively clenches at the bald-faced lie. “Batman is not dead,” he says, his voice echoing uncomfortably loudly in the small cell.

Dr. Vanne winces. “That’s why you’re in here.” He gestures to confines around them. “You were unconsolable and dangerous after you killed Batman.” He pushes the object on the table – a water bottle – towards Damian.

“You’re lying,” Damian spits.

Dr. Vanne shakes his head sadly. “That’s his blood on your hands, Robin.”

Despite himself, Damian glances down. He rubs his fingers together, and some dried flakes drift down into his lap, brown and rusted against the crisp white of his flimsy hospital gown.

“No,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.

Richard can’t be dead.

Richard is too full of life to be dead.

Damian is being held hostage by this Dr. Vanne character. He has taken Damian for some reason he has yet to tell him. This is some elaborate pantomime, constructed for Damian to give up his family’s secrets. Richard is planning his rescue right now.

“Batman is dead,” Dr. Vanne says in a horribly kind voice. “It was an accident; everyone knows. But the sooner you accept it –”

“Batman is not dead!” Damian roars. He launches himself at Dr. Vanne, but doesn’t make it all the way. He flails for those last few inches, landing heavily on the table. Breathing hard, he braces himself on one elbow to resume the offensive –

A syringe sinks into his arm. “We’ll try again tomorrow,” Dr. Vanne says sadly.

Everything goes dark.

* * *

Damian wakes up with a pounding head and dry mouth. He opens his eyes, squinting against his blurry vision. For an excruciatingly long moment, he has no idea where he is. But the familiar gray walls of his cell eventually solidify before him.

He pushes himself into a sitting position and gags as his stomach turns over. Bile rises to the back of his throat, and he swallows, grimacing. At the sound of footsteps outside his room, he jerks his head around, wincing his head throbs all the harder. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes.

The doctor, Vanne, taps his card against a portion of the wall Damian cannot see. The door beeps, and he enters. “Hello, Robin,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Release me,” Damian orders, the command rolling off his tongue with ease despite his distinct unease at all the unanswered questions about his confinement.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Vanne says patiently. “You’re still a danger to yourself and others. Until I can determine your threat level, we can’t discharge you.”

“You cannot keep me here,” Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest.

“We can certainly try,” Vanne says. “Now,” he says as he takes a seat and adjusts his glasses, “that night, when Batman died, what do you remember?”

Never give the enemy more information than you’re getting.

When Damian remains quiet, Vanne presses on, undeterred. “Do you remember the fight?”

Damian glares.

“Do you remember who you were fighting?”

Damian’s frown deepens because he doesn’t remember anything about the night before he woke up here. But he’d rather pull out his own fingernails than admit his ignorance to this imposter.

“Do you remember how Batman died?”

Damian’s temper flares. “He is not dead.”

“Batman is dead,” Vanne says calmly. “Once you’re more stable, we can show you the proof.”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look. “Show me the proof now, and I’ll be slightly more inclined to answer your foolish questions.”

“You’re in a very delicate mental –”

“You will show me that proof now .”

Vanne shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Because you don’t have it!” Damian says triumphantly. “Because this is all part of your scheme to separate me from Batman.”

Vanne exhales a long sigh. He takes off his glasses – a tactical mistake – and pinches the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes. “I can’t show you the footage because it will retraumatize you. As a doctor, I took an oath to do no –”

Damian jumps the table and puts him into a headlock. Vanne’s glasses go clattering to the ground. “The proof. Now,” Damian growls in an acceptable facsimile of Dick’s facsimile of Father’s Batman’s voice. He kicks Vanne’s fallen chair out of the way so Vanne cannot use it against him.

“I can’t,” Vanne chokes out.

“You will.” Damian tightens his hold “It will take you ten seconds to lose consciousness. Who do you think will last longer?”

“Please – let me – go,” Vanne forces between frantic gulps for air.

“Not before you show me irrefutable proof,” Damian snarls in his ear, “that Batman is dead, and you aren’t a lying waste of –”

“Guards – Guar –”

The door slams open, and four guard stream in. They forcibly pry Damian off Vanne, and one brandishes a syringe. Damian howls like a banshee, scratching and biting every bit of flesh within reach. They may have taken away his man-made weapons, but Damian was trained to be a weapon, and he will fight until his last breath to see Richard again. The syringe sinks back into his bicep. Pathetically, Damian’s last shout comes out as more of a whimper.

* * *

Damian wakes up to the scent of boiled chicken. He pries his eyelids open, unsurprised to see Vanne accompanied by a security guard.

Good.

They are finally taking him seriously.

“You need to eat,” Vanne says gently.

Damian eyes the plastic bowl of soup distrustfully. They are not idiots, so they did not give him access to any metal utensils, wooden chopsticks, or even animal bones. Nothing to stab a body with or pick a lock with.

“What is the point of all of this,” he says as he leans over the bowl to sniff it. It’s chicken noodle, judging by the scent and beige chunks of meat and pale orange carrot cubes barely floating in the thin broth.

“To keep your strength up,” Vanne says, deliberately misinterpreting Damian’s words.

Damian sits back on his cot without picking up the flimsy spoon they provided.

“Grief can be a powerful appetite suppressant,” Vanne says. “But you should eat something.”

“I am not grieving because Batman is not dead,” Daman says through gritted teeth.

Perhaps they are not as smart as he initially credited them. They may have captured him, kept him away from his family, cut off most of his avenues of escape. But Damian will not believe something just because they keep repeating it, ad nauseam. If that worked, he would have stopped trying to kill Drake within a week of his arrival to Gotham.

“Batman is dead, Robin,” Vanne says, his tone aggravatingly patient. “Have any of your memories of his death come back? Trauma can do funny things with our recollections, but I expect they’re lurking in your subconscious, right underneath the surface.”

Damian stays silent, mulling over his options.

The door to his cell has no door knob or handle. Vanne uses a keycard to get in, but there is no similar pad on this side of the wall, so Damian cannot hack his way out. Barefoot and dressed in the hospital gown, he has no access to any Bat comms or lockpicks.

“Once you accept the truth,” Vanne continues, “your memories will make themselves known to your fully conscious mind. We can start trying specific techniques next week, if we see no improvement.”

Most frustratingly, Damian still has too many questions. Why did they take him? What do they want from him? Why pursue this fiction that Batman is dead?

Damian has been kidnapped before and held hostage. Every single other time, without fail, his captors demanded information or money within twelve hours.

“First, we’ll start with a mild hypnosis,” Vanne goes on. “If that doesn’t take, we’ll put you in a state of deep hypnosis. That has worked with the majority of my patients in the past, and I have all confidence it will be a success for you too.”

By Damian’s admittedly less-than-reliable estimates, he has been under Dr. Vanne’s supervision for more than 48 hours. Vanne hasn’t asked for money nor information.

Damian hasn’t seen Richard in two full days. Richard must be going mad looking for his Robin. Damian swallows, dread and shame coiling in the pit of his stomach. This isn’t his job; he is supposed to make Batman’s life easier. That is Damian’s whole purpose.

“As a last resort,” Vanne continues, “there are a few pharmaceutical therapies we can try, but those are all high risk for pediatric patients, so we’d have to contact your next-of-kin for consent.”

That draws Damian up short. “You’re in contact with my family?”

“Of course,” Vanne says, looking vaguely offended. “It would be unethical to hold you here without their knowledge or consent.”

“Bring them to me,” Damian says at once. “If you’re really speaking to them.”

Vanne falters, and Damian barely suppresses his grin of victory. Vanne reaches out as if to lay a comforting hand on Damian’s arm, but Damian spears him with a baleful look, and the hand retreats. As he pulls his hand back, Vanne says slowly, “Robin, they don’t want to see you.”

Lies.

Lies on top of lies.

Damian barely holds back his smile.

His family, his annoying, suffocating, loving family would never do such a thing.

“Then you’re obviously not telling the truth,” Damian retorts. “I know my family.”

“They don’t want to see you,” Vanne hesitates, “because you killed Batman.”

Damian jumps to his feet, as sheer injustice at the accusation courses through his veins. “I did not!”

“You did,” Vance says unflinchingly, a hint of steel and annoyance in his voice for the first time. “You killed Batman, and all your siblings trusted me to care for you because, despite your actions, they still want the best for you.”

But –

His family would never do that.

His family wouldn’t ship Damian off to some strange psychologist.

His family wouldn’t keep him caged, alone, like some sort of animal.

They wouldn’t abandon him even if, even if he –

Damian shakes his head. “I didn’t kill Batman,” he says, half to himself, half to Vanne. “I didn’t.”

“It was an accident,” Vanne says soothingly. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t do it at all!”

Vanne sighs. He gets to his feet. “Eat your soup,” he says, “or we’ll have to resort to less ideal methods to keep you fed.”

And for the first time, Damian watches him leave.

The bowl of soup mocks him for the rest of the day.

Damian doesn’t eat a drop.

* * *

That night, Damian inspects his cell, searching for any weakness. He runs his fingers along every corner and inch of wall he can reach. He tugs at the bars that make up his cot, but nothing comes loose, and he breaks several nails trying to untwist the screws and bolts holding it together.

He cedes defeat several hours later, fuming.

When the lights come back on, Damian turns over in bed, head aching, stomach cramping, chest thrumming with a nervous, anxious energy he can’t dispel in this tiny, windowless room.

Vance comes in about three hours later. “Good morning, Robin,” he greets as the door closes behind the guard.

Damian doesn’t acknowledge him at all.

“How did you sleep?”

Damian stares straight ahead.

“Did you have any dreams?” Vanne tries next. And some of Damian’s skepticism must show on his face, since Vanne presses, “Did any memories resurface?”

“I dreamed of my dog,” Damian lies. He didn’t dream at all. He just dozed between failed meditation sessions.

“Interesting,” Vanne says, not sounding interested at all in that answer. “Because all our sensors indicate that you barely entered a single REM cycle last night.” He sighs. “You won’t get better if you don’t tell me the truth, Robin.”

Damian stays silent.

“Now, grief has well-documented effects on sleep hygiene –”

“I am not grieving, you imbecile,” Damian interrupts acidly. “I did not sleep because I am being kept here against my will, ineptly interrogated, and lied to.”

“I’m not lying to you,” Vanne says, hurt. “I’m helping you.”

“You can actually help me by telling me why I am here.” Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “What are you hoping to get? A ransom? Intelligence on the heroes that operate in Gotham? Leverage over my family?”

Vanne takes off his glasses. Without them, his eyes are quite small. Watery. A dishwater greenish color. “Robin, I will tell you this as many times as you need to hear it: You are here to get better. To process the trauma you went through when you killed Batman.”

“I did not kill him!”

“Are you sure?” Vanne presses, leaning in, his eyes never leaving Damian’s face. “Can you say with absolute certainty that you did not kill Batman two days ago in a raid on some drug runners gone wrong?”

Damian fights to keep his expression neutral.

The Cartel. Of course.

They had been investigating a recent flush of crack cocaine into Coventry that was rapidly spilling into the Water District.

Richard suspected the drugs came from the Odessa Mob, as they took over drug smuggling in addition to their money laundering after the Gang War. But after months of fighting with the Triad, who were clawing out the seedier parts of the Upper West Side, the Mob was stretched thin.

Damian suspected that the Escabedo Cartel was responsible. They were the most powerful drug smugglers and sellers before the Gang War wiped them out, and from Damian’s extensive review of his father’s files, the Gotham gangs never stayed dead for long. And the Odessa Mob fighting with the Triad presented an ideal time to get a foothold in their old market.

“Are you starting to remember, Robin?” Vanne asks eagerly.

Damian glares.

“The raid? Fighting for the gun with Diego?” Vanne’s face falls. “Batman tried to help,” he says, his voice low but even. “The gun went off. He bled out in minutes.”

Damian shakes his head. Impossible. His father spent decades perfecting Batman’s armor, and Richard made his own improvements when he put on the cowl. “The armor is bulletproof.”

Vanne sighs. “It hit a weak spot.”

“Where?” Damian demands.

“The helmet’s integrity was weakened from earlier in the fight,” Vanne says, his voice pained. “It shattered on impact. You tried to help, to stem the blood flow. But he was too damaged.”

Damian’s empty stomach tightens painfully. “You’re lying.”

Vanne surveys him with a pitying look. He pulls out a sealed protein bar from his pocket and a water bottle. “Eat,” he says, “and drink. You’re a growing boy.”

“I am not a child,” Damian hisses.

Vanne sighs. “Medically and legally speaking, you are. And that is the only reason you’ve been entrusted into my care instead of being tried as an adult.” His glasses flash as he turns to face Damian head-on. “But if your condition does not improve and you do not show remorse for your actions, the courts may decide otherwise.”

* * *

The next day, Vanne comes in smiling. “Are you ready, Robin? This is the first step in your healing journey.”

Damian clicks his tongue behind his teeth. “You aren’t going to dangle a pocket watch in front of my face, are you?”

Vanne frowns. “That’s a quite outdated idea of hypnotherapy. It has been used successfully for a wide range of conditions like smoking cessation, anxiety management, and even weight loss. It would be more helpful if you come into this with an open mind.”

Damian rolls his eyes.

“But before we start, have you remembered anything about that night?”

Damian levels him an unimpressed look.

Vanne holds up his hands. “Okay, Robin, I need you to take a deep breath and relax,” he says. “Lay down, if that’s more comfortable.”

Damian stays sitting up.

“Now, I’m going to count down from 100. With each count down, you will become more relaxed. 100, you can feel the muscles in your forehead relaxing. 99, the muscles around your eyes – ”

This is useless. Damian was trained on how to resist hypnosis and mind control from the age of five.

What is taking his family so long to find him? Damian has been stuck here for at least five days now. Even if Richard was grievously injured during their raid, others would have led the charge.

The last time Brown was taken, they found her after twelve hours.

Drake, six hours.

So why has it taken them upwards of one hundred and twenty hours to get him?

His family does not hate him. They had their difficulties when he first arrived in Gotham, of course, but they have come to accept him.

Earlier this year, he jumped in an infantile moon bounce with Brown, and he didn’t use his ankle knife to stab her or deflate the whole pointless endeavor. Only two months ago, Drake unexpectedly appeared at Damian’s art show, even though Richard said he was the only one going.

His family loves him.

They do.

“44, the muscles in your hips are relaxing. 43, the muscles in your thighs are relaxing.”

They’ve even rescued Todd, after all. Damian was all for letting the man rot after that whole fiasco with that Scarlet woman, but Richard insisted they help his younger brother, and made Damian, Brown, and Gordon track him down to Mr. Freeze’s latest frozen lair under the penguin enclosure at the zoo.

That took three days.

For Todd.

“17, the muscles in your calves are relaxing…”

But Richard led the charge during that particular case. And if Richard is – is not there, then the rest of the family might be more reluctant to realize the urgency of Damian’s plight.

Damian gets on well enough with Brown, and he has a begrudging respect for Drake.

He has teamed up with Todd in the past, at Richard’s behest, with minimal grievous injuries.

“5, the muscles in the heel of your foot are relaxing. 4, the muscles in the arch of your foot are relaxing. 3, the muscles in the ball of your foot are relaxing. 2, the muscles in your toes are relaxing. 1, the muscles in your whole body are relaxed.”

They would never leave him here. Not as a prank. Not even as some sort of lesson.

Richard would never. But if Richard was –

“Now that you are fully relaxed, imagine yourself walking down a set of stairs. With each step –”

Damian balls his hands into fists in his lap. “This is beyond stupid,” he says loudly over Vanne’s inane hypno-babbling.

Vanne stops speaking. He straightens in his chair, raising one hand to adjust his glasses. “You aren’t relaxed at all, are you?” he says, sounding almost childish in his disappointment.

Damian raises his eyebrows behind his mask. “What do you think?”

“I was afraid of this,” Vanne says, shaking his head. He gets up, nodding at the security guard by the door. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“You will get the same results as today,” Damian says in a carrying voice.

Vanne stops at the threshold, half-turned to Damian. “I will never give up on you, Robin.”

Damian’s heart clenches. Richard said something similar the last time Damian nearly killed someone. Drake and Brown wanted nothing to do with him, and even Pennyworth was disappointed. But Richard – Richard still believed in him.

The door shuts and the lock clicks in place, leaving Damian alone in his cell.

* * *

Damian wakes as his mouth opens in a silent shout, alert in an instant.

Five security guards flood the room. He thrashes, but, weakened from lack of food and rusty from lack of exercise, they pin him down after a few minutes.

Damian does knock one out, though.

The rest hold his arms and legs down.

“Unhand me!” he shouts, the skin on his wrists and ankles burning from the friction as he twists and writhes under their grips.

Undeterred, one of them pulls out a syringe.

Damian’s eyes go wide, and his pulse spikes with fear and adrenaline. He bucks harder, drawing on the rest of his strength to try to shake them off. “Don’t you dare come near me with that –”

The needle sinks in his arm, and Damian dislodges two of the guards, but it’s too late. His vision blurs, and coherent thoughts become difficult. He vaguely registers some of the guards limping out of his cell, leaving only two remaining to hold him down.

A second or an hour later, a new figure swims before Damian’s face. His eyes widen at the sight of his own masked reflection in the twin lenses of a familiar pair of glasses.

Vanne.

“Now,” Vanne says pleasantly as he takes his usual seat, ignoring the guards holding Damian down. “Where were we?”

* * *

Damian wakes up with a splitting headache. He opens his eyes, just holding back a groan as the overhead lights stab into his eyes.

A wrapped sandwich and a water bottle sit on the table in front of his cot. Despite his mostly-empty stomach, he has no appetite. But he reaches for the sealed water bottle sitting innocently on the table without a second thought.

He drinks half of it in one burst, savoring the cool water against his raw throat.

Raw? He swallows, wincing at the unexpected pain.

He glances around his cell for any clues, blinking rapidly against his watering eyes. When he raises his hand to press down on his mask, he finds the skin underneath puffy and swollen.

It’s an uncomfortably familiar feeling and embarrassment creeps up his neck as he tries to piece together what must’ve happened.

The sore throat, the swollen eyes – he’d been crying. From another nightmare?

Not unheard of, he’d been getting them with increasing frequency the longer he was here.

The door opens, and Vanne enters. Damian automatically tenses, but nothing about Vanne seems changed from the last time he saw Damian and uncomfortably echoed the most profound words Richard had ever said to him.

“How are we feeling this morning, Robin?” Vanne asks as he takes a seat. “First, have you remembered anything about the night you killed Batman?”

Damian opens his mouth to retort in the negative, but he can’t get the words out.

Because he does remember. The memory tugs and pulls, resists being analyzed, but it comes when Damian focuses on it.

The stakeout before the raid. Richard joking about how all Damian needed to improve his crappy mood was some grub; “ Do you want to get dumplings in Chinatown after this?” Gunfire interrupting Richard’s increasingly inane jokes.

The Odessa mobsters swarming out of nowhere.

Richard barking over the comms for Red Robin to get his ass over here, “We needed backup yesterday!”

Bursting into the warehouse through a large, west-facing window and subding as many gang members and mobsters as he could.

Out of the corner of his eye, through the smoke bombs: a man who looked remarkably like a young Emanuel Escabedo fleeing through a side door.

Shouting for Batman, not waiting for an acknowledgement before pursuing Escabedo until he disappeared through a backdoor. Slam. Yanking ineffectively on the handle. Bending down on one knee, cursing Escabedo to the depths of hell and back as he fiddled with the lock.

“I’ve got this, Robin,” coming from behind him. Scrambling out of the way. Richard’s boot coming down heavily on the door before it bursts open. “ Go rendez-vous with Red Robin.”

Rushing in after Escabedo before Richard could stop him. This was his win. The Escabedo Cartel was responsible; Damian was right!

A spew of gunfire.

Leaping out of the way. Zig-zagging through the dimly lit hallway after his quarry.

Escabedo raising his gun.

A thrown birdarang. Escabedo stumbling back. Not dropping the gun.

A hand-to-hand fight.

“Robin!”

A gunshot.

Richard staggering out into the open, into a clearer line of fire. One of the ears of his cowl blown clean off.

“Batman!”

Letting Escabedo get away.

Dropping to his knees by Richard. Trying to staunch the blood all but gushing from the open wound in Richard’s head. The white sliver of bone through the hole in the cowl. Richard’s pained grimace, the bare skin around his mouth and jaw pale, so pale.

“Da-Damian –”

Telling him no names in the field. Telling him he’s going to be fine. Telling him Drake will be here soon.

Ignoring his watering eyes and stinging nose. Trying to hide his sniffle from Richard and failing abysmally.

Such a failure.

“I love you. You’re going to be fine – I know it. My Robin. You’re so strong, Damian.”

But he isn’t – he killed Batman. With his pride. With his inattention. With his weakness.

Red staining his hands, his knee pads, the tops of his boots from the ever-growing puddle surrounding the pair of them. Bright red, fresh, straight from the only family who has ever loved him, apart from his mother.

Vanne asks, “So you remember?”

Damian raises his streaming eyes to his psychologist, the man supposed to make him better.

With an inhuman snarl, he attacks.

Nobody can help Damian now.

* * *

They drug him again. Because of course they do. But they don’t kill him, for some unfathomable reason. He wakes up in the same cell, bruised, a little hungrier, a little thirstier.

They stop him when he breaks his knuckles against those cursed bare, white walls.

They stop him when he tries to claw his own face off.

They strap him down and stick an IV with a saline solution in his arm and a feeding tube in his throat. He still rubs his wrists raw trying to get them in his grasp to tug them out.

They should let him die.

Vanne says that’s not an option.

They take the tubes out after a few hours. They put them back in three days later after he still refuses all food and drink.

For the rest of his time spent awake, he lays on his cot. He lets time pass him by. He wallows, like he was never allowed at The League or at the Penthouse.

In The League, such self-indulgence was punished. He would have been put to menial task-based work because if he was going to let his mind wander, his hands might as well be useful.

In the Penthouse, Richard had an uncanny ability to predict whenever Damian felt like retreating into himself. He’d drag Damian out to the park, forcing Titus’s leash into one hand and Damian’s sketchbook into the other. And if Damian really wasn’t up for an outing, Richard would sit with him. They’d meditate together, and somehow just having Richard there helped ground him.

No wonder his family hasn’t come to visit him. If any of them killed Richard, even accidentally, they wouldn’t have survived the next 48 hours.

Hopefully none of them are vindictive enough to take their hatred for him out on his pets. Alfred and Titus are innocents, and the Bats value life over all else.

Poor Titus, he’ll never understand why Damian can never come home.

On the fifteenth day after he killed Richard, Vanne asks him what will make him feel better.

After a long stare-off, Damian says, “Nothing.”

“Now, I don’t think that’s true,” Vanne says kindly. “I think a distraction is what you need. You still aren’t sleeping well.”

He had thought his nightmares from his childhood in the League were terrifying. He was wrong.

“I think you need a break from this place,” Vanne says as he gets to his feet.

Damian stares blankly at him. “You’re transferring me?”

“No, you’re still under my supervision, but we’re going to leave this room. Come along.”

The door to his cell opens.

And stays open.

Damian takes a full minute to get to his feet. Vanne gives him an encouraging smile as he crosses the threshold and, for the first time, takes in the sterile hallway beyond. Two guards stand outside his door, and they follow as Vanne leads Damian to the set of elevator doors and casually pushes the down button.

Damian gets in after Vanne.

The doors open to a gym, and Damian’s heart clenches at the sight of the mats and smell of sweat and worn plastic.

Two burly men wearing sweatpants are boxing in a ring while two more in army green tac pants and plain white tee shirts egg them on. In the weights area, a half dozen men and women mill around, lifting barbells with grunts that echo across the gym. The five treadmills stand unoccupied, but one sweaty-faced woman with a towel slung around her shoulders is pedaling away at the stationary bicycle.

“Exercise has been proven to produce the same results as SSRIs in a third of patients,” Vanne says as he places a hand on Damian’s shoulder and steers him further into the gym, avoiding the crowded areas. “You must have a lot of pent up energy after being stuck inside for so long. It was for your own good at the time, but it’s undoubtedly detrimental in the long run for someone of your athletic ability.”

Damian just sighs.

“Go on,” Vanne chides, giving him a little push.

Damian doesn’t budge an inch. “I do not wish to.”

Vanne squats so he’s more on Damian’s level, and Damian nearly scoffs at the condescension. But he really doesn’t have the energy to do anything more about it, so he doesn’t. Vanne tries, “You must have a series of warm ups, yes? You don’t have to do anything more elaborate than that.”

Damian doesn’t react.

“Robin,” Vanne says, “You have the potential to do so much good.” As Damian turns his head to glance listlessly at the mats, Vanne nods encouragingly. “Don’t let one mistake keep you from the greatness you are destined to achieve.”

His mother used to tell him something similar in the League after he withstood their punishments for failure. She had no idea Damian’s destiny was to kill the only person who accepted him completely and loved him unconditionally.

“You have a bright future ahead of you,” Vanne continues as Damian stares blankly ahead, “And our operation could use someone with your unique skill set.” He gives Damian another little push. “Go on, then. You’ll feel better once you’ve stretched your legs. Trust me.”

From his initial look around, Damian saw three doors. Presumably two locker rooms and a staircase in the event the elevators are nonfunctional. Judging the fitness of the others currently exercising in the gym, he could defeat them. He might need a week or two to regain his strength, but he could escape. He could be rid of his little cube full of white walls and pain and Vanne and his ridiculous glasses. He could be free.

But where would he go? Drake, Brown, and Todd all despise him, and Damian has no loyalty to Gotham outside of his family.

Damian goes to the mats.

He still only sleeps three and a half hours that night. He wakes up with Richard’s blood on his hands, Richard’s bloodless face swimming before his closed eyes.

* * *

Damian wakes to a series of incessant bangs on the door.

“Robin?”

He goes cold all over at the familiar voice. Drake is outside? Has his family given up on Vanne? Have they finally come to take care of him themselves?

“Robin, are you in there?”

Bang, bang, bang.

Damian blinks, his throat going dry with dread. He swallows, and it feels like sandpaper.

“You goddamn menace, you’d better be in there, so help me –”

Damian scrambles back on his cot, tucking his legs underneath his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins. It’s hardly a defensive position, but he cannot fight his siblings, especially in this state, weak and out of practice. Moreover, he would never lift a hand against them or stop them from taking the vengeance they are more than entitled to. They are each owed their pound of flesh.

“Batgirl! Head to the next floor. This one’s a dud.”

Damian listens with bated breath as Drake’s footsteps fade. His ears strain in the nearly oppressive silence after Drake’s hamfisted entry attempt.

The access panel outside his door beeps, and Damian nearly jumps out of his skin.

A dark shape enters the room, and Damian’s heart stops dead in his chest.

It can’t be.

“Robin?”

Goosebumps rise along Damian’s arms at his name in that voice, every hair standing on end.

“Thank god we found you,” the hallucination says in a rush as it hurries forward.

Damian backs up until his elbows bump into the wall behind him. He can’t say a word, frozen to the spot. All he can do is cower. What does the wraith want? Does Richard’s ghost want its revenge too? Damian will let him have it. Damian will give it anything it wants.

It stops dead in its tracks, the cape swishing around its boots.

Damian’s skin crawls as he gets the worst feeling the specter is eyeing him up and down, evaluating him, finding him wanting.

“Damian,” it says, and it sounds so like Richard, tears spring to Damian’s eyes, unbidden. “Hey, no it’s alright,” it says, its voice horribly soothing. It takes another step forward, its arms out, as if going for an embrace.

“Stop!” Damian barks, his voice too high, too breathy, too panicked.

It stops. “Damian?” it asks softly, “It’s me, Dick. You know me.” It pulls off the cowl, revealing Richard’s familiar face, the face Damian has been seeing in his nightmares for days. Its brows are furrowed, the corners of its mouth pulled down in an expression of concern.

Damian shakes his head.

“Delirium?” the ghost murmurs to itself. “Memory loss?” It’s blue eyes zero in on Damian. “Do you know who I am?” it asks, its tone more business-like. If Damian didn’t know better, he would say Richard is just starting their TBI protocol.

As if Damian would ever forget the face of the most important person he ever killed. He nods.

“Out loud, please.”

The lump in Damian’s throat is enormous, but he forces out anyway, “Grayson,” because he knows what the wraith wants to hear.

The ghost’s shoulders slump in faux-relief. “We’ll get you checked out once we’re far, far away from here,” it says with a warm smile, and Damian shudders. “C’mon, let’s go.” It holds out its hand to help Damian up from the cot, but Damian scuttles around it and gets to his feet of his own volition.

He doesn’t dare touch the hallucination. What if he does, and it crumbles, taking the very last vestiges of Richard with it? No, he will let the illusion be. And if Richard has truly come for him, then Damian will follow him to his grave. It’s only fair.

The specter casts him one lingering look of concern before it tugs the cowl back into place.

It’s probably leading him to where Drake and Brown are waiting.

Damian silently tails Richard’s ghost out of his cell and into the familiar hallway. But instead of taking a right, Richard’s ghost takes a left, towards a half-open door that leads to a set of concrete stairs. He steps around the body of one of the security guards, slumped over, hands zip-tied behind his back.

“You’re oddly quiet,” Richard’s ghost says as they start to climb. “They must’ve really put you through the wringer. I’m so sorry we took so long to find you,” it continues, and Damian’s chest clenches at the words of contrition.

Richard has nothing to be contrite about, not to Damian.

Because Damian killed him.

He bites his tongue against the useless apologies fighting to escape his lips. They won’t bring the real Richard back. All they would do is microscopically soothe Damian’s guilt, which he in no way deserves.

“I was tempted to let Jason come along to burn this place to the ground,” Richard’s ghost continues, casting a strange look behind him. Is it concerned Damian isn’t obeying orders? Because Damian is following. He would follow Richard anywhere. “But we just got wind of a big arms shipment being delivered to the Odessa Mob, so he’s staking out the harbor while Tim and Steph make up the cavalry.”

Damian nods along, feeling sick. Two weeks ago, Todd shot Drake after he interfered in his Crime Alley business. A fickle ally in the best of times, Todd would never lift a finger to help the Bats as of late. But a hallucination would hardly listen to the rules of reason. Any version of Richard would want its family to get along.

They reach the ground floor, and Richard’s ghost leads him down another short hallway ending in a door illuminated red by the bright EXIT sign above it. A few more bodies litter the way out, all unconscious.

Feet from the door, it swings open of its own accord to reveal Drake.

“Damn,” he says, and Damian’s heart flies into his throat. His pulse roars in his ears, and he hardly hears Drake say, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. Let’s get going, twerp. We’ll take care of you on the plane.”

Damian follows with leaden footsteps. Naturally, they wouldn’t even give him the grace of killing him in the Batcave, Manor, or Penthouse. Why sully their home bases with Damian’s blood, when they could simply shove him out of the Batplane when they reach cruising altitude?

The ramp up to the plane’s entrance both takes forever and is gone in a blink.

“Damian!”

Damian freezes at the exuberance in Brown’s voice. He barely has time to analyze it before a cloud of frizzy blonde hair obscures his vision and dark purple arms wrap around him.

Brown is flat on her back on the floor before he consciously registers throwing her.

“Geez,” she mutters, coughing from winded lungs, “this is the thanks I get for hauling ass all the way to Alaska for you, Boy Blunder.” She makes no move to get up of her own accord and resume her attack. Instead, she just lifts one arm, fingers wiggling in his direction expectantly.

Damian falters.

Tentatively, warily, he reaches for her. But she doesn’t leverage his grip to throw him to the ground too; she uses him as a counterweight to get back to her feet.

“What a gentleman,” she says, rolling her eyes.

Drake snorts from his seat at the controls of the plane. “That’s Damian. Ever the little gentleman.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort that he is not little, he is growing, and he will be tall as Father was one day, before it crashes back down on him that no, he will not. He will likely be dead within the next few hours. Just like Father.

From behind them, Richard’s ghost peers down at him, concerned. It says, “He’s been acting off ever since I found him.”

Drake frowns. “How off? Are you sure that is Damian?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Damian sees Drake turn to get a good look at him, but all of Damian’s attention is locked on Richard’s ghost.

Drake replied to him.

That… can’t be.

“He’s not talking, for one,” Richard’s ghost says, stepping closer.

The twin engines fire, and Damian uncharacteristically stumbles despite the smooth liftoff, right into Richard’s –

“I see what you mean,” Brown says, amused, and it sounds like her voice is coming from far away as Damian focuses everything he has on the smooth, rock hard kevlar beneath his hands. It’s solid. Richard is… solid?

He wraps both arms around Richard’s torso, squeezing in death-grip. He has never felt something so miraculous, so comforting in his entire life. His breath hitches, and he buries his face between the armored plates

“I didn’t know the kid knew how to hug,” Brown continues.

“Be nice,” Richard chastises above him as his hand comes up to rest on Damian’s head. “He’s clearly been through a lot.”

“Oh my god, is he crying?” Drake says, and Damian stiffens at the shocked tone, his face flooding with heat. “Are you actually sure it’s really him?” Drake asks, deadly serious. “Robin didn’t cry when he was shot multiple times in the freakin’ spine. Did you make sure he’s not a clone? Or a shapeshifter? Or, I don’t know, possessed?”

Richard tugs at Damian’s arms, probably to get a better look at his face, but Damian just holds on harder, silent tears dripping down his chin in fat drops. “Oh, Dames,” Richard says, “talk to me, bud.”

Damian opens his mouth, but only an embarrassing hiccup comes out.

Richard more forcefully pries Damian off him, and Damian makes a little wordless sound at the loss, but he stamps down on his instincts to keep Richard as close as possible for as long as possible. Space, Richard is asking for space, so Damian will give it to him. Still, Richard keeps one hand resting lightly on Damian’s upper arm as the other pulls the cowl back. “Hey,” he says as his blue eyes flick down to Damian, raking over his face, searching. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Damian clears his clogged throat. “Not particularly.”

Brown lets out an obnoxious, “Ha!” before she disappears towards the back of the plane.

“But,” Damian doesn’t look at Brown or Drake, he keeps his gaze on Richard’s face, drinking him in, “I will tell you anyway.”

He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Where does he start? Waking up in the cell? His first meeting with Vanne? The feeling of Richard’s lifeblood draining out between his fingers?

Drake snipes, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Tim,” Richard says, annoyed. “You’re not helping.”

Damian clears this throat. Stands a little straighter. Debrief. He’s debriefed Richard hundreds of times before, and even though he never thought he would have the chance to do so again –

Richard’s face swims before his eyes as they water with a fresh wave of tears.

“Um,” Richard starts, alarmed, “I guess it can wait until we’re back in Gotham.”

“You’re being too easy on him,” Drake cuts in sharply. “We’re not getting to Gotham for another five hours. Just tell us what happened, Damian. Then you can take a nap or have a snack or whatever you need to be normal again –”

Damian turns to him, eyes flashing. How dare he. His hands ball into fists at his side.

“Tim –”

“I thought Richard was dead,” Damian explodes, “that I had killed him.” He can’t look at Richard’s face as he speaks, so he addresses Drake instead. His voice wavers, but he plows on, “And that it was my fault. I was being detained because my family couldn’t stand to be around me.”

Above him, Richard makes a sound Damian has never heard before, and the hand resting on his bicep twitches. “You didn’t believe it, though,” Richard says, his voice hushed but insistent. “You knew you’d never do such a thing.” His fingers grip Damian harder. “You knew we were coming for you.”

Damian can’t bring himself to respond.

“Holy shit,” Brown says as she steps back into the cockpit, two paper cups in her hand. “Here,” she says, thrusting one in Drake’s direction. “Coffee, even though you’re being a jackass. Or, you know, you could just take a nap, and finally catch up on that 100 hour sleep deficit.”

Drake sips at the coffee, the tense set to his mouth easing. “More like 56 hours, but I see your point. I’ll finish this and put the plane on autopilot.”

“Or let me pilot,” Brown says, rolling her eyes. She tugs him up from the chair. “Go to sleep.”

Drake goes, pausing on his way to the cots set up in the back. “Hey,” he says to Damian, “Sorry. It’s been a… stressful few weeks around here.”

Richard mutters, “Understatement of the century.”

Drake ignores him. “I’m – I’m really glad you’re back with us,” he says hesitantly to Damian.

Damian searches his face for any hint of a falsehood, but Drake is apparently being sincere. “Thank you for participating in my retrieval.”

Drake smiles weakly. “Once we figured out who took you, it was just a matter of figuring out where .” He makes a face. “As it turns out, Alaska, of all places.”

Damian blinks. “Alaska?”

Richard nods once. “A military base outside of Juneau,” he says, his voice curt. “the most remote army outpost in North America.”

Drake stifles a yawn behind one hand. “You should be honored, gremlin. They only took me to Bludhaven to recruit me. Not even out of state.”

Damian’s eyes nearly bug out of his head. “They did this to you too?”

And Drake did not see fit to warn Damian? Damian would hardly describe their relationship as especially close, but he thought Drake respected him enough to spare him this torturous ordeal –

“And me,” Richard adds darkly, “back when I was Robin.”

Damian’s gaze bounces between them as Drake explains, “I recognized their seal on the door to the base. This special ops team led by the Veteran has been trying to get Robin to join their ranks for years.”

“Not me!” Brown says cheerfully.

Drake ignores her. “But Dick and I said no, obviously. They didn’t want Batman, and we were sticking with Bruce, if given the choice.” He closes his eyes, grimacing. “I never thought they’d go this far, though, to make sure Batman was out of the picture when they tried to get Robin to sign up.”

“They crossed a line,” Richard growls.

“We should send in Jason when he’s free to blow their operation sky high,” Brown calls, twisting around in her chair to grin at them. “You know how he gets when he thinks authority figures overstep. Kaboom.” She mimes an explosion with her hands.

“Quite,” Drake drawls as Brown just cackles. “Anyway, that’s the long and short of it. I’m gonna pass out now, now that everyone is accounted for.” He leaves.

“You two look like you could use a nap, yourself,” Brown says without looking up from the plane’s windshield. “I got everything covered over here.”

Richard smiles down at Damian, and, even under the Batplane’s dimmed stealth lights, he can see the deep circles beneath Richard’s eyes, the pallor in his face that make him look positively ghost-like. “How about it? We’ll have to share a bunk, if that’s OK with you.”

Damian nods once. “That is acceptable.” In a smaller voice, he admits, “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Richard lets out a weak chuckle as he leads them to the back of the plane. “Yeah, it’s been going around lately.”

“I keep dreaming about killing you,” Damian breathes as they stand in front of the free cot, his voice barely above a whisper, “so it would be… reassuring to have you nearby.”

Richard just sighs, “Oh, Dames,” the heartbreak clear on his face, as he starts unclasping his armor. “Let’s get some sleep, yeah?”

Damian hops onto the makeshift bed. As he lays down, Richard sweeps his cape over him. It’s heavy and a bit stiff, but it smells like Richard, and Damian can’t help burrowing deeper into it.

“I’ll be right here, okay?” Richard murmurs as sleep starts to tug Damian under. “I’m not going anywhere.”

#whumptober2024 #no.4 #batfam #batfam fanfic #fanfic #Hallucinations #Hypnosis #damian wayne #dick grayson #rae writes fic #dick grayson is batman #damian wayne is robin #Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne

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