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Damian grits his teeth as more henchmen appear.
A faint metallic taste is growing increasingly more potent in his mouth. There’s a pounding to his side from where a fist had managed to land, and he knows it will be a deep purple the following day. A midnight color that would undoubtedly last for a week at least. He scowls at the situation he's in. While on patrol, Joker had blown up a few buildings and even kidnapped a bus of commuters. He had only been released from Arkham a week ago and yet he was already on the move, planning something bigger no doubt. Normally, when Joker was wreaking havoc no one was allowed to be alone. Normally, Damian was not alone.
But there had been a warehouse he’d been wanting to check out for a while and Batman had been occupied and in a particularly good mood. They’d had no intel of anything brewing and were caught by surprise by the sudden explosions. While not particularly large, the bombs had done their job of causing general chaos, and it was all hands on deck for the night. Even Duke had gone out; usually, he would only do day patrols, but Joker's attacks got personal for him.
All that to say, Damian was by himself. And even he could admit that was unlucky.
He dodges a fist, kicking a man off of him as he sidesteps a tackle. Joker's henchmen are numerous and impatient. Damian had been stopping a mugging when he’d heard the rumble of blasts and Oracle relaying the Joker situation over the comms. He was instructed to meet up with Red Hood a few blocks away when he was suddenly ambushed.
“ Robin, status?” Dick’s voice comes in over the comms, distracting Damian momentarily. It's enough for one of the attackers to nearly slam into his knee with a crowbar. Damian curses as he dodges, reaching up to respond to his eldest brother's query.
“Joker’s henchmen are here, I’m fighting them off as we speak.” His voice is sharp and tinged with irritation. There’s an acrid scent in the air, a mix of chemicals and tire that is almost painful to inhale. The men are relentless in their attacks, not permitting Damian even a moment of reprieve. He’s attempting to give his full focus to the fight but it proves difficult.
There’s some cursing over the line, and he can’t help but share the sentiment; Joker's henchmen could likely mean Joker too. Even he recognizes the danger there.
“ How many?” His father asks in a deep timbre.
“Four. They are not of great concern,” he responds. Of course, that was most assuredly a white lie and downplaying to its greatest extent. The men are not of concern as they aren’t of high ability. However, they are probably triple the count he stated, though they aren’t all attacking him at the same time. It’s like he’s being toyed with as they pull feints and taunt him, smiling ear to ear at his mounting frustration.
“ Got it. Hood is almost there, keep them busy for just a little while longer.”
He can’t help the urge to roll his eyes. What else could he do but fight? It wasn’t as if they would permit his escape so easily; he had found Joker’s new base, or at least one of them. That was obvious by the sheer amount of henchmen present. How the Joker managed to find so many willing criminals was a mystery to Damian.
He just had to not let up. When Red Hood arrives they may be able to even scope out the area before attacking the surely bountiful amount of men inside. It was shaping up to be a successful patrol, but it all was hinging on his ability to keep the criminals occupied.
A heavy fist slams into his face, cracking the white of his eye mask. He’d been momentarily distracted, and his opponent had taken the opportunity with a maniacal glee even Joker could appreciate. Blood begins to spurt from his nose, coloring the lighter parts of his uniform a bright crimson.
The culprit grins at him. He’s wearing cold metal on his knuckles, no doubt the reason for the effectiveness of his punch. Damian’s lip throbs from where the metal had split it, a whining ache making itself known. His gaze darkens as the man approaches once more, and he readies himself for more incoming attacks.
They trade blows in a whirl, droplets of blood flying around them in a frenzied storm. The man is clearly trained, as he is able to keep up to some degree with an admittedly weakened Damian. Perhaps he’d been hired as a mercenary of sorts, though he does not seem to be affiliated with any organization Damian is aware of. As they fight, a crowd forms around, made up of ten or so henchmen. They jeer them on, laughing when a particularly strong punch lands. He feels akin to some caged beast, forced to participate in a gladiator-style competition. He grimaces as pain shoots from where he’d been cut.
His costume had taken the brunt of the punches, preventing the brass knuckles from slicing into Damian’s soft flesh. But his face is not so covered, and he is distantly aware of why Jason continues to insist on his ridiculous helmet as he narrowly dodges a fist. It cuts his cheek still, and he jumps backward, his breathing heavy.
He glares at the man before him, who is stalking forward confidently. Hurriedly, he pulls out the last bits of the broken eye hole, letting his eye be exposed to improve his vision. He’s not certain how much longer Jason needs, or the plan once the man arrives. The cuts and bruises on his body are mostly superficial; he’s not overly concerned about any internal damage. However, he still would need to take a few days off school to avoid any inquiries on how he had managed to get a black eye and split lip. The last time someone had considered calling Child Protective Services on him and been shameful enough.
“Tired yet?” The man circling him sneers. He licks the blood off his knuckles and Damian recoils in disgust at the action.
“Hardly,” he grits out, glancing above them in hopes of seeing Red Hood or someone similarly capable of assisting. He’d thought he’d seen a shadow moving above. A rather naive hope had hit him then, transporting him back to a distant memory of being saved in that same fashion in his first year in Gotham. However, this time it was not to be, as the only thing visible is the silhouette of what appears to be some sort of clothesline billowing in the wind.
The distraction is enough for one of the men to get the bright idea to toss some substance at Damian’s head. He covers his face quickly, but some droplets still slip by. It splatters onto his mask, hitting his exposed eye head-on. The liquid seems to be clear and without any sort of odor to it. Perhaps water.
At first, he is only irritated by the audacity of the man. Did he truly expect that to be enough to cause Damian to lose? Had his reputation somehow taken a hit of some sort? A civilian might have uploaded a video of him stumbling and Tim had decided to repost it again. His annoyance is palpable.
That feeling is quickly replaced by hot pain.
His eye burns. Scorching flames ember inside of him, nestling in his eye socket and licking at his face. He curls backward, holding his face in agony.
Acid .
He knew of the possibility. While he’d never been hit with it, the danger had been hammered into him since youth. It was an effective method of blinding and murder; his grandfather had taken it upon himself to demonstrate the dangers by pouring some onto the face of a traitor. His mother had been furious he had been shown something so gruesome at such a young age; he was only five at the time; but it had sent a clear message in Damian’s eyes. Melting flesh was a concept seared into his mind and surely a sight he would prefer not to observe once more. The orders of his mother and father come to him in a haze. He recalls the sheer boredom that had overcome him as his father had gone over the protocol with him. He had reminded the man of his prior knowledge, but his father had insisted he listen anyway. At the time, the idea seemed comical.
Damian letting a trick as simple as acid best him? Preposterous in its very suggestion.
Yet the sharp pain in his eye scolded him.
He whips around, unintentionally knocking the man behind him out with his elbow as he runs. He hears yelling behind him but he pays it no mind. His gait is unruly and hunched, his hand instinctively digging into his eye as if the pressure would force the acid out. The pain is immense, clawing at his face and digging into his very soul. It burrows inside, staking a home in his chest. A strained whimper escapes him, and he'd be acutely ashamed if he was able to think properly. He doesn’t know where his feet are taking him; they are single-minded in movement and goal.
Water. Anything that could put out the fire raging in him.
His footsteps are wild and loud as he stumbles through an alley, the cold air combining with the burn of his eye to form a most unpleasant sensation. It’s like he’d rubbed hot coal to his face and then proceeded to jump into frozen-over waters. He can hardly see, with his one eye shut and covered while the other spilled over with uncontrollable tears. It was his body’s response to the acid. A futile attempt to flush it out.
He manages to make out the form of a pipe with his one still good eye, rusted into an ochre hue. He blindly snatches up a half-broken brick and snaps the metal. Immediately, a stream of clear wealth shoots out, and Damian lurches forward as he sticks his eye into the jet. He lifts his lower and upper lid with uncoordinated hands, wincing at the discomfort. The pressure of the water is high and uncomfortable, yet the feeling is still better than the searing pain.
The droplets spilling down his face are too salty to be just from the water.
He quickly removes his gloves, never straying his position from the water. He curses the chances; of course the one night his mask is broken this happens. The smell of burning Kevlar is even sharper than the previous alley's scent. Whatever had hit him had been corrosive. He curses his luck. There were a variety of possible compounds, and he just prayed it was not sulphuric. He’s just grateful he’d had his uniform on.
The whine that spills out of his throat is unexpected. The pain was overpowering, more than anything he could recall experiencing. But what is worse is the realization that he was almost certainly going to lose part of his vision. To be blinded was akin to death in the League. An assassin who loses perception is nothing more than dead weight. He’d have been banished; allowed to live for the grace of being the Demon Head’s grandson.
He shoves his fist in his mouth, biting down on it to stop his cries.
The realization of the imminent loss of Robin was heavy. It weighed down on him, constricting his airways, suffocatingly great. He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t helped by the continuous jet hitting his face, dampening his hair and clothes. It was the dead of winter, and the cold was fittingly biting. He can feel frost forming on his hair, adding strips of white that remind him distantly of Jason. His skin is not so burning and he prays that means it hasn't been splashed. He wants to move. To bolt and disembowel the man who had undoubtedly scarred him. An eye for an eye, as the saying goes.
What he would do with himself was still unknown. Perhaps, if he is able to convince his family, he’d be able to stay in Gotham. Maybe never leaving the manor, as the Waynes’ youngest being so disfigured would surely be a blight on the family. A stain on the legacy. He’d be a ghost in the dark halls, fading into a rumor. A horror story his siblings would tell the next orphan that came through the doors of the manor.
Of course, they may force him out. After all, what else did he bring to the table other than his fighting ability? A hindrance such as half blindness would undoubtedly change that. He could travel the lands, growing bitter and old and decidedly frail. Weaving stories to travelers of his past. And all they would see is a one-eyed, decrepit, pitiful lunatic.
They wouldn’t be mistaken.
He stays in the same position for around 15 minutes. He’s frozen in place, water dripping down his face as his eye continues to be flushed. There wasn’t much else he could really do. Acid needed at least 20 minutes of continuous washing to mitigate damage. And he did not want to risk further damage to his eye, never mind the fact it had taken so long for him to find a water source. Worse so, the men he had been supposed to distract didn’t run after him, meaning they had just needed him out of the way. He had practically played right into their hands.
His comm had been silent this entire time. He had turned it off; the incessant noise had made his head throb even more. Nevermind he was unable to focus on the voices; perhaps he’d damaged his hearing somehow as well. The muting of his comms would surely raise ire from his family, but he couldn’t force himself to care. He was prolonging the inevitable disappointment when he announced his failure.
The pain in his eye hadn’t seemed to have stopped at all, if anything it had become worse, stinging his face and body. His wounds had all begun to scab over, made obvious by the lack of blood dripping down. He couldn’t help but shiver in the cold; his uniform was decidedly not enough to shield him from the frigidity of night's domain.
Water continues to fall from his face from the pipe, creating messy rivers over his bruising that he could lightly feel. He winced, knowing that that sort of sensitivity meant he’d be in for some truly harsh bruising. He raises a shaky hand to his jaw. Thankfully, nothing seems broken and miraculously he has kept all of his teeth. He was lucky to be still with many of his baby teeth, as it was much less worrisome to lose one. Of course, he would prefer to not have them in place of having grown a bit more.
His breaths are shaky as he fumbles around him for his comm. Rationally, he knows he must alert his family. That medical attention was of utmost importance if he wanted to lessen the damage. Yet he can’t help but hesitate. How much could be fixed? Foolishly, he considers if hearing exactly what had occurred would be worse. If the knowledge was more painful than even the acid.
He has to bite his lip as he slowly pulls his face out of the jet. The cold snaps at his eye, and he struggles to not rub at it. He knows it would only worsen the situation but he cannot help but weigh the pain versus the damage. His cape had already been ripped from the attack, so he pulled off a strip. The fabric is dark and pliable and he quickly ties it loosely around his left eye. Not close enough to touch but able to prevent any dust or particles from getting in.
The pain has yet to leave, and it’s vicious as he turns his comm on, slipping it into his ear. Immediately, he is hit with a barrage of voices.
“— too many, they’re all going in every direction. No chance we can track them all down.” Jason sounds raspy like he was just in a fight. From just his voice, Damian can sense a cold frustration radiating.
“ Still no eyes on Robin?” Dick sounds strained, and Damian can’t help the twinge of his heart knowing it was all his fault. If he had just been better , just had paid attention maybe the mission could have been successful.
“ No sign, I’ll check around the perimeter, he couldn’t have gone far.”
Damian takes a breath as he cuts them off.
“No need. I am… here.” He forces himself through any shakiness threatening to announce itself. “I got distracted.”
A chorus of groans echo over the comm, and he cannot help but wince.
“Distracted? What the hell are you talking about!?” Jason’s anger had morphed from freezing to practically volcanic. “They all got away. There’s a whole lot of people in danger out there because you got distracted.”
“I truly apol—”
It was difficult to respond properly as he began to stand. Losing sight on one side had messed with his balance more than he thought it would. The bruising ached as well, a numbness overcoming him. He’s not helped as he’s cut off by Steph’s complaints.
“Come on Robin. I don’t wanna have to be out all night!”
“What else would you be doing?” Tim replies snarkily, and Steph makes a noise of outrage as she begins to list off all of the events and people she could be seeing if it weren’t for her “call for justice”. It would be comical any other night, but Damian has no time for nonsense. He needed to tend to his eye.
“I—“
“ Everyone returns to the cave. We need to regroup and figure out where we should go tomorrow. Robin, we will talk.” Bruce has a finality to his tone, and Damian has to hold his tongue. “Tim, we’re getting your ankle checked out.”
“Aw come on, it was nothing. Swear!”
Bruce seemingly ignores his protests. “Robin, are you able to return to the cave on your own? Where are you?”
Normally he would relish in the clear trust he’d been given. He did not require any sort of hand-holding to return, and really he was not so far off. But he can’t help the festering jealousy he feels at Tim getting driven back. It would be irksome of him to request a ride as well, as he was still able-bodied, if more prone to injury. His mouth is dry as he shifts on his feet. A few more tears are dripping from his eye which he pays no mind. The pain was not too much to bear. He needs to clear his head anyhow, so he begins to move as he responds.
“I am a few blocks from where Joker’s men had been loitering. I can manage.”
His father grunts assent and it is once again silent.
Damian begins his trek back to the cave.
As he attempts to climb up a rooftop, he finds a growing anxiety in him as he begins to comprehend his new station in life. He accidentally bangs into the railing of a fire escape, aggravating some of his injuries. He hisses in pain as he twists his head around to look. The railing was on his left and therefore functionally invisible to himself. He grits his teeth as he manages to make his way up. His eye hasn’t stopped paining him, and he wonders if simply plucking it out would be a preferable fate. He considers the idea for longer than he would like to admit, before reasoning that the blood loss would surely be enough to kill him shortly.
It is a treacherous journey and takes longer than it should as he has to stop and take a breath periodically. The burning is seemingly endless, flaring up at points to which he simply whimpers quietly as he moves. It’s a childish action but helps his psyche to some degree. Anything to distract was enough in his mind.
His body aches all over, and he can’t imagine the sight he must be; black and blue; shivering and sodden with a makeshift eye patch. He has to resist the urge to curl up on the side of a rooftop. His movements are further slowed as functioning with only half his sight proves more difficult than he would have expected. He’d trained blind before of course, but this sort of half-sight was somehow impossibly difficult for him. He was so used to one or the other that the in-between was decidedly difficult to maneuver.
His walk is one of self-loathing as he nearly falls off a roof in a misstep. An occurrence so unlike him that it gives him pause.
He cannot bear to witness the shame that will surely come once his family sees him in such a state. He shivers once more. It’s a numb acceptance that spurs him to continue.
It is raucous as he slips into the cave.
His family had all seemingly gathered around the center computer. Duke was rubbing at his eyes, likely from how long he’d been up, with Steph laughing at something by his side. Even Jason had come, standing by the edge of the small group with crossed arms, though he likely had only appeared to chew out Damian. It was obvious how upset he’d been, and that anger had only simmered, waiting to erupt. Dick was shaking his head and seemingly chiding Tim, who had his leg propped up on a chair with an ice pack on it.
Damian bites at the side of his mouth.
They look happy. Enough to make it obvious he’d be ruining the mood by showing his face. It was his fault they had to be gathered anyway. He needed the medical supplies in the med bay; he could treat his eye that way. He slinks in the shadows, trying to be as discreet as possible. His steps are careful, but once more his sight fails him as he nearly trips over a training weapon someone had tossed lackadaisically on the floor. The noise draws attention instantaneously.
“Oh no you don’t,” Jason says loudly, and Damian glances to his side to see the man storming over. He stops a bit away, with Damian still shrouded in a more shadowed area of the cave. “Mind telling me what the hell happened out there?”
He shrinks back slightly, before raising his chin.
“Specifics?” He attempts a biting reply, but there is a slight waver to his voice and he knows it falls rather flat. He just needs to get to the medbay.
Jason scoffs, glaring him down.
“I don’t know, maybe you pulling a disappearing act? They’d all already driven off by the time I got there. Who knows what they’re planning, and you basically helped them!” He points an accusatory finger at Damian. “What the fuck were you doing?”
The room is entirely still as they all watch the two. He knows his answer couldn’t change the past. His eye flares up again, and he has to stop himself from flinching. Jason doesn’t seem to take his silence well, more of an affront to him if anything.
“You keep messing shit up, this isn’t some game. Those are real lives out there getting hurt, you should know that by now.”
It’s harsh and cruel; just how Red Hood operates. Succinct in hitting its target.
No one rushes to intervene. They stare with hard gazes, waiting. Dick is tapping his fingers rhythmically on his upper bicep, an action he only does when he’s upset. Steph and Tim are pretending to look away but steal a glance at the scene every so often. Duke is watching the two warily, his brow creased. Damian feels his right eye burn in a different manner than the left and has to turn his head to avoid them seeing.
“ Say something! Anything! That you care or some other bullshit !”
“Hey, Jason–” Dick finally tries to step in, a hand on Jason’s upper arm, likely afraid he will work himself up. Damian could take it though. It was deserved. It was Joker they were talking about. Any failures on their part meant someone’s demise. He shuddered as he imagined the dead’s faces, burned in a similar manner to his own eye.
“You shut up too!” Jason snaps, pushing his brother off. “I’m sick of him getting away with shit like this! You keep excusing it saying he’s trying, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
Damian is frozen in place. Jason’s ragged breaths are the only sound in the dark room. He scrunches his face, attempting to pay attention to what is at hand. Suddenly, a burst of pain hits him, and this time he is unable to staunch his whimpering as he floats his hands over the spot. He’s oh so tempted to put pressure on his eye, but he knows better. Still, it seems like the superior option.
“Damian…?” Dick's voice is flush with concern as he takes a step forward. Damian stays where he is, too preoccupied with the wave of agony washing over him. There is too much for him to process.
He risks a glance over at the rest of his family. Tim had sat up, his brows furrowed. Duke had cocked his head with a questioning look, while Steph’s slight grin had left her. He knows how pathetic the sight of him must be.
“Chum?”
He raises his head at the voice. His father looms in the medbay doorway, and Damian had never been so happy to hear that ludicrous nickname he uses for all of them.
His father approaches slowly like he’s talking to an injured beast. Damian didn’t feel too dissimilar if he was being honest. His voice is soft, but there’s a tinge of fear to it.
“Could you step in the light for me?”
Even Jason had ceased his barrage, a crease on his forehead as he had mellowed slightly to a more confused state.
Damian does as he’s told, operating on a faraway plane. He is slow as he shuffles over until the light hits him. His makeshift eyepatch feels so flimsy at that moment. He turns his head slowly, and there’s a symphony of hisses and cursing. His purple bruising is vibrant in the light, colors of amethyst and plum turning his face into a monochrome palette. Dried blood cracks and flakes, the smell of iron hitting him only then.
He risks a glance at the others.
Steph has her wrist in her mouth and horrified eyes. Duke is wincing back from the sight of him, Tim scrambling up onto the crutches that had been placed by his side. Jason looks like he’s gonna be sick, as he lets out a long string of curses. Dick's hands fumble in the air like he doesn’t know where to start. Where and what to fix.
“What happened?” Tim breaks the silence quickly, an expression on his face that Damian had rarely seen directed at himself.
“… I was in an altercation and,” he curls his hands into clammy fists as he speaks more quietly than he has ever known himself to do, “they had acid. Got the best of me.”
Sucked-in breaths echo in the cave.
There’s a whoosh of noise as he’s quickly ushered to the medbay, orders being shouted over him to get Alfred and set up a bed . He is mildly shell-shocked as he’s placed on a cot in a whirlwind. An IV is hooked to him without his notice. There are flurries of movement and raised voices that only serve to overwhelm him in the moment.
His father seems to take note of this, as he promptly forces everyone barring Alfred and Dick out of the room. How he had known so easily was confounding to Damian in his more delirious state. He thinks he might have gotten a mild concussion at some point during his fight, as the repetitive throbbing to his head seems to suggest.
It’s difficult to pay attention as he is told to sit back and his father hovers by his side. He feels a tear slip down his cheek, and he weakly wipes it away, hoping it has remained unseen. Bad enough to be in such a state, tearing up about it was not helping.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His father asks him softly, a growing frown on his lips. Damian shies away, wincing as the flimsy eye covering is lightly removed. There’s a slight gasp as he opens his left eye.
“It didn’t seem pertinent,” he blinks hard as the light hits his eyes. “Tim was the one who couldn’t walk.”
Bruce grimaces. Damian feels a new burst of fear as he wonders what he has done wrong. But, frustratingly, he cannot seem to place the issue. He was able to move and therefore was of lower priority than Tim. It was elementary really. His eye was done for either way, and he had known that. What did it matter if he took longer to get it looked at? What did it matter when he had failed?
Jason had made sure to spell that out for all of them.
“You’re allowed to be hurt, Damian,” his father cards a hand through his still-damp hair as he turns to look at Dick and Alfred. The two had been setting up something, likely whatever medicine was needed.
His father’s words are simple yet give him pause.
What did he mean by that?
He pulls at the leather harness of the new eyepatch that had been given to him. It’s dark and simplistic, and he had to wear it for an indefinite amount of time. He feels sick at the implication. A ceaseless wave of nausea that never quite comes to a head.
Only a few hours had seemed to have passed, though it had admittedly gotten a bit fuzzy for him. Dick hasn’t left his side, and for once isn’t attempting to lighten the mood.
That could not be a good sign.
He stares blankly down at his hands as he hears the door click open softly. He refuses to look up as those who are surely the others file in. They’re quiet and unsure. Like one would enter a mausoleum.
He can tell Tim is there as he hears the sound of crutches clicking on the floor. He seems to have sprained his ankle on patrol. The other two are probably Steph and Duke, as Jason’s steps are much heavier. The man did not have a reputation for being lithe.
No one says anything. They seem to be waiting for him to speak first, but he would not stoop to blubbering apologies so easily. Others might have but he was Damian Wayne and so manages to attain some of his pride in such circumstances.
“…How do you feel?” Tim finally relents, and all eyes snap to Damian’s lain form.
“A bit like I have been blinded in one eye,” he retorts with all of the bitterness he can muster. It stings to admit it out loud. The lack of sight on his left side means he can’t properly see Duke or Steph, who he had heard sit in that general direction. He keeps fumbling to grab things, having to turn his entire head. He’d rather blind himself in his right eye as well before letting his grandfather see him in such a state.
“You should’ve said something. I can’t believe you actually walked like that!” Steph exclaims from his side. “What were you thinking?!”
He huffs. “Logically. I could move and therefore did not need a pickup if Timothy was already requiring one. It was a rather easy decision to make.”
Their expressions don’t seem to agree with his thought process. If anything, they look rather outraged.
“I think freaking acid attacks take priority over a sprained ankle!” Tim says incredulously, shaking his head as he speaks. “What if you got even more hurt? You literally lost part of your sight!”
“I’m not so weak as to need escort over blinding. In the League, I practiced—”
“Yeah yeah, you practiced blindfolded. Being blind is kind of different! It’s not weak to need your eye checked!”
He seems mad. It’s not certain to Damian what exactly has him up in arms. Shouldn’t he be grateful Damian actually cares enough to let him get treated first?
“Damian.” Dick looks him straight in the eye. “We’re not upset with you. It just hurts that you think we’d want you to let yourself suffer because of what’s more convenient.”
“Don’t do that.” Duke pipes up. “Like ever. What would you say if one of us got really hurt and just decided to walk it off?”
“…I would think you are foolish. But this case was not the same.” Damian fiddles with the light blanket that he’d thrown to his side, pulling at the loose strings. “I ruined the mission.”
“You didn’t ruin anything. How could anyone expect you to fight with your eye like that? Or the concussion? The bruising?” Duke hadn’t sounded so serious when talking to Damian in a while.
“The mission still failed. I failed. Did you listen to anything Jason said? He’s not here for a reason.” His voice is scratchy even to his own ears. He can’t believe how uncaring they are over the whole thing. Jason had been right; those deaths would be on his hands. No amount of scrubbing could ever hope to wash away that blood.
Dick sighs. “This isn’t your fault, it’s Jokers. He supplied the acid, his men attacked you, and you didn’t do anything wrong. We didn’t know you were hurt because you didn’t say anything. And Jason’s been beating himself up for yelling at you. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to track down the guy as we speak.”
“He feels really bad. We all feel really bad,” Steph steps closer to him so she’s in his line of sight. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t enjoy all of the attention on him. He looks down at his lap again. It was hard to decide if he wanted to burst into tears or burn all of Gotham down.
“… I should’ve said something.” He is hollow as he speaks. Of course, he had messed up while trying to do what he believed to be correct.
Tim frowns, leaning slightly in an awkward manner as the crutches give him some trouble.
“You tried to, didn’t you? I mean we kept cutting you off so you couldn’t.”
Damian’s throat feels raw as he speaks, ignoring Tim’s words.
“You can have Robin back. It’s rightful.” It hurts so much more than he thought it would to say out loud. “I… will do what is fit for the family.”
If Tim’s eyes grew any larger he thinks they’d pop out of his head.
“What are you talking about? You’re not seriously thinking about quitting over this?”
“I can’t be of any aid like this.”
There are more protests, but Dick silences them all.
“Damian. Unless you want to quit, no one is making you. That should be your decision.”
“ Look at me!” His voice cracks as he pulls at the sheet more. Why couldn’t they see what he did? It was so ironic he wanted to laugh. “How can I be of help in this state? I’m—”
“ Robin, ” Dick finishes. “One eye or two. Or none. Do you know how many people are still just as lethal that way? Slade comes to mind.”
Damian shudders slightly at the name. He didn’t have much desire to be compared to the man.
Dick doesn’t seem to notice or perhaps care as he presses on.
“I can’t imagine what this must be like for you. Life changing. But I know you. You’re resilient. Robin is resilient.” He smiles sadly like he’s forcing himself. “Don’t give up on yourself like that.”
Damian blinks, before looking up at those gathered. Duke has a determined expression on his face, Steph looks mildly upset as she hovers by Damian’s side. Tim has hobbled closer to the bed, now by Dick's side who looks almost hurt.
They truly couldn’t imagine it. The pain was nothing compared to the loss he felt, so unimaginable it stung at him. He couldn’t fix this. No one could and he knew that all too well. It was a change and not for the better. But he didn’t want to wallow, to let his rage and sorrow take over him until he was nothing but hate embodied. He had lost an eye. The most vital of senses is half gone.
And yet he will push on and he knows this. Knows this like the room he had been raised in for nearly all of his life at the League compound. His.
“Okay,” is all he gets out before a wave of relief and beaming faces greet him. They’re almost blinding in their light.
Steph ruffles his hair, leaning in from his left side to catch him off guard (he needs to get used to this quickly), and he bats her away as she grins at him.
“You’re so dumb sometimes.”
It’s a week before he sees Jason again.
Damian had been given bed rest while his father and Tim worked on trying to give a good explanation as to why he needed an eyepatch suddenly. Steph had joked they could say he’d been in a duel, and they’d considered the option for a bit too long in Damian’s opinion.
He hates having lost half his sight. He’s told the eye is foggy, like a lake at twilight; miraculously none of his skin had been burned. There was fear of infection and he’d been on a whole host of antibiotics in the meantime. His bruises had become less angry, his face almost like stained glass in its vibrancy. He could admit the eyepatch did make him look more menacing, and he could appreciate that change. Maybe he’d be taken more seriously, having undeniable evidence of having been a participant in some sort of violence carved into his face. The eyepatch itches like something was crawling under it and sometimes he just wants to claw at his face. Let the blood paint him once more.
He manages not to though.
Some days he wanted to scream. When he bumped into a countertop or failed to catch something, there was no greater shame. It was more difficult than he’d ever admit. But his family is nothing but adaptive. And if he notices them put hands over table corners when he walks by he can’t say.
There’s still a tension and pity that he can’t seem to rid them of. It’s a slow process all around.
He’s walking down into the cave to find a practice sword when he stumbles into Jason. He wanted to work on his abilities, as he would need to get used to his new vision. They’d decided to just make his cowl into practically the same design, looking as if he had still retained his sight instead of some sort of eye covering. It would be rather suspicious if Damian Wayne and Robin suddenly sported the same look.
He is getting rather sick of the pirate references from some members of his family.
Jason looks pretty shocked to see him and nearly drops the wrench he is holding. He was staring with his mouth open slightly as a fish might, until he glanced at his eyepatch, and looked away quickly.
“…Look kid, I shouldn’t have flipped out on you like that—”
Damian stares at his shoes, unsure of how to proceed. The air was too thick for him.
Jason sighs, crossing his arms again as he does when he’s frustrated.
“I’m not good with this… emotions shit. But,” he rubs at his neck with such vigor Damian’s surprised he hasn’t broken it, “We caught the guy. And he won’t be walking around anytime soon, I’ll tell you that.”
Damian nods slowly, surprised by the relief that fills him. Whether at the man being punished or Jason’s calm if mildly agitated state.
“And I’m sorry. I was already freaked out because it was Joker and I just needed to get it out of my system. But losing it on you was shitty. I didn’t even try and ask why you weren’t there. I should’ve known that wasn’t like you.”
He stays silent, deciding what to say. It’s difficult to navigate, but there’s a weight off his chest. He hadn’t realized how concerned he’d been over Jason’s opinion of him.
“… You’re no longer mad?” He asks, confirming for his own sake.
Jason curses. “ No. I’m mad at myself if anyone.” He awkwardly reaches over and pats Damian on the shoulder. “You’re a good Robin, kid.”
Damian is stiff as his eyes widen. He looks up at Jason, who has a strained expression on his face as if he’s realizing how odd he’s acting.
Damian tries to lessen the present tension, but it’s not exactly his domain and he finds himself struggling for words that seem to float around him.
“You…too?” He tries.
Jason raises an eyebrow before shaking his head with a slight chuckle.
“Thanks.”