Badger Loin Cloth
For cienna's birthday, because you cannot ever go wrong with nestu fic.
Title: Handle with Care
Rating: PG
Words: 3,497
Summary: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne. H/C.
.Handle with Care.
Damian had known something was wrong.
For all that Grayson smiled and laughed and (annoyingly) ruffled Damian’s hair. For all that he frowned at the crime scene photographs as they were laid out across the table, suddenly serious and focused, something hadn’t felt right.
In retrospect Damian realised that Grayson had been leaning heavily against Batman’s chair. Not unusual in and of itself, but there was a weariness to it Damian had, at the time, dismissed as irrelevant.
His face had been flushed, which could have come from exertion or impatience or simply from Grayson’s usual over-exuberance at existence and the world in general. He rubbed his eyes, frowned and wiped a hand across his forehead, but Damian had seen Grayson do this a hundred times before when interacting with Father.
When Grayson went down, heavily, to what should have been an easily avoided punch to the face, Damian knew he should have taken more notice. Damian had known something was wrong and ignoring it meant Dick was now laid out cold in a dirty, dark back alley. Rain poured down on them, the chill in the air unpleasant. From the look on Father’s face, Batman had known something was wrong too.
***
“Be careful,” Damian warned, and when his father didn’t seem to grasp the concept of being careful Damian took Grayson’s head into his hands and guided it into the car, preventing it from colliding with the hard edges of the door.
Grayson’s eyes opened blearily, smiled at Damian as though he’d done something amazing, and Damian had the very strong urge to tell him to shut up.
Who went out, on a night like this, burning up and unsteady and sick?
“If you vomit on me, Grayson,” Damian growled, but he climbed into the car beside where Batman had seated him. There was a foil blanket in the glove compartment and heating packs under the seat and Damian arranged them around Grayson until they were to his satisfaction. And Father told him to stop fussing.
“Aw, Bruce,” Dick grinned, “Leave’im alone.”
Damian noticed Grayson’s eyes didn’t quite focus, his smile wavered, turned down at the edges. There were lines of pain on his face. Sitting this closer Damian could feel Grayson shivering minutely and started tucking the edges of the crinkling blanket around him again where it had come lose.
“You should have said something,” Batman said, scowl firmly fixed in place, eyes ahead on the road. Damian could see how tightly his fingers curled around the wheel, could tell how fast they were traveling, scenery flashing past them in a blur.
“Been out with worse,” Grayson shrugged, and Damian could hear the leather of Batman’s gloves creak as his fingers clenched even more tightly. “You’ve sent me out with worse.”
There was no reprove in his voice and Grayson was smiling in a dopey kind of way like it didn’t matter. Like passing out during a fight was nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it wasn’t, Damian supposed. He knew how hard Batman pushed them all to work harder, go faster, be better, but Grayson most of all.
Batman was silent for the remainder of the journey home.
***
Alfred wasn’t there.
They’d known that, because he hadn’t been at the briefing before they’d gone patrolling with tea and cocoa and cookies. He hadn’t been on the line, telling them to keep out of the rain because leather was a pain to dry and did they know it shrank?
“If I have to sew back together another of your capes, Master Damian,” Alfred would say, “I will consider replacing the black fabric with a pattern of pink bunnies. The black does not seem to be helping you with stealth after all.”
He’d never carried out the threat but Damian had seen Alfred’s textile collection. It was no idle threat.
But Alfred was away, visiting family Damian hadn’t known existed until two days ago, and so when they arrived back at the cave it was cold and dark and Batman paused as he stepped out of the car as if suddenly remembering something. They were alone and Damian didn’t know where the blankets were kept, or if he should get a cold bucket of water to dip Grayson in because his face was red, sweating; overheated.
Batman helped Grayson over to the medical area and Damian helped by finding the light switches until the cave was humming with the familiar sound of electricity, computers whirring, shadows filling the dark corners.
Grayson was unsteady on his feet, held his stomach carefully, and Damian found him a bucket.
“Thoughtful, Damian,” Grayson nodded, still trying to smile. It looked more like a grimace at this point.
“If it was Drake’s turn to clean the cave I would let you vomit wherever you liked.” Damian pointed to the bucket. “But it’s mine, so keep it in there.”
Grayson nodded amiably. “Will do.”
He did puke, and he kept it the bucket, and Damian brought him a glass of water in appreciation.
***
That the Nightwing outfit was fitting was no secret. Or, indeed, possible not to notice. Exactly how difficult it was to peel off, however, struck Damian as absurd, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Dick got in to the damn costume every night.
“Do you have to use talc?” Damian asked.
“No.” Grayson laughed even as he shivered, worse now, and Father wrapped a thick blanket around his bare shoulders.
“It’s like putting on tights,” Dick explained. He took the empty arm of the suit and pulled. “Stretches.”
“Only you would know about putting on tights,” Damian scoffed.
"Don't knock 'em till you've tried 'em." Dick coughed into his hand and it sounded wet and disgusting. "They're comfy."
Damian couldn’t decide if he should be curious or disturbed. To take his mind off the thought of Dick Grayson in hose Damian busied himself pulling off Grayson’s boots. They left mud on his hands.
“I hope you appreciate this,” Damian scowled, presenting his dirty palms to Grayson.
Predictably, Grayson smiled and nodded. “I do.”
Idiot.
Grayson swayed where he sat. His teeth chattered loudly. He held the blanket so tightly around himself his knuckles were turning white.
Damian had never seen Dick like this before; weak and dependent and unsteady. It was unnerving. Damian had no idea what to do.
“Damian,” Father snapped him out of his bewilderment. Strange helplessness. Uselessness. “Find some dry clothes for Dick.”
It was a relief to have something to do.
As he turned away, heading towards the steep, rock-cut staircase leading up to the Manor, Grayson called after him, “And find some for yourself too!” Like he was five and needed looking after. Not that he’d needed looking after when he was five. He’d already been in training, expected to take care of himself.
Graciously, Damian decided Grayson must have forgotten this in his addled state and ignored the comment.
He climbed the steps to the sound of Grayson coughing, and the low murmur of his father’s voice that sounded almost comforting.
***
Dick Grayson’s room in the Manor was, Damian had always thought, a relic of a time when his father had been weak and foolish, taking in helpless strays like they were orphaned kittens out of some misguided ideal of civic duty. Or something.
But since Damian had been living at the Manor it had become apparent that the room was more lived in than he’d realized. He should have noticed; there was no dust. No stale air. The room was warm. Cleaned and aired out by Alfred for those times when Dick stayed the night. Or the weekend. Or the week.
Damian took in the old yellowed posters on the walls and the abandoned clothes on the bed. The bed was unmade where Alfred wasn’t there to tell them to do otherwise. Damian didn’t come in here often. He had no reason to.
Dull grey light filtered in through the partially opened curtains. It was dawn. Still raining outside, a miserable drizzle that reminded Damian that he was still sopping wet himself, dripping on the carpet. But he had a job to do. He could take down gang lords and metahumans. Damian could definitely find dry clothes.
He went through a chest of drawers, finding threadbare t-shirts and ratty old pants that would be useless at keeping Grayson warm. In the wardrobe Damian found black suits, jackets, an old school uniform that made him laugh because it was so small.
From this side of the room, Damian could see that Grayson had left an over-flowing duffel bag beside the bed. It was an ugly, battered old thing but in it Damian found a pair of sweats that weren’t worn through, a longer-sleeved t-shirt and sweater. There were socks too. Socks would be good. Damian just hoped they were clean because it was bad enough he had to rifle through Dick’s bag not knowing what horrors it might contain without touching Grayson’s dirty clothes.
His hand caught on something; an edge of card or paper. Curious, Damian pulled it out, finding a photograph, bent and faded with time. Three people looked up at him from the picture, smiling and carefree. He would recognize Dick’s bright, wide grin anywhere. The other two, Damian guessed, had to be his parents. They rested their hands on the young Grayson’s shoulders, their smiles a shade of their son’s. Damian could see Grayson’s eyes were his mother’s, his jaw his father’s. They looked happy and Damian found himself wondering what they’d been like. What would have happened to Grayson if they hadn’t died. What would have happened to all of them if Grayson hadn’t been there when Father-
But he was. Dick was here, with them, and Damian didn’t believe he would leave them.
He carefully returned the photograph to the bag, took Grayson’s clothes, and closed the door to the room quietly behind him.
***
“Bruce.” Grayson watched Father nervously from where he sat at the kitchen table, hunched over and wrapped in an old afghan. Damian sat beside him, grateful to be finally wearing dry boots. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Making tea,” Father said. He had a tea bag in one hand and an empty kettle in the other and was eyeing both like they might fight back should he look away. “It can’t be that hard.”
In truth, Damian had to agree with Grayson’s reticence; Batman might be a great detective but a great kitchen user he was not. Damian wasn’t certain he’d ever seen his father even so much as in the kitchen before.
Grayson sighed and laid his head on his folded arms wearily. “You’ll save us, won’t you Damian?” he asked. “If Bruce starts a fire.”
“I will,” Damian nodded. The way Grayson grinned at him, conspiratorial and satisfied, was well worth the glare his father shot them both.
They’d never done this before, Damian realized. They’d never sat together without some case to discuss, some problem to solve. They rarely talked of much beyond strategy and evidence and orders. And Father had never made tea before.
There was a can of soup on the edge of the counter that Father had also threatened to attempt to heat up.
“I can help, Bruce,” Grayson had tried and Father hadn’t deigned to reply. He was determined.
Grayson sneezed into the crook of arm and Damian handed him a tissue.
He looked terrible; pale and sickly, a purple-red bruise standing out starkly against the pallour of his skin just below his hairline. His left eye was swelling up angrily. They’d tried to give him an ice pack but Dick had pushed it away, protesting that he was cold enough already, thanks and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself.
If Damian had his way Grayson would have been banished to bed as soon as they arrived home. Grayson had other ideas and Father, inexplicably, allowed it.
Grayson sniffed miserably.
“If you feel so bad,” Damian tried again, “You should go and lie down, idiot.”
“’M okay,” Grayson inclined his head in Father’s direction. Father had set the kettle on the burner and was watching it with a fierce concentration. “Gotta prevent imminent disaster.”
“I told you, I will take care of it.”
Grayson turned to look at Damian then, a strange expression on his face that was somewhere between surprised and thoughtful.
“What?” Damian demanded, uncomfortable under Grayson’s scrutiny. That focused gaze reminded Damian far too much of the way his father watched him. He wondered if they knew how alike they were sometimes.
They had been partners, Drake had said. Not mentor and student, not father and son. It had made them stronger. It had made them.
“Nothin’” Grayson smiled and scrubbed annoyingly at Damian’s hair. “Just, you’re a cool little brother.”
Damian’s first instinct was to retort, I’m not your brother, to tell Grayson exactly how insulting the insinuation was. He couldn’t bring himself to because, Damian realized, somewhere in his acquaintance with Dick Grayson brother was exactly the role he had fallen into. And worse, he wouldn’t want it to be any other way.
Instead, Damian tutted, folding his arms. “You’re delusional from the fever.”
“Yeah,” Dick agreed amiably. “That must be it.”
Beside the stove, Father listened.
***
Scalded fingers, five tea bags and a burnt saucepan later Father had successfully managed to avoid burning down the Manor and had produced a cup of tea and a bowl of soup fit for consumption. Damian had tried it, just to be sure.
“Don’t burn your tongue,” Damian warned.
“Yes, Mom,” Grayson snorted, but he ate and Damian pointedly ignored the way Grayson’s hands shook. He ate slowly, carefully, as though still unsure of his stomach and Damian wondered if he should go and get the bucket again.
It was warm in the kitchen; Father had turned up the heat. A faint smell of burning lingered in the air from his failed culinary attempts, dirty bowls and spoons littering the counter tops. Outside, rain and wind battered against the windows. Damian would never admit it but he was very glad not to be out patrolling in the storm. In truth, he was surprised that with Dick warm and dry and safe Father hadn’t ordered them back out. But instead, he sat at the head of the table and sipped his own tea, watching Grayson spoon soup almost painfully slowly into his mouth.
Dick paused, looked up, looked from Damian to his father and back again. “What?” he asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
“A stupid expression,” Damian replied automatically before he could stop himself. It was dishonourable to insult the sick and needy, Grayson had always taught him.
Grayson just smiled and nodded, albeit a little more blearily and unfocused than usual.
“Good to know.”
It should have been annoying how his insults only ever seemed to cause Grayson to smile, as though calling him stupid was some term of affection. Which it wasn’t.
Father narrowed his eyes.
"Finish that and then you're going to bed."
"I'm not ten anymore, Bruce," Grayson protested.
"You also can't stand up properly."
"I'll be fine-"
Father cut in, "No arguments," and his tone was absolute steel' the one Batman used when he ordered crooks to drop their weapons, or told Damian to practice a move again.
Grayson frowned but sighed apparently conceded defeat, going back to carefully eating the soup, sipping on the tea and ignoring the way Father was still watching him.
It was only rarely that Damian got to see Grayson and his father interacting outside of their personas of Nightwing and Batman, and every time he did they seemed to be arguing. But there was always a sense of underlying respect and loyalty; a certainty that no matter what they said to each other, or how hard Grayson strained against Father's leadership, neither of them was going anywhere. When it came to it,they would always be there for one another, whether they liked it or not. That was Batman and Robin, Damian supposed. Having back-up. Having an alternative.
Neither might need assistance, but watching them argue with each other, watching them fight back to back, Damian was certain they wanted it.
And he was Robin now. To both of them.
***
The wide, carpeted stairs leading from the Manor's main entrance hall to the floor above had proved a challenge. Grayson stumbled, uncharacteristically off-balance and uncoordinated. The effort was too much, his breathing turning strained, coughing, face drawn with discomfort. He was trying to hide it too.
Father threw an arm around Grayson's waist, ignoring Dick's feeble attempts to push him away, and hauled him almost bodily up the last few steps. Once, not so long ago, Damian might have laughed and scoffed at Grayson's weakness. Now he saw the line of sweat on Grayson's forehead and the lack of any colour in his cheeks and instead felt something that might possibly have been concern.
This was Dick Grayson, after all, who never stopped moving and never shut up and was always there when Damian asked him to be. Or didn't. It was disconcerting to see him moving like an old man, panting for breath just from climbing a flight of stairs.
Damian stayed close to Dick's side.
"You stay put," Father ordered, his tone enough of a threat. "I know what you're like."
"You're going back out there." Grayson didn't sound surprised or upset. No more or less than he had expected. Damian should have expected it too; this was Batman, always restless and unyielding. It wasn't as though a cold was life-threatening or a storm a guarantee that the criminals of Gotham would take the night off.
Still, Damian really had hoped to stay out of the rain.
But then Father said, "I am. Damian will stay with you."
Damian might have protested, but Father shot him a glare. It wasn't a choice.
"Like I said," Father said. "I know what you're like."
They had reached Grayson's room, still messy, the curtains open where Damian hadn't thought to draw them shut earlier. The wind was picking up outside, rattling at the windows.
Father didn't bother to turn on the lamp, so used to the dark that Damian sometimes wondered if he even needed light to see by anymore. Unceremoniously, Father tipped Grayson onto the mattress and Damian did not miss the way he let out a long breath in relief.
"Damian will let me know if you try to escape." He sounded stern but Father's lips were drawn up into what was almost a grin as he spoke.
"And you'll, what?" Grayson challenged. "Come straight back and yell at me?'
"I'll think of something," Father promised ominously, and Damian didn't doubt he would. Grayson, apparently, came to the same conclusion because he subsided and allowed himself to be manhandled under the covers. He remained silent while Father found a second blanket and laid it on top of him. He said nothing as Father checked the windows, pulled the curtains shut and placed a glass of water on the nightstand, Grayson's eyes following his movements curiously.
All things that Alfred would have done if he were here. All things that Damian had never seen his father do before but did not seem so unfamiliar to Grayson.
When Father was gone, his instructions for rest and liquids drilled into the both of them with dire warnings should they deviate from his orders, Grayson smiled strangely at Damian.
"He used to do that," he said. "Bruce did. When I was a kid."
It was odd; Damian felt a sense of loss that he would never seen this gentler version of Bruce Wayne whilst at the same time relief that his father had moved beyond such sentimentality. It was almost impossible to believe, anyway. If he had not just seen it with his own eyes.
"Then you were a spoiled brat." Damian crossed his arms. "Don't expect such me to be so indulgent."
"You'd know something about being a brat," Grayson grinned, and Damian would have made some suitably cutting remark in response to the accusation if Grayson had not chosen that moment to break into a round of wet, gross-sounding coughs.
Damian only helped him sit higher on his pillows to stop the disgusting noise, and he only helped Dick drink water because Father had ordered it. And as Grayson was finally drifting off to sleep Damian only laid down on the mattress beside him because it was more comfortable and he had nothing better to do.
It was warm, even more so when Grayson unselfconsciously wrapped his arms around Damian as though he were some kind of stuffed toy. Graciously, Damian allowed it, just this once, and fell asleep wondering at how once, not so long ago, he had never known what it felt like to care.
.End.
Comments and conctit most loved and adored!
Title: Handle with Care
Rating: PG
Words: 3,497
Summary: Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne. H/C.
.Handle with Care.
Damian had known something was wrong.
For all that Grayson smiled and laughed and (annoyingly) ruffled Damian’s hair. For all that he frowned at the crime scene photographs as they were laid out across the table, suddenly serious and focused, something hadn’t felt right.
In retrospect Damian realised that Grayson had been leaning heavily against Batman’s chair. Not unusual in and of itself, but there was a weariness to it Damian had, at the time, dismissed as irrelevant.
His face had been flushed, which could have come from exertion or impatience or simply from Grayson’s usual over-exuberance at existence and the world in general. He rubbed his eyes, frowned and wiped a hand across his forehead, but Damian had seen Grayson do this a hundred times before when interacting with Father.
When Grayson went down, heavily, to what should have been an easily avoided punch to the face, Damian knew he should have taken more notice. Damian had known something was wrong and ignoring it meant Dick was now laid out cold in a dirty, dark back alley. Rain poured down on them, the chill in the air unpleasant. From the look on Father’s face, Batman had known something was wrong too.
***
“Be careful,” Damian warned, and when his father didn’t seem to grasp the concept of being careful Damian took Grayson’s head into his hands and guided it into the car, preventing it from colliding with the hard edges of the door.
Grayson’s eyes opened blearily, smiled at Damian as though he’d done something amazing, and Damian had the very strong urge to tell him to shut up.
Who went out, on a night like this, burning up and unsteady and sick?
“If you vomit on me, Grayson,” Damian growled, but he climbed into the car beside where Batman had seated him. There was a foil blanket in the glove compartment and heating packs under the seat and Damian arranged them around Grayson until they were to his satisfaction. And Father told him to stop fussing.
“Aw, Bruce,” Dick grinned, “Leave’im alone.”
Damian noticed Grayson’s eyes didn’t quite focus, his smile wavered, turned down at the edges. There were lines of pain on his face. Sitting this closer Damian could feel Grayson shivering minutely and started tucking the edges of the crinkling blanket around him again where it had come lose.
“You should have said something,” Batman said, scowl firmly fixed in place, eyes ahead on the road. Damian could see how tightly his fingers curled around the wheel, could tell how fast they were traveling, scenery flashing past them in a blur.
“Been out with worse,” Grayson shrugged, and Damian could hear the leather of Batman’s gloves creak as his fingers clenched even more tightly. “You’ve sent me out with worse.”
There was no reprove in his voice and Grayson was smiling in a dopey kind of way like it didn’t matter. Like passing out during a fight was nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it wasn’t, Damian supposed. He knew how hard Batman pushed them all to work harder, go faster, be better, but Grayson most of all.
Batman was silent for the remainder of the journey home.
***
Alfred wasn’t there.
They’d known that, because he hadn’t been at the briefing before they’d gone patrolling with tea and cocoa and cookies. He hadn’t been on the line, telling them to keep out of the rain because leather was a pain to dry and did they know it shrank?
“If I have to sew back together another of your capes, Master Damian,” Alfred would say, “I will consider replacing the black fabric with a pattern of pink bunnies. The black does not seem to be helping you with stealth after all.”
He’d never carried out the threat but Damian had seen Alfred’s textile collection. It was no idle threat.
But Alfred was away, visiting family Damian hadn’t known existed until two days ago, and so when they arrived back at the cave it was cold and dark and Batman paused as he stepped out of the car as if suddenly remembering something. They were alone and Damian didn’t know where the blankets were kept, or if he should get a cold bucket of water to dip Grayson in because his face was red, sweating; overheated.
Batman helped Grayson over to the medical area and Damian helped by finding the light switches until the cave was humming with the familiar sound of electricity, computers whirring, shadows filling the dark corners.
Grayson was unsteady on his feet, held his stomach carefully, and Damian found him a bucket.
“Thoughtful, Damian,” Grayson nodded, still trying to smile. It looked more like a grimace at this point.
“If it was Drake’s turn to clean the cave I would let you vomit wherever you liked.” Damian pointed to the bucket. “But it’s mine, so keep it in there.”
Grayson nodded amiably. “Will do.”
He did puke, and he kept it the bucket, and Damian brought him a glass of water in appreciation.
***
That the Nightwing outfit was fitting was no secret. Or, indeed, possible not to notice. Exactly how difficult it was to peel off, however, struck Damian as absurd, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Dick got in to the damn costume every night.
“Do you have to use talc?” Damian asked.
“No.” Grayson laughed even as he shivered, worse now, and Father wrapped a thick blanket around his bare shoulders.
“It’s like putting on tights,” Dick explained. He took the empty arm of the suit and pulled. “Stretches.”
“Only you would know about putting on tights,” Damian scoffed.
"Don't knock 'em till you've tried 'em." Dick coughed into his hand and it sounded wet and disgusting. "They're comfy."
Damian couldn’t decide if he should be curious or disturbed. To take his mind off the thought of Dick Grayson in hose Damian busied himself pulling off Grayson’s boots. They left mud on his hands.
“I hope you appreciate this,” Damian scowled, presenting his dirty palms to Grayson.
Predictably, Grayson smiled and nodded. “I do.”
Idiot.
Grayson swayed where he sat. His teeth chattered loudly. He held the blanket so tightly around himself his knuckles were turning white.
Damian had never seen Dick like this before; weak and dependent and unsteady. It was unnerving. Damian had no idea what to do.
“Damian,” Father snapped him out of his bewilderment. Strange helplessness. Uselessness. “Find some dry clothes for Dick.”
It was a relief to have something to do.
As he turned away, heading towards the steep, rock-cut staircase leading up to the Manor, Grayson called after him, “And find some for yourself too!” Like he was five and needed looking after. Not that he’d needed looking after when he was five. He’d already been in training, expected to take care of himself.
Graciously, Damian decided Grayson must have forgotten this in his addled state and ignored the comment.
He climbed the steps to the sound of Grayson coughing, and the low murmur of his father’s voice that sounded almost comforting.
***
Dick Grayson’s room in the Manor was, Damian had always thought, a relic of a time when his father had been weak and foolish, taking in helpless strays like they were orphaned kittens out of some misguided ideal of civic duty. Or something.
But since Damian had been living at the Manor it had become apparent that the room was more lived in than he’d realized. He should have noticed; there was no dust. No stale air. The room was warm. Cleaned and aired out by Alfred for those times when Dick stayed the night. Or the weekend. Or the week.
Damian took in the old yellowed posters on the walls and the abandoned clothes on the bed. The bed was unmade where Alfred wasn’t there to tell them to do otherwise. Damian didn’t come in here often. He had no reason to.
Dull grey light filtered in through the partially opened curtains. It was dawn. Still raining outside, a miserable drizzle that reminded Damian that he was still sopping wet himself, dripping on the carpet. But he had a job to do. He could take down gang lords and metahumans. Damian could definitely find dry clothes.
He went through a chest of drawers, finding threadbare t-shirts and ratty old pants that would be useless at keeping Grayson warm. In the wardrobe Damian found black suits, jackets, an old school uniform that made him laugh because it was so small.
From this side of the room, Damian could see that Grayson had left an over-flowing duffel bag beside the bed. It was an ugly, battered old thing but in it Damian found a pair of sweats that weren’t worn through, a longer-sleeved t-shirt and sweater. There were socks too. Socks would be good. Damian just hoped they were clean because it was bad enough he had to rifle through Dick’s bag not knowing what horrors it might contain without touching Grayson’s dirty clothes.
His hand caught on something; an edge of card or paper. Curious, Damian pulled it out, finding a photograph, bent and faded with time. Three people looked up at him from the picture, smiling and carefree. He would recognize Dick’s bright, wide grin anywhere. The other two, Damian guessed, had to be his parents. They rested their hands on the young Grayson’s shoulders, their smiles a shade of their son’s. Damian could see Grayson’s eyes were his mother’s, his jaw his father’s. They looked happy and Damian found himself wondering what they’d been like. What would have happened to Grayson if they hadn’t died. What would have happened to all of them if Grayson hadn’t been there when Father-
But he was. Dick was here, with them, and Damian didn’t believe he would leave them.
He carefully returned the photograph to the bag, took Grayson’s clothes, and closed the door to the room quietly behind him.
***
“Bruce.” Grayson watched Father nervously from where he sat at the kitchen table, hunched over and wrapped in an old afghan. Damian sat beside him, grateful to be finally wearing dry boots. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Making tea,” Father said. He had a tea bag in one hand and an empty kettle in the other and was eyeing both like they might fight back should he look away. “It can’t be that hard.”
In truth, Damian had to agree with Grayson’s reticence; Batman might be a great detective but a great kitchen user he was not. Damian wasn’t certain he’d ever seen his father even so much as in the kitchen before.
Grayson sighed and laid his head on his folded arms wearily. “You’ll save us, won’t you Damian?” he asked. “If Bruce starts a fire.”
“I will,” Damian nodded. The way Grayson grinned at him, conspiratorial and satisfied, was well worth the glare his father shot them both.
They’d never done this before, Damian realized. They’d never sat together without some case to discuss, some problem to solve. They rarely talked of much beyond strategy and evidence and orders. And Father had never made tea before.
There was a can of soup on the edge of the counter that Father had also threatened to attempt to heat up.
“I can help, Bruce,” Grayson had tried and Father hadn’t deigned to reply. He was determined.
Grayson sneezed into the crook of arm and Damian handed him a tissue.
He looked terrible; pale and sickly, a purple-red bruise standing out starkly against the pallour of his skin just below his hairline. His left eye was swelling up angrily. They’d tried to give him an ice pack but Dick had pushed it away, protesting that he was cold enough already, thanks and pulled the blanket more tightly around himself.
If Damian had his way Grayson would have been banished to bed as soon as they arrived home. Grayson had other ideas and Father, inexplicably, allowed it.
Grayson sniffed miserably.
“If you feel so bad,” Damian tried again, “You should go and lie down, idiot.”
“’M okay,” Grayson inclined his head in Father’s direction. Father had set the kettle on the burner and was watching it with a fierce concentration. “Gotta prevent imminent disaster.”
“I told you, I will take care of it.”
Grayson turned to look at Damian then, a strange expression on his face that was somewhere between surprised and thoughtful.
“What?” Damian demanded, uncomfortable under Grayson’s scrutiny. That focused gaze reminded Damian far too much of the way his father watched him. He wondered if they knew how alike they were sometimes.
They had been partners, Drake had said. Not mentor and student, not father and son. It had made them stronger. It had made them.
“Nothin’” Grayson smiled and scrubbed annoyingly at Damian’s hair. “Just, you’re a cool little brother.”
Damian’s first instinct was to retort, I’m not your brother, to tell Grayson exactly how insulting the insinuation was. He couldn’t bring himself to because, Damian realized, somewhere in his acquaintance with Dick Grayson brother was exactly the role he had fallen into. And worse, he wouldn’t want it to be any other way.
Instead, Damian tutted, folding his arms. “You’re delusional from the fever.”
“Yeah,” Dick agreed amiably. “That must be it.”
Beside the stove, Father listened.
***
Scalded fingers, five tea bags and a burnt saucepan later Father had successfully managed to avoid burning down the Manor and had produced a cup of tea and a bowl of soup fit for consumption. Damian had tried it, just to be sure.
“Don’t burn your tongue,” Damian warned.
“Yes, Mom,” Grayson snorted, but he ate and Damian pointedly ignored the way Grayson’s hands shook. He ate slowly, carefully, as though still unsure of his stomach and Damian wondered if he should go and get the bucket again.
It was warm in the kitchen; Father had turned up the heat. A faint smell of burning lingered in the air from his failed culinary attempts, dirty bowls and spoons littering the counter tops. Outside, rain and wind battered against the windows. Damian would never admit it but he was very glad not to be out patrolling in the storm. In truth, he was surprised that with Dick warm and dry and safe Father hadn’t ordered them back out. But instead, he sat at the head of the table and sipped his own tea, watching Grayson spoon soup almost painfully slowly into his mouth.
Dick paused, looked up, looked from Damian to his father and back again. “What?” he asked. “Do I have something on my face?”
“A stupid expression,” Damian replied automatically before he could stop himself. It was dishonourable to insult the sick and needy, Grayson had always taught him.
Grayson just smiled and nodded, albeit a little more blearily and unfocused than usual.
“Good to know.”
It should have been annoying how his insults only ever seemed to cause Grayson to smile, as though calling him stupid was some term of affection. Which it wasn’t.
Father narrowed his eyes.
"Finish that and then you're going to bed."
"I'm not ten anymore, Bruce," Grayson protested.
"You also can't stand up properly."
"I'll be fine-"
Father cut in, "No arguments," and his tone was absolute steel' the one Batman used when he ordered crooks to drop their weapons, or told Damian to practice a move again.
Grayson frowned but sighed apparently conceded defeat, going back to carefully eating the soup, sipping on the tea and ignoring the way Father was still watching him.
It was only rarely that Damian got to see Grayson and his father interacting outside of their personas of Nightwing and Batman, and every time he did they seemed to be arguing. But there was always a sense of underlying respect and loyalty; a certainty that no matter what they said to each other, or how hard Grayson strained against Father's leadership, neither of them was going anywhere. When it came to it,they would always be there for one another, whether they liked it or not. That was Batman and Robin, Damian supposed. Having back-up. Having an alternative.
Neither might need assistance, but watching them argue with each other, watching them fight back to back, Damian was certain they wanted it.
And he was Robin now. To both of them.
***
The wide, carpeted stairs leading from the Manor's main entrance hall to the floor above had proved a challenge. Grayson stumbled, uncharacteristically off-balance and uncoordinated. The effort was too much, his breathing turning strained, coughing, face drawn with discomfort. He was trying to hide it too.
Father threw an arm around Grayson's waist, ignoring Dick's feeble attempts to push him away, and hauled him almost bodily up the last few steps. Once, not so long ago, Damian might have laughed and scoffed at Grayson's weakness. Now he saw the line of sweat on Grayson's forehead and the lack of any colour in his cheeks and instead felt something that might possibly have been concern.
This was Dick Grayson, after all, who never stopped moving and never shut up and was always there when Damian asked him to be. Or didn't. It was disconcerting to see him moving like an old man, panting for breath just from climbing a flight of stairs.
Damian stayed close to Dick's side.
"You stay put," Father ordered, his tone enough of a threat. "I know what you're like."
"You're going back out there." Grayson didn't sound surprised or upset. No more or less than he had expected. Damian should have expected it too; this was Batman, always restless and unyielding. It wasn't as though a cold was life-threatening or a storm a guarantee that the criminals of Gotham would take the night off.
Still, Damian really had hoped to stay out of the rain.
But then Father said, "I am. Damian will stay with you."
Damian might have protested, but Father shot him a glare. It wasn't a choice.
"Like I said," Father said. "I know what you're like."
They had reached Grayson's room, still messy, the curtains open where Damian hadn't thought to draw them shut earlier. The wind was picking up outside, rattling at the windows.
Father didn't bother to turn on the lamp, so used to the dark that Damian sometimes wondered if he even needed light to see by anymore. Unceremoniously, Father tipped Grayson onto the mattress and Damian did not miss the way he let out a long breath in relief.
"Damian will let me know if you try to escape." He sounded stern but Father's lips were drawn up into what was almost a grin as he spoke.
"And you'll, what?" Grayson challenged. "Come straight back and yell at me?'
"I'll think of something," Father promised ominously, and Damian didn't doubt he would. Grayson, apparently, came to the same conclusion because he subsided and allowed himself to be manhandled under the covers. He remained silent while Father found a second blanket and laid it on top of him. He said nothing as Father checked the windows, pulled the curtains shut and placed a glass of water on the nightstand, Grayson's eyes following his movements curiously.
All things that Alfred would have done if he were here. All things that Damian had never seen his father do before but did not seem so unfamiliar to Grayson.
When Father was gone, his instructions for rest and liquids drilled into the both of them with dire warnings should they deviate from his orders, Grayson smiled strangely at Damian.
"He used to do that," he said. "Bruce did. When I was a kid."
It was odd; Damian felt a sense of loss that he would never seen this gentler version of Bruce Wayne whilst at the same time relief that his father had moved beyond such sentimentality. It was almost impossible to believe, anyway. If he had not just seen it with his own eyes.
"Then you were a spoiled brat." Damian crossed his arms. "Don't expect such me to be so indulgent."
"You'd know something about being a brat," Grayson grinned, and Damian would have made some suitably cutting remark in response to the accusation if Grayson had not chosen that moment to break into a round of wet, gross-sounding coughs.
Damian only helped him sit higher on his pillows to stop the disgusting noise, and he only helped Dick drink water because Father had ordered it. And as Grayson was finally drifting off to sleep Damian only laid down on the mattress beside him because it was more comfortable and he had nothing better to do.
It was warm, even more so when Grayson unselfconsciously wrapped his arms around Damian as though he were some kind of stuffed toy. Graciously, Damian allowed it, just this once, and fell asleep wondering at how once, not so long ago, he had never known what it felt like to care.
.End.
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