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Footsteps echo through the hall, light, but heavy enough to be intentional. Too carefully timed to be confident in their placement. And with too little bounce to be Richard’s.
Nor would he waken if they were Richard’s and that’s really his first clue. Briskly throwing off the sheets and flattening his hair, he throws open the door before his father can make it the rest of the way down the hall. The footsteps stop in their tracks.
He leaves the door open as invitation, yet it’s unnecessary – father doesn’t approach. From what little time they’ve spent together, Damian finds it strange – his father is single minded in his work but yet so indecisive in his home – well – really this wasn’t his home. “How is he?” The words come out too harshly and he grits his teeth, hoping for leniency – father is to be respected, not talked to in such a manner.
Nor was father was pleased the last time he erred in his judgment. Ever since he’d failed the first time he meant, he’d been treated like a plague, locked in his room then, and avoided now.
…But he’d heard stories from Richard about a softer man than the one he’d met a year ago. A man whose love was stronger than his hate – who took in children and saved their souls.
It was odd that such a man had shied away from his own son. Damian couldn’t understand what he’d done wrong – he understood the skirmish with Drake was wrong – but Richard spoke of a man who could forgive. And yet. He’d only seen forgiveness from Richard.
He’d thought perhaps, that had been his father’s influence.
Another footstep resounds around him, and the realization strikes – he hasn’t moved. Huffing – at no one in particular – he silently strides forward, yanking his dresser drawers open to retrieve a set of perfectly folded clothes.
“Damian.” Father stays just out of sight beyond the door. Its nerve wracking – almost painful – waiting for information. Richard promised he would be fine, last night, he promised Bruce could take care of the things – would be back – would fix it.
He’d almost believed him, but for a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
It was odd, seeing him waver – especially because he’d seen for himself how much Bruce cared for him. He’d read the worry in his expressions and the thinly veiled pain as he stitched his successor’s side. Father was back – he’d believed that much – though he didn’t believe it when Richard said it – and that was… a complicated thing.
Suffice to say, he’d kept watch from afar until he heard the doorknob turn, leaving once father began to speak.
An awkward clearing of the throat makes him turn. Father stands in the doorway, looking stern but unsure, finally having decided to make an appearance. It’s irritating, how tall he seems; his head mere inches away from the top of the doorframe. “What?” He can’t keep panic from slipping into his voice. Swallowing, he makes another attempt. “How is Richard?”
Frowning, father shakes his head slightly looking displeased. Damian’s heart sinks to the floor – Richard couldn’t – he promised – he –
“He’s not doing as well as I’d hoped. His blood oxygen level fell last night, I had to put him on an external canister to raise it.” Damian lets out a long breath, his pulse returning to normal as father continued. “He’s stable, Leslie came over an hour ago. She predicts a full recovery, just don’t expect him to bounce back too quickly.” His father paused, giving him a curious look. “You look flush, are you alright?”
Suddenly full of the desire to be alone, he shuts the door. “Yes. One moment.” For a moment he thought – never mind that now. Turning back to his clothes, he kicks off his pajamas, hastily changing. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing steadily – everything is fine.
He can hear his father hesitating, the floorboards groaning as he shifts his weight. “School starts in an hour. I’ll drive you.” It takes all the willpower he can muster not to let a groan escape his lips. School’s awful on the best of days, a miserable prison with miserable teachers not paid enough to put up with his obnoxious rich classmates’ egregious behavior.
“I’m not going.” Richard needs monitoring after all and his father had fulfilled the task last night. For proper care, he needs properly awake caretakers.
“You will go.” The response is firm, but not without minor hesitation – something Richard had taught him to look for – something he could exploit in interrogations – something he could exploit here (for a good cause of course).
His argument must be flawless – rational and logical, nothing else will suffice. Pulling on his socks, crossing the room, he flings the door open, storming into the hall, in a display of righteous fury. “The benefits of my attending school today do not outweigh the benefits Richard would receive if I monitor his progress and allow you sleep in order to be prepared to monitor him tonight. Firstly, I know the material already.” His father makes a noise to interrupt, but he continues unperturbed.
“Secondly, I understand the social benefits are a concern to you. Ask Richard, I have made a friend. His name is Colin and he’s much better than any of the awful children at that school. And I’ve met with Lian and Irey and Jay.” The Titan’s children were annoying, but he wasn’t lying. It was awful, but he’d made it through the ‘playdate’. “Thirdly, as for extracurricular activities, Grayson has provided me with all necessary materials to pursue my interests. And…” He trails off, finding his father’s eyes tired, the bags under them unreasonably puffy. Gesturing vaguely, he pointed back at a mirror in his room. “Just look at yourself, you expect to watch him well like that?” They can debate all they’d like, but if father refuses to sleep much longer, the argument will be decided in his favor.
The eyes shift to the mirror and back, then to him, to the floor, then covered by a hand. His father turns, muttering something he can’t quite hear, but he makes out the words from reading his lips. ‘What the hell has Dick been teaching you?’ A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth – he’s won. Perhaps, with further needling, he’ll be out of school for good, but today, he doesn’t press his luck.
Father drops his hand with a sigh. “Fine. Keep up with your studies.” He takes a few steps back. “You can sit in the room but don’t bother him.” Damian holds back an eye roll, as if he would bother Richard while he’s recuperating. “Call if anything changes, I’ll make breakfast.” Father turns, Damian’s eyes follow, watching him stride down the hall, ducking into the kitchen.
As the kitchen door smoothly thuds shut, he turns back to his room, swallowing down the odd sensation that stirs in the base of his throat. His steps are silent – mindlessly so, as he pads over into the adjacent bathroom to finish his morning routine.
He emerges – the strange feelings sticking with him – he supposes he ought to feel relieved, but dread builds in the pit of his stomach instead at the prospect of seeing Richard.
Father said Richard would be fine. Leslie said Richard would be fine. Richard promised he would be fine.
None of them are liars – but what if they missed something? The thought wracks his mind on an endless loop. The hallway seems to stretch out as he takes a step towards his brother’s room. What if something changes before he gets there? What if the medication doesn’t work – what if it’s a super virus or an antibiotic resistant bacteria? Their enemies could come up with ridiculously effective toxins, pathogens aren’t that much different.
Richard promised. He tries desperately to hold on to that thought, stumbling forward, forcing himself closer to his room. His heart pounds harder the closer he inches, his head joining the party and thudding along in time. He feels like the deer slipping on ice on that dumb movie Richard made him watch; it’s as if his legs have forgotten to function.
He’s nearly there – the hallway spins slightly but it’s just a few more steps – he needs to get control of himself but he can’t breathe. Two more steps. Two more steps and then he can. See Richard.
Halfway through his next step, he trips, falling face first onto the floor, unable to do anything but choke out unsteady breaths, his mind screaming the counts to a breathing exercise learned as a child long ago.
Pathetic. He would have been killed in the League for less. He mastered control of his emotion as a child – this – this is unacceptable! He reaches a hand forward, sheer willpower the only thing keeping him from curling in on himself – he has to keep moving.
His hand connects with a foot, he looks up, finding a flush face with bleary eyes staring back. “Damian?” Richard’s voice is rough and quiet, guilt floods his stomach – Richard shouldn’t be out of bed – he shouldn’t have panicked like this – this is – “Woah, buddy, breathe.” There’s a hand resting on his shoulder, the next time he looks up, Richard sits next to him on the floor, tapping his hand in time to a new count, one he learned here a few months ago.
There’s a million pieces of his mind scattered about the hallway and the longer he sits there breathing, the more pieces settle back into their places. Richard’s verbal count shifts into coughs, but he keeps his hand steady. When he finishes, the tapping’s all that’s left.
Damian shakily pulls himself up on his knees, not quite sure what exactly happened. Richard gives him a small sad smile, his eyes full of sympathy – sympathy that Damian doesn’t want – feels guilty for receiving – sympathy he’s never earned. It’s overwhelming – and something’s wrong with him – because he doesn’t cry – hasn’t cried since he was nine – and he’s nearly eleven and he’s over this.
He can’t cry because everything’s okay – Richard’s arms are open in an invitation, his hand receding from his shoulder, but close enough to hover. He’s fine. Richard is fine. Tired, yes, but his side’s not gushing blood, and his coughs subsided. Damian wipes his eyes on his sleeve, glancing around – ensuring they’re alone – before sliding up against the wall next to Richard, scooting under one of his shoulders. A muscular arm drapes over his shoulders, hand settling back on his shoulder.
He’s warm, a bit uncomfortably so, and his breathing sounds raspy, but as he leans against his brother’s chest, he hears a steady heartbeat and it’s unbelievingly reassuring. The hand on his shoulder is firm, but not tight; he can slip out; he’s not trapped.
Really, he ought to be ashamed, of needing comfort like some sniveling third-grader, but it’s different – coming from Richard – someone he’s seen far too many times on the wrong end of some twisted concoction of fear gas, crying and screaming – needing comforting himself. Fear gas. Maybe this was an after effect – he files away the notion to mull over later – perhaps run a blood test on himself later.
Richard’s grip tightens as he coughs, turning to face away. Damian’s gut drops – Richard was supposed to be on supplemental oxygen. Guilt claws at his insides as he quickly stands, pulling his brother along the best he can. It gives him appreciation for Nightwing’s smaller frame – his brother is way heavier and bulkier than he was a year ago – supporting him takes nearly all his might. “Come on.” He urges, dragging Richard into his room, this times his steps steady and stable.
They’re both out of breath by the time they’ve made it to the bed. Richard plops down, bouncing slightly on mattress, gasping for air. Biting back his guilt, Damian quickly traces the path of the nasal cannula, shoving the nose piece into Richard’s hands. “Here.” He watches the man fumble for a second before settling it place.
He slides down, tucking himself into a tight ball beside the bed, listening as gasps turns to wheezes, wheezes to coughs, coughs to rasps and back again, as Richard learns how to breathe like a normal human being. “Thanks.” He grunts, nudging Damian with his shin.
Damian huffs, he shouldn’t be thanked – he caused this mess! “For what?!” He half-shouts, quickly lowering his voice before he can say more. He needs to stay calm – he’s not supposed to be a disturbance. “It’s my fault you-”
“Damian.” Richard groans in an annoyed way, not an ‘I’m about to hack up another lung’ way. “Thanks for staying in to keep me company. It’s sweet.” Some company he is, forcing his brother out of bed to come pick him up off the floor. “Quit pouting, I’m fine.” The leg nudges him again. A third time when he doesn’t respond. He pushes back. Richard nudges him again. Damian scowls, what’s he supposed to even do in this situation?! “Let’s play Mario Kart or something.” Richard says, as if he’s overheard Damian’s thoughts.
Just as he pauses to mull over the suggestion, the door screeches on its hinges, shaking him out of his musings. “We should get that oiled.” Father mutters, carrying a tray of breakfast foods. He freezes in his tracks at the sight of Damian on the floor. “Everything okay?” Unfreezing, his motions are rigid and forced, his lips pursing into a straight line, brow furrowing, contorting into deep worry lines.
Richard swings his legs back onto the bed. “Just left to use the bathroom, Damian helped me back.” The lie sounds natural, comes far too readily out of his mouth. Damian swallows, staring at the floor as his father ponders whether the statement rings true.
It seems he’s decided to let it slip if he knows. He grunts an acknowledgement, setting the tray aside the bed, passing each a plate. It’s funny – how their dishes are so plain – just pure white, no décor. It struck him as odd when he’d first used them, now no longer odd, but fitting. The bland dish fits right in with Richard’s bland room.
Father leaves as quick as he came, and Damian’s left to reflect on the empty room as he munches on a bagel. He hasn’t spent much time in here, out of respect for privacy, he’s seen it before, but never thought what it would be like to live in it. “Don’t you get bored of looking at the walls?” He mutters, after swallowing a bite. His own walls are cluttered with his possessions; trophies from fallen enemies, keepsakes from his mother, and gifts from his brother (even a friendship bracelet from Brown is tacked to his corkboard). Richard’s are bare, save one faded poster. His eyes linger on the grinning young acrobat, gracefully swinging with his parents in the background.
Richard hums, curiously following his gaze. “Walls are walls, I don’t normally look at them. I just come in here to sleep.” He nods towards the television. “If I’m bored I can watch a show.”
Damian rolls his eyes. “When’s the last time you even turned it on?” He stands, spinning, taking in a full view of the room. “Room color effects your mood.” It’s something Richard used an excuse, to get him to pick a new color for his bedroom when they first moved in. “And potted plants are good for overall wellbeing.” He has a few on his dresser, he even set up an automatic watering system. He could hang some ivy over the balcony. Though… maybe not ivy.
Richard smiles to himself, letting out a little raspy noise that he supposes could be a laugh. “You’re really into it, huh?” Damian feels heat rise to his cheeks, he’s not ‘into’ anything as trivial as room décor. “Go wild, you can order whatever online and have it delivered.”
Damian turns his attention back towards Richard, hastily scoffing as he finishes speaking. “I’m not interested, I just wondered how you of all people could have such a bland room.” A flash of annoyance runs over Richard’s face, lingering long enough for Damian to properly identify it. It’s surprising to say the least; Richard almost never looks that way at him anymore.
Annoyance fades as Richard gazes out past the balcony. “I… lost a lot of stuff in the move.” Damian kicks himself mentally – Richard last lived in New York, but a month ago he overheard him and Drake talk about an old apartment back in Blüdhaven. He’d done some snooping in old casefiles, Richard’s stint there had been quite extended. Extended enough to have his property demolished by a villain even before the entire city was leveled by a nuclear explosion. “Damian.” Richard looks at him, face carefully neutral. “Don’t worry about it, let’s play cards or something.”
Don’t worry about it – how can he not worry about it?! He’d be devastated if he lost the gifts from his mother – some things aren’t replaceable. He gives the room another glance – it’s still empty – but he could fix it slightly. Maybe consult with Drake about the former apartment, if necessary contact – he shudders – the Titans during – he gags – one of their playdates for advice. “Damian are you okay?” Richard looks perplexed.
He shoves his plans back down, first things first, walls and flooring. He turns on the spot, marching out the door. “We’re fixing your room.” He mutters, storming down the hall to grab his laptop.
When he walks back in the room, Richard is staring at him. “What?” He demands, as Richard’s eyes follow him all the way to a chair aside the bed. He’s a bit annoyed at the chair even, it’s from the kitchen, probably dragged in here by his father last night. He adds ‘seating’ to his mental list – if Richard’s ill or injured, it would be nice for Pennyworth or him to be able to sit somewhere.
Richard shuffles back, edging closer and sitting upright against a mountain of pillows. “Nothing. I just thought you weren’t interested.” He cocks an eyebrow as Damian pulls up a paint comparison site.
“I’m not.” He spits. “I don’t want to look at your boring walls anymore.”
Richard laughs again, in his modified way. “Mm. Yup. Sure.”
Damian ignores the comment, already delving into the program, comparing colors against the wall - connecting to the TV to display them, and weighing the pros and cons of each one. Richard watches, providing occasional commentary, rating each color on a scale from one to one hundred. They argue over shades of green, and the correct way to make purple pop – nothing serious, nor work related. Later the room will be full of things, but for now he’s content to let their conversation fill the void.