A friend of mine posed an interesting question and this is the result of that question.
What if Damian's last thought before he died was about Steph?
Well, this was my interpretation.
I own nothing and make no profit from this. Rated K+.
Now that he was alone, Damian studied his surroundings and his gaze came to rest on the Heretic's sword which lay on the floor several feet from him. He knew he didn't have much time left and if he hadn't already known the wound was fatal, the amount of blood on the floor beneath him would have confirmed it. By his calculations he had about three minutes before he bled out, give or take.
To his credit, The Heretic hit his heart and only his heart, but the large amount of fluid in his chest cavity made it difficult to breathe. Sitting up would make it easier, but the relief would short-lived so he remained flat on his back and tried to focus on something else. Blood continued to seep from the wound, but as long as he was still, he wasn't in a great deal of pain. The most troubling part his situation was the warm sensation of blood running down the inside of his tunic, between his skin and the armor, pooling beneath him near his neck and shoulder.
As his damaged heart continued to pump blood out of his body, Damian could feel all of the anger and rage he'd allowed to fester leave him as well. The Heretic. Mother. Anyone and everyone who had ever done him wrong- he let all of it go. He felt nothing for them any longer and he knew there was nothing he could do about any of it now, so holding onto it was pointless. He was beyond furious about the fact he would never be able give them the kind of justice they deserved, but on that same token he was at peace with the idea that eventually Father and Dick would handle it. And if they didn't, he mused, Jason certainly would. He almost wished Jason would take it upon himself to avenge his death, as he would do more along the lines of what Damian would have done himself.
The sound of bodies crashing through drywall carried up the stairs and Damian rolled his head to the right and closed his eyes, turning away from the doorway and blocking out the commotion he could hear a few floors down. He didn't need to hear how close Father was. He didn't want to. Despite the fact he was quickly losing consciousness, he was keenly aware of how close to death he was. There was no need to listen to the fighting going on down there, no logic in giving himself a false sense of hope that he would be found and saved. People didn't live to talk about injuries like his. And as difficult as it was to admit, it was an honorable way to go, dying in combat. He wondered if Mother would be proud, had she seen what the monstrosity she created had done to him and how valiantly he fought to do what was right, in spite of her wishes for him.
A violent cough erupted from his throat and he choked, rolling over slightly to clear his airway until he could breathe again. He didn't fail to see the irony in that, either; he'd accepted that his death was fast-approaching, yet his body wasn't ready to let go and fought to stay alive. As the seconds continued to tick by his arms and legs went numb with cold and the only sounds he could hear now were those of his erratic heartbeat and the rattle in his throat as he gasped for breath. The time between each heartbeat grew longer and longer, his pulse weakening after every beat.
When he hit the floor after he'd been stabbed and he realized how serious the situation really was, he'd grown calm and with an almost clinical detachment, he took his own vitals and surveyed the blood loss. He came to the conclusion almost immediately the wound was fatal and his odds of getting the proper medical attention were next to nil, at best. While a part of him was a bit scared and incredibly disappointed, he was quickly resigned to his fate and didn't panic whatsoever. No sense in elevating his heartbeat and bleeding out even faster.
But as it stood now, losing his grip on consciousness while lying in a pool of his own blood, something had changed. He could feel himself fighting the urge to let go instead of waiting for the end to come. Something in the back of his mind was trying to convince him to hold on, to be stubborn and continue to breathe until Father reached him. There was only one person who was as stubborn as he was and she was nowhere near Gotham right now.
Don't you dare die on me, you little brat.
Her voice echoed in his head, crystal clear and obnoxious, and he gasped weakly. He opened his eyes and was barely able to turn his head back toward the door. He knew it was merely a hallucination, but he took comfort in that he was no longer alone. She was standing there, arms crossed over her chest, leaning her shoulder against the door frame with a soft smile on her face.
Hold on, D. Bruce is almost here.
Damian was too weak to do much of anything, let alone speak. Don't be an idiot. We both see the damage that's been done here. He glanced at the sword again and felt a faint chill run down his spine. I don't have a lot of time left.
She pushed off the door frame and approached, crouching down next to him and running a hand through his sweaty, blood-streaked hair. She wasn't in uniform, but in jeans and a tee shirt, her thick blonde hair tucked behind her ear. If you say so, kiddo.
He wasn't able to track her movements with his eyes, but he could feel her sit down behind his head and gently lift it, placing it in her lap. Her hands moved to cover the wound on his chest, her arms circling his shoulders protectively. Then I'll wait with you.
It won't be much longer.
I know, D. I know. I'm so sorry.
He willed his arm to move and when it wouldn't, he grunted in frustration. She understood what he was trying to do and reached for his hand, holding it between hers over his chest. The fear he'd been fighting to suppress made itself known and he feebly squeezed her hands for reassurance that he wasn't alone as he closed his eyes, his heart beating one final time. He leaned his face into her arm, his eyes fluttering closed and a lone tear slipping from his lashes.
Brown.