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Damian does not like his father’s home.
Although the manor is technically his by birthright, he still does not like it. This is no fault of its own—the architecture is certainly admirable, and so are the winding hallways and the soft carpets and the elegant chandeliers. It’s not the luxury that bothers Damian; he’s seen plenty of that while living in Nanda Parbat as the grandson to the Demon’s Head.
It’s the emptiness.
Even in Nanda Parbat, there was always warmth and life, servants scurrying through the halls and the distant shouts of trainees in the fields outside and the ever present rustling of feathers as people moved about. Forests are only quiet when there is something dangerous nearby, and this is a fact that Damian has found to be mostly true everywhere else he goes. Like the dead stillness that precedes him swooping down to make a kill, or the long, stony pauses Mother greets him with when she is upset, or the ever-present silence found before the beginning of a duel.
Over in Wayne Manor, there is hardly any noise. There is only the darkness, thick and welcoming, shadows lurking at every corner. It is a building too big with too few people, and the silence has Damian constantly antsy. This fact is one that only becomes more prominent when Father dies.
He is relieved when Grayson does not send him back to the League, and instead softly suggests moving into a penthouse in the city. He does not say this.
In sharp contrast to his father’s home, the penthouse is rarely ever silent. When there is no activity to be found within the building itself, there is always something going on in the city below. There is the squawking of birds as they fly by, the low rumble of cars, the whistle of the wind or occasionally the gentle pattering of rain hitting the windows. The penthouse is a breath of fresh air compared to the cloying, suffocating quiet that lingers in Wayne Manor.
Grayson is an adequate Batman, though Damian would never say this, either. He is the most experienced of his father’s ex-protégés, careful and quick-thinking in the field. Experienced with the fighting styles of the League, if the way their spars often go shows anything. But, beyond the cowl, Grayson is… kind. He laughs a lot and he smiles and sometimes when he looks at Damian, there is something not-quite sad in his gaze, just a little too hard to be called pity but too soft to be called anything else.
Damian is not quite sure what it means.
When he’s not Batman, Grayson is an anomaly. Sometimes, Damian does not completely know what to make of him.
The past few nights, Poison Ivy has come out to cause trouble. With what has occurred tonight, she might have just skyrocketed herself to the spot of Damian’s least favorite Rogue.
“This is stupid,” he growls as he stomps out of the Batmobile, tearing off his cape and gloves as he goes. He pulls his wings tight to himself, ignoring the way they ache from all the frantic flying he had done tonight, trying to dodge Poison Ivy and her vines. “I’m fine.”
“Cuddle pollen is not as innocent as it sounds, Master Damian,” Pennyworth responds, though beneath his mustache, his lips are ticked upwards in the barest hint of amusement. “It can be quite a pain to deal with alone.”
“Alfie’s right, you know,” Grayson calls, the quiet thuds of his boots loud in the bunker as he exits the Batmobile, pulling the cowl off his face. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s happened to everyone at least once, even Bruce.”
“I’m fine,” Damian hisses. His utility belt comes off with a click. Scowling, he heads towards the showers, rattling his wings in agitation and tearing his mask off as he goes. There’s an itch beneath his skin, no doubt an effect from Isley’s imbecilic cuddle pollen. He’s read the reports on it—skimmed them, really. A non-lethal, unique irritant from Poison Ivy’s plants, created to induce feelings of loneliness. There is no viable cure for it other than physical contact with another person. It’s appalling. It’s preposterous.
He hears the rustle of feathers as Grayson jogs closer. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder to enclose it in a gentle grip. “Dami, really, it’s easier if we just—”
“Don’t touch me!” Damian whirls around with a snarl, wing flaring out to disconnect Grayson’s touch. Grayson draws his hand back, eyebrows lowering at the show of aggression. Good, Damian thinks briefly, even as the itch slightly recedes, then returns again tenfold. “I don’t need your help to deal with some stupid pollen! I’ve had worse!”
Even as he speaks, he can feel it. The emptiness. Like a cold itch on his skin, one that is accompanied by the childish desire to be held. Damian pushes it away to the very back of his mind. He’s not a child. He’s never been a child.
With one last glare towards Grayson, Damian stomps off towards the showers, hands curled into tight fists.
Not even the hot water is enough to chase away the chill or the prickling sensation running along his arms and spine. Damian turns the heat up till his skin goes red and tender, watching Robin colors drip from his wings and into the drain to reveal the muted blacks and greens of his own feathers.
When Damian first became Robin, Grayson had been insistent that he paint his wings to match the costume. It’s tradition, he had said, showing Damian a few pictures of Drake in Robin garb, maroon and gold feathers painted a garish combination of red, green, and yellow. Everyone paints their wings when they’re in costume. It’s a good way to keep secret identities and, you know, keep up the aesthetic. You didn’t think Steph’s wings were actually full purple, did you?
Damian still hardly sees the point of it. Why waste his time—and so much paint, however biodegradable it may be—to stick to some sort of “aesthetic” when he could simply get around with painting them black? It’s not as if his real feathers are brightly colored by any means. They’re black, striped with green at the tips so dark that it’s hardly noticeable from far away.
Still, Grayson had insisted, and Damian had begrudgingly agreed, if only to get the man off his back. Grayson also paints his wings, though Batman’s have always been a solid black, and so that is what he uses whenever they suit up. Nightwing’s were black and electric blue. His real feathers are dark blue, a lighter shade on the inside, with mixes of white and yellow scattered throughout.
Damian tuts, stretching out his wing and guiding the showerhead to ensure that all of the paint is gone. He may have wanted to be Robin, but the less said about Grayson’s past stylistic choices, the better.
By the time he gets out of the shower, he’s still cold and vaguely itchy, and Grayson has yet to return from his own washing. Pennyworth is arranging medical supplies in another portion of the bunker, looking up as Damian emerges whilst shaking water off his wings.
“Master Damian,” the butler greets amicably, looking him up and down. “Any injuries I should know about? Aside from your unfortunate tangle with Miss Ivy, of course.”
Damian narrows his eyes at the mention of Isley once again. He shakes his head sharply. “I am unwounded. I’ll be retiring to my room for the night.”
“Very well,” the butler acquiesces gently. He gives Damian another once over, raising his eyebrows, silver wings twitching slightly as he prepares to speak. “If I may: Master Dick’s cuddles are not nearly as terrible as you seem to think they are, my boy. He will not be offended if you reach out for help. Although the name might sound rather silly, I can assure you that the effects of Miss Ivy’s pollen are always… less than ideal, if allowed to go on for too long.”
That gives Damian pause. A part of him—the cold, itchy part of him—is delighted by it, pushes him to accept the help, to wait for Grayson to emerge or even go to Pennyworth. Grayson’s touch before his shower had felt nice; it had chased away the bitter chill building inside him and soothed the irritation, and without it now Damian feels even worse. But there is another part of him, one that sounds like his grandfather, that hisses at the idea. To rely on others is to be weak, Ibn al’Xuffasch. Are you weak?
Damian is not weak.
So he turns, fixing his face into a deep scowl, adjusting his wings in agitation. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Pennyworth. I need neither your nor Grayson’s help with something as foolish as pollen.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before stomping out of the bunker. As Damian steps into the penthouse, he pauses in the hallway, going to the linen closet to grab a few spare blankets.
His room is dark. Damian doesn’t bother turning the light on, just heading over to his oval-shaped bed, shoved up against the wall for optimal defense. The chill inside his bones has only worsened with his distance from the bunker. Damian bites the inside of his cheek as he eyes his bed thoughtfully, dumping the spare blankets onto an unused part of the mattress before setting to work.
By the time he’s successfully arranged his blankets and pillows to be shoved against a single corner, wriggling himself into the tiny space and piling the spare blankets over him till only his head is exposed to the air, both Grayson and Pennyworth have returned from the bunker. While Pennyworth’s footsteps continue down the hall, Grayson’s pause just outside Damian’s door, his shadow lingering.
Curled up in his nest of blankets, wings drawn up tight to his body as he stubbornly attempts to bat away the growing emptiness inside him, Damian watches as the shadow shifts. Feathers rustle faintly as Grayson adjusts his weight.
Eventually, there is a soft knock, then Grayson’s hesitant voice. “Damian?”
Damian does not answer. The silence ensues for a good few minutes before Grayson sighs and speaks again. “I know that you’re probably not asleep in there. I just wanted to say that I really don’t mind helping with the pollen. It’s never fun to deal with alone. Me and Alfred wouldn’t think less of you if you asked one of us for help.” A pause, where Grayson seems to be hoping for some kind of response, before he says quietly, “I’ll be in my room if you need me, okay?”
The shadow retreats. Damian snuggles deeper into his cocoon of blankets and pillows, huffing softly to himself. He is not weak.
Although certainly irritating, he is aware that the effects of Ivy’s pollen are purely psychological. He isn’t actually freezing, even if he certainly feels like it. There isn’t actually a black hole festering in the pit of his stomach, threatening to tear him apart from the inside. It’s not real. He can deal with some psychological effects on his own. He is Ibn al’Xuffasch, heir to the Bat. He is Robin. He is an al Ghul. He is not weak.
… Even if the loneliness still gnaws at him, slithering into his chest and curling around his heart like a python. Even if there is a whisper of fool and pathetic and useless from the void. Even if the blankets don’t work well enough to simulate human contact like he had hoped.
He grits his teeth. He curls further into himself, pulls his wings tighter around him, and shuts his eyes.
It’s not quite sleep that he finds himself caught in—sleep is impossible with this feeling inside him, a darkness that feels as if it’ll pull him apart at his seams. It’s somewhere halfway between a doze and full consciousness, where Damian tries not to let himself focus on the feeling of emptiness.
But in the end, all that does is make him think of Grayson’s words again, and then just Grayson. Grayson, who has an overflowing well of affection that he hands out in waves; Grayson, and his hair ruffles and his tight hugs and easy, dimpled smiles; Grayson, who never fails to pause their patrol at least once a night for some kind of treat, like ice cream or donuts or something equally American and overly sweet, just to sit Damian down on some rooftop and tell him that he’s done a good job that night; Grayson, with his not-quite pitying gaze, and his wings as blue as the skies in Nanda Parbat and his careful hands, always so gentle with Damian, and his soft voice when he says you’re a good kid, Dames. I’m proud of you.
With a pitiful noise in the back of his throat, Damian throws off the blankets. If the chill was bad with them, then it is ten times worse without the layers of fabric over him, and he has to bite down on a quiet sob that rises in the back of his throat. He rolls out of his bed, settling his feet on the cold floor with a hiss. A glance at the clock as he heads to the door tells him that it’s been a little over an hour since they returned from patrol, which means it’s been forty-five minutes since Damian returned to the penthouse, give or take.
The hallway is empty, but a handful of steps down the corridor brings him to Grayson’s door, which is cracked open just enough to allow dim light to come spilling out from inside. Damian approaches it on silent feet, pausing just outside. There’s no noise coming from the room but the light is on, so surely that must mean…
He steels himself. Takes a breath, in and out, and doesn’t allow himself a moment longer of hesitation before he pushes the door open with a quiet creak.
Grayson is sitting at the top of his elliptical bed, leaning against the raised headboard, a book on his lap and a lamp on the table at the side of the bed glowing a soft yellow. He looks up when the door opens, forehead creasing as his eyebrows draw together. He says nothing at first, studying Damian where he lingers in the entrance, but a second passes and his expression eases out, though the frown doesn’t disappear completely.
“Damian?” Grayson says. He folds the book slightly, thumb caught between the pages to save his spot.
Damian hesitates when he opens his mouth, and for some reason tonight it is strangely quiet outside, without even the distant rumble of passing cars.
He hates the silence. So he speaks—forces the words out as his shoulders creep slowly and steadily towards his ears. “I was—wondering if… if your offer still stands. To… assist me.”
The warm light splashing across Grayson’s face shifts when he adjusts on the bed, sitting straighter and crossing his legs beneath him. He offers a gentle, close-lipped smile. “Of course it does.” He pats the spot in front of him invitingly, moving his dark blanket around to clear space on the mattress. “Come in?”
Damian jerks his head sharply in a nod, slipping inside and carefully returning the door to its previous cracked open state. Only then does he head towards the bed, curling and uncurling his fists. When he stops at the side, Grayson is still wearing that gentle smile. He pats the space in front of him again, inviting.
“I could preen your wings, if you’d like,” he offers, voice low. “Or we could do something else. It’s up to you.”
It feels like there is a rock in Damian’s throat. He tries to swallow down the lump, but it persists, so he just nods again. He hadn’t bothered to preen his wings after his shower like he usually would’ve, too preoccupied with trying to deal with Ivy’s stupid pollen to think to do so.
He clambers onto the bed, scooting back just far enough so that he can stretch out a wing. Grayson hums, and there is a quiet sound as he shuts his book, then another as he reaches for a feather comb in one of the drawers of the side table.
Damian tries to relax his muscles, forcing himself to breathe. There are only two people that Damian has ever allowed to touch his wings before: his mother and Todd, back when he still remained with the League. But Grayson wouldn’t hurt him—he knows this. He knows this. Hurting him would yield no benefits. It would only lessen his usefulness as Robin, preventing him from helping in the field.
“Alright,” Grayson says, his voice steady and calm. “I’m going to touch your wing now, okay?”
“Just get on with it,” Damian mutters. Grayson waits a moment, and Damian feels the air shift as he slowly reaches out, just before there is the faint brush of warm fingers against his feathers and he tenses again.
Grayson pauses, hands hovering over his wing, his touch withdrawing. “Damian?”
“I’m fine,” he bites out forcefully, though he can feel himself trembling. Grayson makes a low, noncommittal hum, as if he knows. After another moment that Damian uses to collect himself, Grayson lightly settles his hands into Damian’s feathers.
Damian flinches. The touch feels like fire and ice all at once, the pollen crying with relief, telling him to lean into it, trying to push him further into the warmth of Grayson’s fingers. But there is another part of him that hisses at it, skin crawling as he expects the agonizing feeling of his feathers being ripped out or the slice of a blade cutting through him. Needles prickle into his skin as Damian’s fingers curl into the sheets, gritting his teeth hard enough that it edges on painful.
“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Grayson murmurs. There is patience in his tone and his words are soft, and if Damian turned around right now he’s certain that he would see Grayson’s hands back in his lap, palms open and non-threatening.
Damian coils his hands into fists so tight that he can feel the prick of his own nails in his skin, trying to steady himself. Grayson would not hurt him, and he knows this. Grayson has never hurt him. He’s never even raised a fist his way or looked at him with any intent to harm. Damian is safe here. He reminds himself of this as he focuses on the sound of his own breathing, matching his breaths to the quiet ones of the man behind him. Slow and steady. In and out. Inhale exhale. He is safe. He is safe.
He’s safe, and he trusts Grayson, and Grayson would not hurt him.
He knows this.
Eventually, Damian untangles his fingers from the sheets, straightening and forcing his shoulders down to normal height from where they had nearly reached his ears. Grayson is quiet behind him, waiting, not even daring to shift his weight.
Damian inhales. Exhales. Gradually, he relaxes.
“It’s okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I trust you.”
A beat passes, then two, before Grayson moves. Hands reaching out once, settling lightly onto the end of his wing, fingers softly stroking the feathers there. Damian cannot help the way he tenses again and Grayson goes still too, waiting for him to tug away.
When Damian neither speaks nor moves, he takes that as a sign to proceed. Slowly, carefully, he draws Damian’s wing out and Damian allows it, allows Grayson to pull until his wing is halfway settled on the other’s lap, the remaining half stretched out between them, black and green feathers splayed out and tinted gold by the light from the lamp. There is a moment where Damian forces himself to wait, his breath turning to lead in his lungs, anticipating the feeling of his feathers being forcefully ripped out.
But it doesn’t come. There’s just Grayson’s fingers stroking gently over his feathers and his warm hands cradling Damian’s wing and the soft sounds of his steady breathing, and Damian feels like he’s being unraveled and pieced back together all at once.
“I’m okay,” he whispers, and this time he means it.
With a quiet warning, Grayson begins to drag the comb carefully through his feathers. It’s a nice feeling, as preening always is, made nicer by the feel of Grayson’s hands even though there is still a small part of him that wants to reel away from the contact. Grayson’s touch chases away the chill, fills the void of loneliness and soothes the itch. It's nice, and it also makes Damian want to sob because it’s been so long since someone last preened his wings for him.
Grayson sets aside the comb once he finishes with all of Damian’s larger feathers, such as his secondary and primaries. He uses his fingers for the smaller feathers such as the coverts and scapulars, and he is still so gentle, and the relief is so overwhelming that it almost aches.
It’s quiet in the room. Not completely silent, but not loud either. Neither of them speak until Grayson asks Damian if he wants him to do the other wing, with Damian agreeing. Then it is the same process again, Grayson pulling his wing into his lap, using the comb, then his fingers, until Damian's wings have been sufficiently preened and he’s sleepy.
It’s easy to allow his eyes to drift shut as his feathers are tended to, now that he’s gotten past the first few touches. It’s been a long week and the last patrol was long, too, so when Grayson finally announces that he's finished with Damian’s wings it takes him a moment to register the words.
Even now, the cuddle pollen has not fully left. Effects can last up to twelve hours based on the reports Damian has read. As he draws his wing back up to his body, he mulls over what to say or do.
Luckily, Grayson beats him to it. All he says is, “Damian,” and after a moment, Damian turns around on the bed to face him. Grayson just gives him that soft smile again, eyes crinkling very slightly at the edges, features gentle in the warm light being cast upon his face. He pats his lap, a wordless invitation, but not one that Damian is being pushed to accept.
Damian considers this and eventually acquiesces. Though he feels foolish for shuffling into Grayson's lap like some sort of child, it’s worth it for the way Grayson’s arm slinks around his back, cradling him into his warm chest.
The void shrinks even more, and Damian is no longer freezing.
“Is this okay?” is whispered above him. Jaggedly, Damian nods, sitting sideways in Grayson’s lap, hands resting on his stomach.
He hears Grayson pick up his book again, humming softly as he flips back to his spot. After he finds his page again, there’s yet another pause before, “Do you want me to read aloud?”
“Yes,” Damian murmurs. He hates the silence.
Grayson hums softly in acknowledgement. He adjusts slightly, his cheek brushing against the edge of Damian’s wing as he moves. Keeping his voice low, he begins to read.
Grayson’s words rumble gently in his chest as Damian watches his Adam’s apple bob. Eventually, he lets his eyes flutter shut, lulled along by the soothing baritone of Grayson’s voice and the steady beat of his heart in his chest, audible with Damian’s ear pressed close to his neck like this.
It’s easy to let himself fall into a doze, with Grayson’s arms and wings curling warmly around him. Easy to focus on the gentle vibrations in Grayson's chest. Easy to slip first into a doze, then further towards the welcoming clutches of sleep.
Just before Damian fully slips away, there’s the lightest brush of Grayson’s lips against his forehead.
Then, it is just quiet. Not silent; just quiet.
He’s not unraveling anymore.