in-sa-tia-ble
adjective: (of an appetite or desire) impossible to satisfy: "an insatiable hunger."
It has been three weeks since Brown vacated the Manor. They haven't seen her once on patrol, and Grayson has stopped asking about what happened. He suspects something, of course. It would be difficult not to, the way things had been going. The way his mood turns foul whenever her name is mentioned. He tells himself that he does not care. He tells himself it meant nothing, what they did that night she left-no, fled. Fled, like a coward, a villain. If he tells himself this, if he blames her and makes himself angry, it is easier. Easier to hate her, easier to pretend.
And on nights like these, when patrol is slow and he's alone in his thoughts, drawing back to that night, to the sweat and the heat and their skin pressed together-it is most important that he pretend. Lest it distract him during a fight, or someone use it against him. He knows Grayson is displeased with the way he is handling this-whatever this is-as he hears him discuss it with Pennyworth frequently, but he does not care.
He finds it hard to care about anything, now. Other than doing his job wearing red, green and yellow. Cleaning up Gotham's streets and fighting for whatever cause it is Grayson believes in-the one she believes so strongly in, as well. As if beckoned by the unwanted thoughts that still seem to gravitate around her, despite his best efforts, he spots a flash of purple and black towards the south side of the building.
He debates radioing Grayson, who is stationed at the north corner of the run-down Crime Alley. Afterall, the reason they haven't seen her in three weeks is because she left. She'd made it abundantly clear she wanted nothing to do with them-with him. What good would it do to inform Grayson of her presence?
"Batman," he begins, breaching the silence on their comm link. He wonders, briefly, if she still has access to it, or if she left it behind, along with everything but a handful of clothes and her uniform. When Grayson's voice crackles to life on the other end, he snaps out of his thoughts, grumbling, "Knightwing spotted. Proposed course of action?"
"Knew she couldn't stay under the radar forever. Not without our help, anyway. The girl loves her job too much." He can practically hear the smirk behind the words. It unnerves him, how cheery and nonchalant Grayson remains about the news.
"So, proposed course of action?" He tries again, voice tight. A rumbling laugh echoes in the night around him.
"You're acting like she's a criminal or target, Robin. You don't need my permission to go talk to her." Damn him. He says this as if it is something simple and easy to accomplish. Which it isn't, of course. Because it's her and she's insufferable and he doesn't want to speak with her. She left them-him-and that should be the end of it. But he damn well knows it isn't. It never is, with her.
He grumbles some choice words under his breath, and the laugh he receives through the comm link tells him Grayson has heard. Damn him twice, then. "Fine," he hisses, finally relenting.
And he closes the comm link before he can say anything about it.
He makes haste across the three rooftops separating his perch and where he'd seen her pass by. It's of barely any surprise to him when he finds her still standing there, peering into the gaping expanse of a demolished building, frown etched onto her face. He wonders what has brought her here, but remembers that isn't his reason for being here and shakes his head, dropping down.
Once upon a time, he'd have startled her, but she's older, more practiced, and has been living-and training-with them for nearly four years. She doesn't even flinch when he drops beside her, escrima stick trained at his throat. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, while hers widen, focusing slowly. Clearly, she had heard someone approach, but had not guessed it would be him. She drops the weapon away from him, and something of a grin slides into place on her lips. "Looking to scare me, Little D?"
He would normally gripe about names in the field, because she's forever incapable of respecting such a simple rule, but the way she says it and half-smiles, nonchalant, makes it seem for a moment like nothing's changed. Like he's a young Robin again, crossing Batgirl on a routine patrol, like she hasn't been almost-missing for three weeks, like things hadn't shattered when they'd-well, like nothing's changed.
It's when she starts blinking at him like he's grown another bloody head that he realizes he still hasn't spoken. "What are you doing here?" he practically growls, and the corners of her mouth drop slightly.
"Patrol," she states, motioning to the ghost of a street around them. "Duh."
"Batman and I have had this area covered all night. There is no need."
She huffs and rolls her eyes, crossing her arms tightly. "Right. Of course; the Dynamic Duo don't ever need help. My mistake."
"Yes, it is," he says. He wants to be angry again-he's wanted to be angry at her so badly, but standing here, he notices the hints of a bruise on her cheek that sneaks up and under her mask, and the dark red streak along her jawline and he's unable to feel anything other than strange, crippling worry. He wants to ask how it happened, wants to know who dared lay a hand on her, wants to find them and deliver them a fate far worse.
But he doesn't. He can't, as it isn't his place. It hasn't been since she left. Since she made it clear he had no place in her life, not anymore. She notices him staring, then, and looks away, just for a moment, and her eyes shift towards the building behind them. It's subtle, and so very brief before her gaze finds his again, but he's noticed. It's hard not to, when he's been watching her every move for some sort of answer as to why she's here, now. Why she's surfaced after three weeks, why it's taken that long, and why-why she left. As her attention flickers back to him, her shoulders straighten and she twists her hands together behind her back, grinning effortlessly.
She says something then, maybe, but he doesn't hear it, because something has caught his attention. Something that glints in the glow of the dying streetlight behind him. Something hidden in the depths of the broken shell of the building. Something that looks remarkably like an old neon sign-one whose words could read CLINIC if one took the time to put back the shattered pieces.
And suddenly he's fourteen again, at home nursing injuries with Grayson that he'd been careless enough to receive on a routine patrol. And it was pouring outside when Pennyworth arrived with a girl he did not recognize. Because though it looked like Brown, there were far too many tears in her eyes and on her cheeks and her voice lacked all of its regular cheer. He did not understand what was happening then as Pennyworth draped a blanket over her shoulders and Grayson stepped forward hesitantly to take her hand. She was shaking, Damian had noticed, and there was dirt and blood caked on her clothes and skin. Grayson asked her something, but it was too low for him to hear, and the blonde shook her head weakly, her lip trembling.
"I'm so sorry," Grayson said, and a sob somewhere between hysterical and strangled forced its way from her throat as she fell against him and the tears spilled forth again. Damian turned to Pennyworth, whose expression was rather vacant, and asked very simply what had happened. He would never ever be okay with the answer he received.
Her father had been nearly delusional when she'd brought him in. She'd done it because he'd been bleeding out and she'd sworn that he'd live to see the rest of his prison sentence through, no matter what. The one he'd escaped from almost three years before by poisoning his own daughter with Black Mercy. She'd never realized it was exactly what he'd wanted-that it was the one night a week her mother helped out at Dr. Thompson's clinic. The one time they could all be together as a family before the bomb he'd had implanted in his chest went off and kept them together forever.
He hadn't counted on the clinic being so busy, of course. So loud and bustling that Brown had been unable to hear Gordon on the line as she radioed in her father's capture to the GCPD. He hadn't counted on her stubbornness and her aversion to being anywhere within five feet of him to drive her outside to complete the call. He hadn't counted on her surviving.
But as was her modus operandi, Brown defied those odds. She persevered and kept on until she reached the manor, where she stayed. Where she found a home with Pennyworth and Grayson and him, even if none of them had been there that night. Because she'd wanted to handle her father on her own. Had wanted to prove to herself and everyone else that she could do it. And as usual, though Damian strongly refused, Grayson had obliged. In the end, it hadn't mattered-her frustrating desire to prove her self-worth. In the end, she'd failed, just as they had failed her by not being there to stop it. To stop her from becoming just like the rest of them-broken, bruised and parentless.
She'd changed after that. Hidden away her emotions from the world. Stopped wearing her bloody heart on her sleeve. Started acting more like a woman her age than some silly teenager. A woman who maintained very few relationships, and who he'd made the unfortunate mistake of...accepting. She'd allowed only short glimpses inside, at the old her. She'd kept much of herself guarded. But not with him. Not since things had started changing between them, too.
At least, that had been the case before that night. Now, he hasn't a clue where things stand between them. Where that carefully pieced-together bond is shattered and damaged. Where he'd woken up alone in a cold bed and is trying very hard to hate her for it.
"Let me make it easier for you," her voice stings as it pierces his thoughts. He blinks and looks up at her-wait, up? He's quite sure he's the taller of the two, last he checked-and her face contorts into a look of contempt; of disgust. "I left because that night meant nothing. It was a waste of my time, and so are you, Damian."
He frowns. His name sounds strange on her lips. Not quite filled with the sudden venom the rest of her words are. "You're just a kid. A little boy." His forehead creases more, because he can swear she's taller than she was a moment ago. Or perhaps...he's smaller? And her eyes are so bright and so infuriated he has difficulty looking at them. He doesn't know what's going on, and he certainly doesn't like it.
"Wanted by no one," she continues, stepping closer, lips curling. "Not your parents, not your friends-not even the woman you're in love with."
His fists clench, and he feels his blood pressure spike as her hands push against his shoulders and he stumbles back unpleasantly. Who the hell does she think she is? To speak down to him, to talk to him this way, to assume she knows anything-means anything of importance to him. To tell him how he feels and how others see him. She has no business and no right, and she is ridiculously mistaken.
He isn't sure where the sudden change in attitude has come from, nor why the crumbling wall of the clinic behind her seems to be leaning to one side the more he tries to focus on anything other than the look she is giving him, but he's determined to have none of it. He opens his mouth to tell her just that, when she says his name again, louder and clearer, and just for a moment, he sees her expression as worried-as fearful. He focuses on her eyes then. Bright and wide in fear, glistening with tears. But why? Why is there suddenly a different Brown before him? When in the hell did the infernal woman become bipolar?
Because this Brown, the one that clutches at his arm and calls his name and leans far too close-close enough he can smell that faint perfume she likes to use, the lavender one-lacks the anger that is rarely seen in her, and the words that prey upon all the thoughts he entertains only in the darkest corners of his mind. All the fears he would never allow himself to admit he-fears. That's it! That's the cause of this ridiculously skewed reality he's found himself in. And only one person he knows can control fears this easily.
"Scarecrow," he hisses, and watches relief wash over her face, moments before the world spins and flickers and his mother stands above him, cold and uncaring.
"You were such a disappointment, habibi. A failure. You were meant for such wonders, such glory. But instead, you chose weakness. Family, friends, love for that wretched simpleton of a girl. It's no wonder you chose her; you're just as broken, as pathetic. And she doesn't even want you." His mother is swiftly replaced by a third figure, looming in the dim light of the alley. Even still, he can see an uncharacteristic smirk painted across Drake's lips.
Just the sight of him nearly shatters what little control over himself Damian has. He's been trained to withstand Crane's fear gas and mental torture. And yet here he finds himself, stumbling backwards through an alley from whom he knows must be Brown, but who he sees only as Drake. Who sounds like Drake. "It's not you they want, it never has been-it's me. I was Batman's best Robin, and you were there only by blood. I was Dick's favorite brother, and you were just the crazy kid he thought he could help. The one that reminded him of Jason, who came before you, too. The Al Ghul's? They tried to make me their successor. And Stephanie," he laughs then, shaking his head and crossing his arms. "Stephanie doesn't want some little broken boy like you. She wants someone who can provide for her, keep her safe, protect her, and we both know that's not you. I mean, where do you think she went after you screwed things up? Well, after she screwed you, anyway."
"You're lying," he snarls, even though he knows he shouldn't be reacting. Shouldn't be giving in, but fighting it off. "You're lying, Drake."
"And you sound like you're just trying to convince yourself there, kid. Deep down, you know I'm right. I'll always be first choice, for everyone in this family. Everyone you care about will always want me, and not you. I'm the better Robin, the better brother, the better Wayne, the better lay-"
"Enough!" he yells, teeth bared as he lunges at Drake. His fist connects with something solid, but he cannot tell what it is he hits because suddenly, the world is spinning again and dimming and his head hurts so very very much. He hears his name once or twice, and then they hit the ground, hard. It's enough to jarr his vision back to normal, where Brown's lip is bleeding and she's scowling at him, "Dammit, Damian!" just as, a moment later, Drake is pushing him off, calling him week, taunting him.
"It's as if you think your opinion is of any importance, Drake," he scoffs, despite the fact that he's just itching to take another swing. He needs to stop letting him in, stop acknowledging the presence of the hallucinations. He is better than this, better than petty insecurities and uneeded emotions. He screws his eyes shut, and wills himself to focus on something concrete, something real-anything.
"Come on, Little D! I know you're in there!"
In the end, that's what does it. The nickname. The infernal endearing one only she uses with him. It snaps him to attention, and though the corners of his vision are muddled and blurry, he sees what's real again. He sees Brown with a split lip which he surely caused, the gash on her jawline reopened, and that lunatic Crane stumbling into view at the end of the alley.
"Dick," he mutters, and her brows perk in a way that reminds him of Ace, that bloody dog his father left for him.
"Excuse me?"
"Grayson," he mumbles, looking away before he does something stupid, like wipe the blood from her lip. "Grayson is nearby. We should-"
"What happened to you, Mr. No Names In The Field?"
Damn her to hell and back. The one time he was unable to think clearly and she had to speak up. "Nevermind," he grunted. "I'll radio Batman myself."
"Ooooookay then." She stepped back, shaking her head before looking over her shoulder. "Might wanna do it soon, Scarecrow's a-hobbling this way."
His gaze drags back towards the end of the alley, where he'd seen Crane before. Only now does he notice the pressure he is failing to exert with his right leg, how it makes him slow, off balance, in a way Damian recognizes. "Did you...did you fracture his kneecap?" He tries in vain to keep the awe from his voice. She never ceases to surprise him, even after all this time.
"Well, it was either that, or let him stab you, crazypants."
He resists the urge to growl at her, lest she compare him to a feline, or something equally moronic. He settles for grunting and turning out of the alley. "I don't understand how he administered the fear gas."
"He walked right up and popped you one, that's how. You weren't exactly having a moment on our planet, D." She checks over her shoulder when they reach the next block. "What were you doing anyway, off in lala-land during patrol?"
"I was thinking," he states, pulling up his comm-link. He does not particularly wish to discuss it with her, given that it is about her. And one of the events in her life she does not like to think about. "Batman, this is Robin. Scarecrow spotted at the corner of Moor and Church Street, suggested course of action?"
It takes a moment for Grayson to respond, and when he does, he sounds mildly out of breath. "The usual, kid. If he's done something worth it, call it in. If not...you have my permission to speak with-oh wait...that was Steph. My bad..."
He huffs as she leans closer, looking amused. "Does picking on poor Little D count?"
"Knightwing...nice to hear from you."
"You sound a little out of breath there, Bats. Rooftop swinging taking too much out of you in your old age?" She's wearing a grin he would find extremely irritating were it directed at him and not Grayson. In fact, it's still irritating. Unreasonably so. He'd prefer it if she stopped, really.
"Ha ha," Grayson chuckles, before grunting. "And no. I'm taking care of a couple...thugs over by the warehouse district. So you're...on your own. Play nice."
They exchange looks before the comm. cuts out. Her eyes crinkle in the low light as she considers him a moment, and it is then he notices her domino mask is missing. "Are you mad, woman? You're not wearing-"
"Yeah, it was kinda knocked off my face by someone's fist," she says, stepping closer, her tone amused but her eyes saying something else. He sees the twitch of her hand, like she wants to reach out to him, but then reconsiders, chickens out, changes her mind. It aggravates him. "What did hallucinatimmy say to you, anyway? To set you off?"
"Nothing but lies."
"Well, clearly it's something you believe. Because that punch sure felt real."
His reply is caught somewhere between it's none of your concern and a piss off when he hears cackling nearby, which she seems too focused on him to notice. "Scarecrow is approaching. He needs to be dealt with." Conversation deflection. She taught him that.
"And you fancy going another round with your fears, do you? We haven't got gas masks, D."
"I noticed," he snaps, looking down at his feet as he clenches his fists. This was a mistake, coming to find her. He should have let her be when he saw her across the rooftops, and not followed her. Hell, he should have walked away from her that night after he almost died for her. But instead, he'd been stupid. And impulsive. He had actually bothered to care. And look where that had gotten him. "I was caught off guard. It will not happen again."
"And we've levelled up from crazypants to grumpypants. Look, if we're gonna find out what Scarecrow wants, and bag him and tag him, we need to-"
"We will do nothing," he snarls. He is through listening to her. Allowing her to act as though nothing happened, as though there is not a very unpleasant burn in his chest at her proximity. "I will go back and apprehend the mad doctor and you...you will find some place to treat your wounds. You look awful. There is no we." He turns away from her then and mutters, "Not anymore."
"Damian, look, I-"
He stalks off without waiting to hear the end of the excuse already building on her lips. He does not wish to hear any more of them, or any more lies. He has lived far too many of them in his eighteen years, and does not need more. Especially not from her. Not anymore.
He backtracks almost all the way to the clinic, looking for signs of Crane, when her screams reach his ears. They rip through the night air as a knife would through butter, and it chills him to the bone. "Fuck," he curses, and pivots on his heel. He travels as fast as his feet will carry him, winding and turning through the alleys. He nearly stumbles head over heels once, and knows the fear gas has not completely left his system when the edges of his vision begin to flicker and blur. He doesn't once think that maybe the scream is another hallucination, something preying upon the darkest of his fears. The nightmares where he leaves her alone and everything he cannot protect her from takes her away. Because what if it isn't and this is real and something has happened that he can't-
There is no sign of Brown in the alley where they'd stood arguing, nor of Scarecrow, and he isn't sure what makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle more. And with the lack of her mask, there is no telling... "Knightwing?" Only the echo of his own voice greets him in return. "Knightwing!" He tries again, louder this time. Still nothing. He wonders if he should radio Grayson. But what would he say? That he left her alone after telling her off and that he heard a woman's scream-a scream that here, in this part of the city, could mean anything and belong to anyone?
No, no he's sure it is Brown's. He knows it is.
Because a moment later when it rings out from closer, maybe only a short block away, something inside of him snaps. He sprints faster than he has in his whole life, and comes skidding into a dark alley in behind an old pizza joint soon after, where he finds her. She lies in the middle, beneath the only lamp in the place, just outside the boarded up pizzeria door, a mess of blonde curls obscuring her face from his view. "Knightwing?" He calls once, squinting at her. His breath hitches in his throat when he is unable to tell from this distance whether or not she is breathing. But everything about this looks and smells like a trap to him, and there's no telling what he's walking into if he takes to her side now. "Knightwing?" Fourth time isn't anywhere near a charm as still, she remains motionless and possibly not even breathing.
As he takes a step closer, he realizes why she isn't answering. Stretching out from somewhere beneath her frame, out past the tips of her curls and the arm her head has fallen upon is a pool of blood. It tints her hair and stains her face and causes his heart rate to spike to an uncomfortable height. "No. No no no no no. Bro-" the rest of the word dies in his throat and he's in motion again, coming to kneel at her side and trying to find a place for his hands that won't hurt, won't touch blood, and oh god, there's so much of it. So much blood, her blood, she's bleeding and he hasn't any idea how to handle this.
He shakes her shoulders slightly, tries to call her name but it comes out strangled, and though he looks around for something to punch, something to make suffer for the state she's in, he tells himself he can't lose focus. He needs to access the damage and get her out of here before Scarecrow or some other lunatic comes back and finishes-god he can't even think it. He won't-can't-let himself.
He needs to radio Grayson, immediately. He will know what to do. The man has far more experience in the medical field than he, and he wouldn't want to make the situation worse by moving her. But he needs to do something because god, there's so much blood and how does he stop it and what does he do and-
-And a strained cackle somewhere to his right catches his attention.
Crane sits against a dumpster not five feet away. His leg is propped on an old stack of moldy pizza boxes, and his left arm hangs loosely at his side. Blood drips from the tips of his fingers into a small pool at his side, but it is nothing compared to the worrying one gathered beneath Brown's head. Damian closes the gap between them in an instant, fists grabbing hold of the man's collar, glaring down into eyes that are nearly grey, and so very empty. "What is the meaning of this? Why did you attack us?!"
Crane grins, and Damian notices his yellowing teeth. "I was looking for a little fun. To go out with a bang. But I think...I killed your girlfriend, little boy. Oops!" His nostrils flare and one hand reels back, fingers itching to knock the man's teeth in. Wanting to inflict injury so severe, to make him feel the pain the girl lying behind him surely does, wanting blood. He gets his wish, just not by his own hand. Instead, as the man lets loose another frightening laugh that causes his entire body to shake, and liquid bubbles forth from his lips-blood. There is a putrid smell in the air, and finally, Damian understands.
This is not the first time they have crossed paths and Crane has been without his signature Scarecrow mask. In recent years, it has been more of a rarity to find the man and the monster not entirely intertwined, as they are now. How often has Crane inhaled his own foul drug? How many times has he tortured and analyzed his "patients" in Gotham and gotten a dose of his own medicine? That much constant exposure to the fear gas could do more than drive a man over the drink of insanity. It could make him sick, it could...
"You're dying." Damian wrinkles his nose at the observation, stepping away from him. He's sure it can't be contagious, but he's been gassed once tonight, and isn't looking to be again. "You aren't worth the effort." He spits once at the man's feet and then turns back to Brown, bringing up his comm-link, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. "Batman, this is Robin. Knightwing's been hit. Requesting immediate pick-up."
"I'm a little...tied up, kid. Can you-"
"No, we can't," he cuts him off without a thought, voice trembling slightly. "She needs medical attention. Severe-there's so much-" he swallows thickly, "there's a lot of blood."
"Batmobile's three blocks away...Are you sure-"
"Grayson, she's dying, dammit!"
"...I'm on my way." He kneels down beside her, and brushes hair from her face, trying to pretend he isn't seeing red. Please hurry, he thinks.
Though he despises silences like these, he thinks he'd prefer them when Crane opens his mouth to speak again, his voice sounding strained. "Do you want to know what Blondie saw before I caught her? Do you want to know the fears that haunt her dreams at night, the darkest secrets she keeps buried deep inside?" He cackles, but it cuts off half way as he leans over, spitting blood onto the asphalt. "I assure you, they're just as telling as yours."
"I want you to hurry up and die, your broken fool, that's what I want."
"She was far too preoccupied caring about your little exit, she never saw it coming. Begged and pleaded for it to stop."
"Your lies mean nothing, Crane," Damian spits. If only his tone could reflect the message, he'd be set. But as seems customary tonight, his emotions are determined to give him away at every turn. The man can only laugh in return, and plow on.
"She ran away from her stickiest problems, you know, that's how we found ourselves here. She ran away like a little child. Like you."
"Enough."
"Her dead parents, her lost friends, the Boy Wonder." He gasps like he's let loose a most awful secret, before laughing. "Oh, not you of course. The other one. The better one."
"I said enough!" he yells, before his fist connects with Crane's face and he feels a satisfying crunch beneath his knuckles. Finally, a silence settles into the alley.
Well, at least until Grayson speaks.
"Robin." Oh hell, he loathes that tone. That is a very bad, very angry tone for Grayson. "Robin what-what happened here?" Damian looks over to see his gaze trained on Scarecrow, who is slumped over against the dumpster.
"He's unconscious...I think."
"You think?"
"I don't care," he clarifies, bending down beside Brown, making sure Grayson's delay hasn't made her, well... He spots the Batmobile at the end of the alley, and carefully cradling her head against his shoulder, he picks her up. "Are we going?"
"What happened here, Robin?"
"We'll have to notify Pennyworth immediately so he will be ready when we-"
"What happened?" Grayson asks again, more forcefully, his hand catching hold of Damian's arm as he pases.
"Now isn't the time, Gra-" He shoots him a warning look, and as Damian pulls his arm away, he grunts. "Batman." Grayson stares at him a moment, jaw tight and lips drawn into a thin line, before he nods once, so briefly Damian might've missed it were he not looking for it. He takes off for the car, careful of Brown's fragile body in his arms, and slides into the cleverly disguised backseat they long since installed when she joined their Dynamic Duo-as Damian insisted that atrocity she called the Compact was unfit for a full grown woman and hero of Gotham to be rolling around in.
He does not speak a word the whole ride home. At least, not to Grayson. In the cover of dark, and the silence the Batmobile's engine assures him he'll have in the backseat, he holds her close; close enough to hear her weakened heartbeat, to know she is still there and still alive. And he finds himself whispering to her words that she will never understand, and things he will never allow himself to admit aloud in a language she knows. The words he keeps buried alongside the fears only Crane's strongest fear gas can rip from him. About him and her and everything in between.
"Samah ni," he repeats, over and over, cradling her head against his chest. He should not have walked away from her in that alley. He should not have left her, despite the fact she'd done the very same thing to him. He is supposed to be good at handling his emotions, at removing himself from the equation. But there are fears and insecurities he carries that he cannot always ignore, and tonight, they were on display for her to see. And it made him angry. Angry because he has few weaknesses, and there are few people who can hurt him the way she can, and those combined together could drag him down entirely, could end him.
He was afraid, and he was a fool. And she is lying in his arms dying because of it. He presses her against his shoulder, nearly cheek-to-cheek as he inhales the fading scent of pomegranate shampoo in her hair. "N'habek."
He does not miss the way Grayson's gaze flickers to him in the rearview, eyes wide. Say nothing, he glares back and thankfully, the man listens. They ride in silence until they arrive at the cave, and everything from there is a blur to him. As he steps out, Pennyworth takes her from him and lies her on a stretcher, taking immediate action against the wound on her head with a damp cloth and sedatives. He mutters that she should've been brought to him sooner and Damian shoots Grayson a look. Then, with needle and thread in hand, Pennyworth pulls curtains closed around himself and Brown, effectively locking him and Grayson out.
It takes the latter only a moment to break the silence.
"Start talking."
"We-I had it handled."
"Really?" Grayson's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Mind explaining how, please, because that-" he points behind him to the curtained-off area, "doesn't look like handling it."
"I was...distracted. He caught me off guard with fear gas. She led us to safety while I fought it off, but he must have followed. A difficult feat with a fractured patella."
"Who broke his knee?"
"She did. Said she would rather that than see me stabbed. Surprising, given that until tonight I was quite sure she didn't care."
"Damian...," his expression softens and the boy's hands ball into fists. He will have no...pity from Grayson. Not now.
"I am not finished." When he is given a nod, he continues. "I was...angry after my experience with the fear gas, unstable. I lashed out, bitter about not just tonight but that night too." He has not spoken to Grayson about what happened between them, the details, but he knows enough to understand. To spot the anger bubbling beneath the surface as he simply mentions it. Damian looks away, because the anger is not simply directed at Crane and at Brown, but himself as well. "I was careless when I left her alone. I wasn't thinking. Everything set my teeth on edge..."
"He plays off fears and secrets, Damian, you know that. He's supposed to mess with your head. It's Scarecrow!"
"Yes, and it is Stephanie!"
There he goes, blindly using her name again. As he did the night she walked out on them all. Has he not learned? Has he not realized removing himself from the equation is the safest option he has?
"Scarecrow," Grayson starts again after a moment. "Did you...did you kill him?"
"W-What?" He is appalled the question is being asked. "It has been years, Grayson. Years. I would not cross that line I have strived so hard to respect since I entered these halls. I would not-he is dying at his own hands-I would not break in my resolve for Crane! It's Scarecrow!"
"Yeah, and it's Steph!" He yells, throwing Damian's own words in his face. He steps closer, lowering his voice, as if on the other side of the curtain she is wide awake and listening to every word. Hah, how he wishes. "I heard what you said to her back there. It may have been in a language she can't understand, awake or not, but I do. You-"
"It meant nothing," he grunts, crossing his arms. He is well aware he looks like a little child not getting their way, but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to talk about this. At all. Ever.
"Damian, I've watched you grow up. With me-with her. You've spent years looking after one another, together, and if you-"
"A measure of time means nothing when you sleep with someone who does not want you. Who walks out on you," he snaps and finally, understanding dawns on Grayson's face, his mouth hanging open in an 'O' shape. "Those words meant nothing."
"You can't just...turn off your feelings because she doesn't know what she-"
His words are entirely drowned out by fresh screams ripped free of Brown's lips. They wrench the curtains back to see her thrashing on the table, Pennyworth trying desperately to calm her, stitches along her jawline half-finished. He has evidently finished with her head wound and has moved on to her other injuries. As Grayson moves in to help, she writhes in place, nearly pulling the IV from her arm. "She is still under the influence of the fear gas," says Pennyworth.
"No no no, get away! I left! You should hate me! You should want nothing to do with me!" There are tears streaming down her cheeks as she hits Grayson repeatedly in the chest, and he calls her name a few times, but Damian knows there isn't any point. She will not hear him if she cannot focus, his words will only twist into those of whomever she is seeing. "Go away! Just go away!'
"Steph, it's me! It's Dick!"
"It's no use, Master Richard. The fear gas has preyed upon her unconscious mind. She is caught between a nightmare and the waking. She is also most likely in excruciating pain. She cannot hear you."
"It's your fault," she hisses, trying to pull away, to punch and kick. "It's all your fault she's gone! Not mine! I was only trying to help!"
"Well, we have to do something before she hurts herself! Or one of us!"
"Move!" Damian says finally, crowding in, pushing Grayson away and clamping his arms around her shaking shoulders. He turns her face him, avoiding a swinging fist or two, and tries to get her to look at him. "Brown, stop it this instant. Fight it! Fight it the way I did!" Still, she screams and mutters and cries, and he calls her name once more, forcing her gaze to meet his. Her eyes look far away and frightened and he can't help wondering who it is she's seeing instead of him.
"Brown," he tries again, and thinks this is what she must have felt like, calling to him when he was hallucinating, unable to hear her. But she was able to calm him and snap him out of it, and he plans to return the favor. "Stephanie," he says finally, and knows Grayson and Pennyworth have exchanged looks behind him, not only for the name, but the tone he uses. A tone far gentler and softer than the boy using it. "Stephanie, listen to me."
His hands slide up to hold her head so she faces him. And though her cheeks are wet and her eyes glisten with tears, she has stopped screaming and thrashing about. He has no clue if she is hallucinating or if he's snapped her out of it, but it is progress.
"Robin?"
He hesitates a moment, before nodding. "I'm here, you're alright." She whimpers pitifully, and her lip trembles, and he pulls her close. "You're okay. No one's going to hurt you. You're safe."
He repeats the words as her breathing slows and there is no longer a sob every other intake of air. He rubs small circles on her back, until she is calm enough that Pennyworth can administer morphine into her IV. Until she is nearly falling asleep in his arms. Until all he can smell is pomegranate shampoo and her and everything feels okay. Over her head of messy blond curls, he sees Grayson give him a knowing smile. Surely, when this is all over and she is healthy and safe and okay again, he will try to convince Damian that this means something, that he's been right all along and there has been something between them. That she only fled that night because she'd been unsure of what she wanted.
"Tim..."
Or maybe, she just didn't want him.
He freezes as she snuggles closer, but does not feel the warmth from her body where they touch. Instead, he feels only searing, stinging pain, through his stomach and up to his heart, like being punched repeatedly until needing to vomit. Which is exactly what he feels like doing-being sick. Because he's an idiot and a fool and he's been so goddamn deluded this whole time, thinking that she actually gave a crap. He's been entertaining that false hope that Grayson is correct, that she meant what happened that night and everything before and that she is simply confused.
But now he realizes the only thing she was confused about was how to tell him he meant nothing. That he has always meant nothing. That he has, and always will be, precisely what fear!Drake said he would be-second place. For best Robin, for favorite son, and now, clearly, for Brown's affections.
And he's no longer sure why this surprises him anymore. He was born for disappointment, and he should begin to accept this fact, before he loses any more of himself in ridiculously useless feelings. He has the sense to lay her back on the lab-bed before stalking away and not once looking back. Not when Pennyworth and Grayson call for him. Not when he crosses the whole space of the cave, passing Batmobile, Compact and regular vehicle alike.
Only when the cold night air slaps him in the face and stings at his eyes does he slow his pace, running his hands through his hair, his heart pounding in his ears and his chest and everywhere else unpleasant. Wretched thing. What use is it if he can't turn it off, shut part of it out, use it for living and breathing but not feeling. Because he doesn't want to feel. Not right now, not like this. Because he's through with it. Through with her and with Drake and with feeling this way. He is through feeling, period. It is a complete and utter waste of his time and focus.
He will simply stop caring. Grayson does not believe he can, but he will. He will, because he won't be able to stand it if she sticks around after this, if she stays with them again. And god, he should've known. He should have realized it was foolish to pursue her, that the infernal woman would not return any affections he gave her. And he did know, in a way, if her fear gas counterpart is of any indication. He is still a child to her, a little boy she could not even entertain the idea of caring for that way. And what happened that night can be blamed on the alcohol, on some foolish fantasy, on her looking to...he doesn't particularly want to think of why.
He is so furious that he allows the blue pilgrim to sneak up on him. In his defense, the strange young man travels through shadows and trickery and magic, but it is the second time that night Damian has been caught off guard and it makes him very displeased. His tone so reflects this. "Klarion. What are you doing here?"
"Ah, the young Wayne. Still unpleasant as ever," he grins toothily. At his feet, his hellcat meows, its tail curling around his ankle. He glances back towards the manor. "I came to see if she is...okay."
He means Brown, of course. He knows she is here and he knows she is injured because, well, because he always knows. Where she is and what she is feeling. He knows this because they are connected, somehow. Damian doesn't know how, nor does he care to understand, but because of an exchange of fluids-a kiss-one Valentine's Day, he can feel her emotions and pulse as well as his own. It has something to do with Klarion's physiology, being of Limbo Town and magic and everything he is, but Damian doesn't know the details. He's never asked. Nevertheless, his hands ball into fists thinking of how this blue-skinned fairy from another dimension shares a deeper emotional connection with Brown than he does. Had he not just decided he was through feeling things about her-jealousy included?
Finally, he remembers Klarion's presence. "She was severely injured while on patrol, but she is healing now. Pennyworth and Grayson are watching her."
"And you?"
"What of me?"
"I would expect you to...be there for her. After..."
"After what?" he snarls, stepping closer. "After she used me and left? What do you know about it, anyway?"
They have not seen the witchboy and his familiar in months.
"She has been staying with Teekl and I since the night of your coupling."
He huffs, flabbergasted with how casually he mentions it. Then again, his customs are rather different. He does not view relations between humans the way they do. And Damian's focused enough on this that it takes a moment for his words to sink in. Klarion, not Drake. She has been staying with Klarion and not Drake. This, he is okay with. Or at least, he would be, if he still cared. Which he will tell himself he does not until it is the truth.
"Boy?"
He looks up, realizing he has spaced out yet again. Thinking of her.
"How do you-all of you," he thinks to clarify, as he's been to Limbo Town once or twice and met more of the witchkind in the last few years, "have no attachments? How do you not..."
"Feel?" He does not laugh, not quite, but there is amusement in his voice. Teekl purrs loudly. "We do. Basic emotions and desires. Limbo Town's magic keeps us honest and untainted, but the longer we stay in the human world, the stronger they get."
"So it is something genetic to your...kind, then? No off switch?" Because easy way out will never be part of Damian Wayne's vocabulary.
"It is indeed of witchkind nature, as we are not from this world and created to become beings of chaos, but it does not mean we don't...wish to know what it is like. I, more than most, for the kindness Stephanie has shown me."
Damian scoffs, crossing his arms. "That would make one of us."
Klarion's face twists into a look of mild concern, and of confusion then, but it is gone in a moment. "There is no off switch that you speak of, but there might be a way..."
Damian raises one eyebrow cautiously. He is intrigued, but wary. Despite Brown swearing up and down until she is blue in the face that she vouches for him in the last few years, he still does not entirely trust him. Moreso, because he doesn't trust magic. Or sorcery. Or whatever Klarion calls it. So he tries his best to look unimpressed as he says, "Oh?"
"It could be costly," Klarion says, a hint of a smile on his lips as he begins circling him. "No magic is without price-not even ours." Teekl purrs loudly in agreement, but his red eyes are focused on Damian, looking greedy. Gleaming. When he receives no objections, he continues. "But it is possible. I could make you forget how you feel for her."
"Would it be permanent?"
"I would not advise-" Damian gives him a warning look, and he hears the click of the witchboy's tongue as he disapproves. "I could reverse it, were you to change your mind."
"And if I didn't?"
"It would be permanent, in theory."
"In theory?"
"No magic is without price," he repeats, but elaborates no more. The answer is vague, but it will have to do.
"Then do it, whatever it is. And make it quick, before I do something moronic, like change my mind."
Klarion tuts derisively, but says nothing further. Teekl's eyes begin to glow as his partner outstretches his hands, palms flat, towards Damian. "Lrig htis fo evol ruoy tegrof," he chants, and a prickling sensation starts up at the back of his head. It spreads slowly at first, as Klarion continues, "Reh dna dnob ruoy tegrof. Nekrob saw tahw dnem nac htob uoy litnu."
The glow from Teekl's eyes overwhelms him then, blinding him of all sight and sound and touch. There is nothing but red for several long moments until finally, with a loud crack, things slowly fade back into focus. The colors are dull and it's a little blurry, but in a few minutes, Damian can clearly see the road outside Wayne Manor, the trees, the gates and everything else on the empty path. Empty? Why is it-Why is he alone out here?
What is he doing out here?
He frowns, looking around, listening. He can hear nothing. No sirens from Gotham or cars on the streets or planes in the sky. No voices on the wind, or trees rustling or crickets chirping in the night. All he hears is silence, and it is so refreshing her nearly forgets how strange it is that he's outside the manor on his own wearing a bloody uniform. What in the hell?
And then it all comes crashing back. The missing noises all assault his ears at once, sounding three hundred times the volume they are supposed to be and his chest is struck by this sudden, crushing ache and he has to lean on the wrought-iron fence to stay upright. One hand clutches futilely at the left side of his chest, and he takes a handful of long, ragged breaths, trying to determine the cause of his strange and rather unpleasant symptoms. He feels like someone is slowly but surely compacting his ribcage with a formidable stream-roller, and would very much like it to stop.
And it does. It is over faster than his distorted vision and loss of sound, and then, thankfully, he is alright again. So, though he is overly suspicious and will look into it later, he shakes it off and trudges back towards the Manor, running a hand through his hair. He feels exhausted. Drained. And he aches, everywhere. The way he does after a rough patrol or mission. The way he hasn't since...well, for a very long time now, he thinks, though he can't pinpoint when last it was.
He's still thinking about it, turning thoughts that feel a little fuzzy around in his head, when he steps into the cave and is met by an exhausted-looking Grayson. Who seems relieved to see him as he walks up and claps him on the shoulder. "I was worried you'd wandered off too far after...," he stalls, unwilling to say something, and Damian narrows his eyes at him. "You okay?"
"Should I not be?"
"Well, after everything that's happened tonight, I just figured...just-just making sure stress isn't getting to you, alright? Don't take stuff like this too seriously."
"Like what?" Damian frowns, now very concerned about Grayson's mental state. What on earth is he going on about? What's happened now?
"She's going to be okay, you know. Alfred took good care of her. And I know she-I know things have been a little hard on you both tonight but...but she asked for you, when she was conscious for a few minutes. I thought you might want to know after-"
"I'm sorry, Grayson, but I'm stopping you there. You aren't making any sense, and I'm thinking maybe Pennyworth should take care of you." He crosses his arms and snorts cheekily. "What are you talking about?"
Grayson frowns, confused. He steps back, staring at Damian. "Stephanie, Damian. I'm talking about Stephanie. And the fact that she almost died tonight but you saved her and when she wakes up you two are going to have a lot of talk-"
"Who the hell is Stephanie?"