Author's Note: Thank you to Guest 1 (Don't worry, I have plenty of spelling problems most days too! And yeah, neither one is handling things great but that's typical.), soccernin19 (As far as mental turmoil there's a lot more to come, especially with Dick and Damian), and Wombo Combi (Thank you so much! Hopefully I manage to make the rest of this story just as good as the first four chapters!) for reviewing the last chapter! I own nothing.
Damian was shuddering all over as if he were caught in a snowstorm. The shadows of the room, so familiar when he'd first woken, had become monsters waiting to swallow him whole. A smooth voice seemed to be whispering in his ear. Although Damian couldn't understand the words the subtly menacing tone was making his shivers progressively worse. Whimpers and tears were forced down with what little will the fever hadn't sapped as his stomach twisted and rolled with unease. The nightmare almost immediately after Father's death had shaken the boy more than he would have liked to admit and Grayson's extended absence wasn't helping. Still Damian had enough pride engrained in him by his mother to keep him from getting up and searching for the older boy. That left him to stay curled in the bed shaking.
Footsteps approached and Damian twitched nervously, one hand snaking under the pillows in search of the knife he knew he kept there. Surprisingly clumsy fingers wrapped too tightly around the hilt and, try as he might, he could not force his body to be still. His throat felt like it was sealing itself as the door slid open, revealing Grayson entering the room support by someone else. Damian brought the knife out from under his pillow, eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the scene before him.
Grayson was leaning heavily on a man slightly taller than him, broader in the shoulders too. Damian would have guessed it was Todd but the hair was wrong and something about the stance was just off. Todd, in surveillance footage the boy had hacked his way into, always held himself defensively, as if waiting to be attacked. The constant readiness was something Damian could almost admire in the older boy.
"Hey Damian." Grayson's voice was a low rasp. The man had clearly exhausted himself trying to take care of his younger brothers and Damian felt shame begin to mix with the fear. His shudders grew worse as he struggled to keep a lid on his emotions. He tried to reply but found he couldn't pull in enough air to speak. The knife slid free of numb fingers and Damian batted it away, pushing it back under one of the pillows. He then burrowed his head into the fabric then, hoping to regain his composure.
The bed shifted slightly as Grayson settled down on it and a gentle hand, ran through his hair. "Damian," the older boy murmured. "Look at me, please." Damian shook his head, shudders growing impossibly stronger and hands clenching into fists. He wouldn't. Not until he had control. It would be showing weakness and Damian had done enough of that in the past day to make Mother ashamed. "Dami," Grayson pleaded and the boy froze.
Normally hearing his mother's nickname for him on anyone else's lips throw him into a fury. Stephanie Brown often enough got snarled at for pulling that name out and the only time Drake had ever used it, Damian had thrown a knife at his head. Father had been very displeased with the action but Tim had never called the younger boy Dami again. Somehow Grayson felt different. The way the man said the nickname, a gentle plea, was so different than the mocking way Brown called it or the annoyed tone Drake had snapped it in. Somehow it just felt right.
Slowly Damian lifted his head, forcing himself to look in Grayson's expression blue eyes. "Oh Damian," Grayson cooed and suddenly the younger boy found himself cuddled close. That was all it took for the tears to break free. He found himself sobbing against Grayson's chest and the shame only made the tears come faster. Grayson cradled him close as he sobbed, cooing gently into his dark hair, and for the first time he remembered Damian simply let himself be held and sobbed.
Another gangster let out a pitiful wail that cut off with a bang. If this were a cartoon or an old Western, Jason knew he'd be pictured standing above the dead body with a smoking gun. Of course if this were a cartoon or a black and white Western there wouldn't be any blood. Blood was pooling everywhere in the silent warehouse, bodies scattered like broken dolls before him. It didn't make him feel any better. That didn't mean he regretted the deaths he had caused. These men ran a child prostitution ring and had probably deserved worse than they'd gotten, especially considering the terrified looks the little kids had sent him when he'd broken the locks on their cells and directed them towards where he knew one of the few clean cops in Gotham would be patrolling. Still it wasn't the drug dealers he was angry at; it was Bruce.
In the past few months Jason had cut down on his killing. He'd even formed his own team, the Outlaws, and gone as far as to help Nightwing out. He'd been working himself towards what was considered acceptable for the Batclan, for Batman, and then Bruce had gone and gotten himself killed. It was horribly inconsiderate of him. Then again, that was just typical Bruce. The man was always weaseling out of emotional talks but this way was just the icing on top of a very sour cake.
Part of Jason felt bad for the mess he had just made, if for no other reason than for the trouble it would inevitably cause Dick. He and Richard Grayson might not have gotten along when Jason was still Robin but after his death by Joker, the younger man had gotten a good glimpse of just how strained the relationship between Bruce Wayne and his Golden Boy had been. Having Babs, sweet and feisty Barbara Gordon who'd bounded across rooftops with him and dragged Nightwing along behind her, tell him about the knock down, drag out fight Dick and Bruce had gotten into over Jason's death had been a shock. Learning that Bruce had actually lost control of his temper and punched the Golden Boy had been enough to get him to actually seek out Nightwing.
After that first awkward conversation, with Jason snapping and snarling while Dick was already preparing himself for Jason to leave just like everyone else around the older boy, things had become easier between them. Jason had slowly come to realize that Dick's constant drive towards perfection had nothing to do with spiting the Robins the came after him and everything to do with a deeply hidden fear of abandonment. Dick learned that Jason's prickly behavior was a defense mechanism. And slowly the pair of them had become brothers. Now Bruce was dead and while almost everything else felt like it was crumbling around him, the brotherhood remained. With that thought in mind, Jason turned slowly towards Wayne Manor, already considering his next move.
Roy hadn't wanted to help Dick up the stairs and into Damian Wayne's room. After watching his oldest friend fall just trying to climb the stairs and feeling the heat coming off the younger man's forehead, Roy had been determined to get Dick to the couch in the living room and get him laying down. The argument they'd found had risen to almost epic proportions. Dick had won only by snapping that he'd be going upstairs whether or not Roy helped him. The result had been extremely reluctant and unhappy red head helping the feverish younger man up a flight of stairs and into a dark bedroom only to find a ten year old on the verge of a panic attack.
Damian had been shaking like a leaf in a strong wind and clutching a knife, though the knife had vanished mysteriously after a minute, and when Dick had finally gotten the young boy cuddled close, Damian had started clinging. The boy had sobbed himself to sleep, clutching Dick and even now he refused to let go. Dick was settled against the pillows, fighting to keep his eyes open while Damian's head rested on his chest, hands clutched tight his older brother's worn grey t-shirt. Roy settled in a chair to watch over them both and hoped nothing managed to fall apart while Dick was sleeping.