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Damian curled further into the couch as his stomach lurched. He would be fine, he just needed to ride out this last wave of nausea. One more and his stomach would stop this nonsense and pull itself together. It would stop feeling cold and sick and gross. He’d be fine.
It gurgled at him, and he yanked his blanket closer to his chin. His ears listened for the movement of the grandfather clock to indicate the return of his family. He just wanted to make sure they were okay. He was well aware he should be in bed, attempting to sleep away whatever monster was attacking his stomach, and he’d tried. He had. But Ivy was out and in full force tonight. She’d escaped the moment Damian was compromised, unable to help his family contain her. And now he was stuck waiting for them to return, safe and unharmed.
He couldn’t sleep, and not just because of the attempts his stomach was making to emulate Grayson. He’d seen the reports on the computer in the Batcave. Heard the tight control of Father’s voice that said they were on alert, and things were dangerous. He couldn’t help. Pennyworth had caught him faster than he could sneak into his uniform. He did not hold it against the man, but he also did not appreciate being forced all the way upstairs. He wanted to help, not wait.
There was something cooking in the kitchen. The rich scent of meat drifted to him in lazy waves. Damian had gotten up once to hobble over to its source and found a large roast cooking in the oven. His stomach had burped at him and he’d hurried back to the other room to lay down again. It felt better when he didn’t move.
Now, he pressed his face into the leather back of the couch and tried not to smell the usually wonderful aroma. Air caught in his throat, and he swallowed it back down, squeezing a bit closer to the leather, and pulling the blanket a bit tighter around himself. He wanted his family home. He hated being sick. Why couldn’t he help them? Why’d Ivy have to take out half a square block with a tree?
He tried to distract himself with a game on his phone, but the colors and lights only made everything worse, so he pulled up a book instead. That helped until he reached a paragraph describing a meal in detail. Damian clicked the screen off and let the phone drop against his chest.
He tried to fall asleep where he was. Father would find him there. Or Grayson. One of them would wake him when they carried him to bed and then he would know. He did not need to hear their immediate arrival, he just needed the knowledge that they’d come back home. If he slept he could ignore his stomach, and perhaps when he woke it would feel better. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to sleep.
But his stomach hurt. And it twisted. All he could think about was not throwing up. Like a fool he hadn’t even pulled a trash bin close or collected a bag. He was so far from anything suitable to throw up in. He couldn’t get sick. And he would not. Damian had spent years training his body, pushing past illness and injury to complete a goal. This was his goal, sleep and do not ruin the rug spread across the floor. He could manage that at least.
Damian drifted for half an hour before another wave of nausea hit him, accompanied by the scent of beef and onion cooking. His mouth watered, but not for food, in the warning way that indicated and immediate need to find a toilet. The nearest one was so far, but Damian had to try.
He scrambled from the couch, the blanket catching his legs in a tangled mess and sent him tumbling to the floor on his knees.
His stomach won the fight with his brain and he threw up, all over the rug he’d been trying not to ruin. He heaved, until he’d lost his dinner and whatever else he’d had in his stomach. When nothing else was left his stomach still tried to escape, on and on until he couldn’t breathe or think.
Finally it stopped and Damian sat back. He felt gross and sick, shame burned his chest. He was a fool. He should have stayed in bed, should have thought to bring a bin, anything but this. Panic hit him in a wave at what he’d done. He was not a child who did not know better. He’d been well aware of his illness and still he’d done nothing to prevent this outcome. Throwing up anywhere but a toilet or bin was disgraceful, it forced someone to have to clean up his mess.
Damian would not make anyone do that. He would not make Pennyworth do that. He knew the man would readily assent to the task, especially with Damian ill. But this was his fault. His alone. The mess should be his responsibility to clean. It was too much to ask of the man.
His phone still read early in the night. Pennyworth would not be back up for a while, not with the threat from Ivy. Damian could fix this. He would not force Pennyworth to deal with even more tonight than he already was. This was his fault, his mess. Damian could take care of it on his own.
He stood, and his stomach did another little flip. Why could it not feel better yet? It had already evicted everything from within it. Why must it still make his head hurt and eyes dizzy? He swallowed back another wave of nausea and took in a deep breath that left him coughing from a raw throat. When he caught his breath again he squeezed his hands into fists and made off for cleaning supplies.
He found the trash can in the kitchen and dragged it back with him to the livingroom, a roll of paper towels under his arm. The first thing he needed to do was clean up the majority of the mess. Then he could try to salvage the rug and remove the stench already permeating the living room. It mixed with the cooking meat smell and threatened to make Damian dry heave.
He squared his shoulders and knelt by the mess. He unrolled a handful of towels and got to scooping the stuff up, and dumping it in the trash.
He was a fool. And idiot and a fool. Why could he never listen? He hoped Father was alright. And Grayson. He even worried about Todd, Drake, and Brown. Cain was out of town, and so out of his periphery of worry. But the rest--he dumped another wad of paper towels into the trash bin.
His stomach had started churning again by the time he got the majority of the mess up. He still had to deal with what was caught in the fibers of the rug, but he could manage that. Pennyworth had a steam cleaner. Damian had been confused by it’s inclusion in the household when he’d first seen it, but experience had quickly taught him that it was a needed tool in this house.
Too often things ended up on carpets and rugs that needed to be quickly removed in order to not stain. Damian tried not to think of times when Father might trudge up from the cave and drip blood onto the rug, or when sick from pain someone would drop food all over the floor. There were other uses for it. Parties that resulted in wine spilled. Food dropped from plates. The time Titus had run in, coated in mud.
It took Damian longer than he’d like to figure out how to use the machine. He resorted to looking up a video on his phone to show him the steps. His eyes watered as he watched the screen in the dim room, (he’d turned on just enough lights to see, any more and they made his head hurt), and just the little bit of movement from the video was already upsetting his stomach again.
He at last got it set up, and turned on, his stomach twisting and turning the whole way. He winced at the screaming sound the machine made. It added to the pounding in Damian’s head. He was sure it wasn’t actually screaming, but in the silent manor it might as well be. It was louder than the vacuum, and Damian had the sudden worry that Pennyworth might hear it. But that was silly, the man was down in the cave, there was no way of him hearing the steam cleaner from there.
A hand dropped onto his shoulder before he could start pushing it forward. Damian jumped, his stomach jumped too. His heart started beating out a pattern of rabbit quick shudders against his chest as the hand reached around him to flip the machine off dropping the room back into blessed silence.
Damian turned, the shame he’d managed to press down with work flooded him again as he faced Pennyworth. He hadn’t finished. It wasn’t all clean yet. He didn’t want to worry the man. He looked up into eyes that he couldn’t read. Damian had never been able to read Pennyworth. Though, he’d always been able to count on him.
“I’m sorry.” he managed before the man could say anything, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Didn’t mean to?” Pennyworth asked, his voice gentle.
“I was trying to clean it up.” Damian said.
He had the sudden urge to try and hide as much of the remaining staining mess as he could. To move his body into Pennyworth’s line of sight so he couldn’t see the dark wet bit on the rug. He resisted the urge and squared his shoulders instead.
“I can clean it up.” he said, “Please, return downstairs. There’s nothing to worry about.” it was that moment his stomach decided to gurgle again, audibly and with enough force Damian’s hands flew to it in an attempt to keep anything new from trying to escape.
Pennyworth raised an eyebrow at him, “Master Damian, I’m afraid I need you to explain.” he said, his voice was still soft, and Damian didn’t understand it. He should be confused, upset, angry with Damian for making such a mess.
Damian glanced back at the puddle he still hadn’t managed to clean up. Pennyworth’s gaze drifted that way as well, and he stepped around Damian. His attention moved to the trash can and back to Damian himself. His attention rested the longest at him, resulting in a frown.
“I’m sorry.” Damian blubbered again. “I wanted to stay up to learn how patrol turned out tonight.” he was shaking, his stomach was starting to boil up again with agitation, “I did not think I’d be sick.”
He hated this. Hated the fact that Pennyworth had found out. Damian had wanted it cleaned up. He didn’t want to make him worry, most of all he didn’t want to add any work to Pennyworth’s plate. He’d done enough of that since arriving at the manor. Bringing in pets that needed extra care, adding his own mess to that of the people already living there, and worst of all Damian had been terrible when he’d first arrived.
It made his chest ache to think of how demanding he’d been. How sour. How he’d broken things and thrown Pennyworth’s food away. He swallowed back something. Tears maybe? His hands curled into fists at his sides. Pennyworth had been the only one to be even civil to Damian in those first few months. Drake hated him. Father barely spoke to him. Even Grayson had not warmed up to him yet. Granted, at that time Grayson was not spending much time at the manor. All of that changed when Father became lost in time, but the point stood.
Pennyworth had always been kind to Damian, and he had not always returned that. This was a chance to start making up for it. He reached out and gripped the handle of the cleaner.
“Let me finish?” he asked.
“I believe you have done enough.” his voice was still gentle, and his hand was pulling Damian’s shocked one off the handle. Another was pressed to his forehead, causing another frown to pull Pennyworth’s lips down.
Damian shook his head, real tears pricking at his eyes. “No, I need to finish. I will not take up your time with making you clean a mess I could have avoided creating.”
“The rug can wait for a bit, I think.” he said, “It’s you I am more worried about.” Pennyworth said, pulling him away from the scene. He herded him to the hallway. For all Damian wanted to stay behind he was too shaky to refuse the man’s guiding hand.
He found himself back in the kitchen. Being so close to the roast made the scent overpowering. His stomach gurgled, hitched, and Damian tore away from Pennyworth to the sink. He threw his head over the side as he retched. Nothing beyond some spit came up, but it still felt like everything in him was burning. He was pretty sure he was crying, if not from the embarrassment, from the pain of his stomach trying to upend itself again. His head was pounding, searing the place behind his eyes and making everything worse.
A hand was on his back, gentle and soothing, and Damian hated himself a bit more. He should have been done with this whole mess. Shouldn’t have even attempted to stay up. Sudden worry hit him, and he gulped in air.
“What about Father?” he rasped.
If his question confused Pennyworth at all the man didn’t respond that way. His hand continued to soothe circles in Damian’s back, and his voice came low and quiet. “They are fine. Ivy was recaptured half an hour ago. They’re wrapping up a few loose ends with the police and heading back early.”
“No one’s hurt?” he asked, swallowing against a now dry throat.
“Not even bruised.”
Damian felt like a weight fell off his shoulders. They were okay. His family was fine. His absence had not resulted in their injury or deaths. He had not failed them.
Just as soon as the worry left him for his family, the shame returned for his actions. They were fine. Had been fine almost since he’d gotten sick all over the carpet. The tears were still slipping down his cheeks. He sniffed and tried to force them to stop. He straightened and turned back around. Pennyworth’s hand moved from his back as he shifted.
Damian found a wet rag being dabbed at his mouth. Soft eyes watched him carefully. Damian took the rag and Pennyworth let him, nodding once to turn to the cabinets. Damian rubbed at all the places he felt sick and gross. His chin, and neck, the bit of chest showing under the open V of his pajamas. Finally he scrubbed the tears from his face. His mind kept wandering back to the carpet, to the stain setting in. He wondered if he’d be allowed to go back and finish once Pennyworth was assured he wouldn’t be throwing up again.
A cool glass replaced the rag when Pennyworth returned along with the instruction to “Drink slowly so you do not upset your stomach again.”
Damian followed his instruction, the cold water hitting his stomach like drops on a desert floor. It churned a bit as he made it halfway through, and he thought better of finishing the cup.
“Beyond throwing up, has anything else gotten worse since earlier this evening?” Pennyworth asked.
Damian swallowed, he did not think lying about his status was a good idea right now, “My head hurts.”
Pennyworth nodded and moved to go after medicine. Damian did not want him to leave. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, so he stood, lamely holding the half full cup until the man returned, medicine bottle in hand.
He took something for his headache, then managed to down liquid that tasted like bitter cherries. His stomach did not like that, but it didn’t erupt again either. Damian washed the aftertaste down with a little more water.
“I’m sorry.” he said, instead of thank you.
“It is quite alright.” Pennyworth answered, taking his meaning.
At that, the tears pricked at his eyes again, “May I--can I-- you will not let me finish cleaning, will you?”
He received a small smile, “I won’t.”
“It is my fault. I should have known better.” Damian said, unable to meet Pennyworth’s eyes.
He wanted to help. Wanted to make up for everything he’d done. Not even for tonight’s mistakes alone. He remembered how his tumultuous relationship with Drake had caused Pennyworth to be injured once, when Damian had been fleeing from Grandfather and his attempts at taking over his body. How he’d caused so much damage by coming to the manor. And Pennyworth’s surprise, then immediate care for the terror gripping Damian’s chest.
Damian had held onto those gentle words for longer than he’d cared to admit. He’d held on to each successive one as Father apparently died. As Drake’s venom (and Damian’s own) did not let up. As Grayson fumbled to decide what to do with him, and how to squeeze his way into Damian’s heart. As he laid in his bed and wondered if he ever would have a place with his father’s family.
“I’m sorry.” he said, a tear dropping into his cup with a plunk, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean, I only wanted, I tried to make it right.” He wanted to make so much right.
“My dear boy, it is alright.” Pennyworth said, “There is no shame in getting sick. You were already ill, and I should have known you’d want to keep up with your Father’s status.”
Damian sniffed, “I should have stayed in bed.”
He should have done so many things. How was he supposed to apologize for a lack of knowledge? Of acting the way he’d been taught to? He could not. It was no excuse, he knew that. There was no excuse for acting the way he had when he had only received kindness in return.
“We cannot bemoan what has already happened, only move forward and learn.” Pennyworth told him, “You did most of the work, and I would be happy to finish it if you could do me a favor.”
Damian nodded, he would do whatever he was asked if it helped.
“Take a hot shower, and then go to bed.”
It was not what Damian was expecting. He had thought perhaps he’d be sent down to the cave to keep an eye on the comms. Or asked to collect something to aid the cleaning process. He hesitated to move.
“Is there something else the matter?”
He pressed his lips together, fingers sliding along the cup. He did not know how to breach the subject of wanting to finish what he’d started. Pennyworth had said he did not mind finishing with the rug, but that did not mean it was right of Damian to let it happen.
“I do not want you to think I am taking advantage of you.” he said at last, setting the cup behind him on the counter, “Cleaning my mess is not something that should normally be asked of you, and it is my own fault. I do not want to take you away from your other plans.”
Pennyworth took in his statement, silently watching him for a moment, “Are you still worried about your father?”
Damian shook his head, Oracle could handle any basic comm issues, and he knew the delay to clean the rug would not take much longer. He wasn’t getting his point across properly. He would have to try a more direct way.
“I never thanked you.” he said.
Pennyworth smiled at him again, “You thank me often enough.”
Damian shook his head and it hurt a little more with the movement, but he didn’t care, “I am talking about when I arrived, and for a long time after that. I was rude and as much of a terror as Drake describes me as. I have never apologized for that either. I--I had hoped-”
Pennyworth placed his hands on Damian’s shoulders, “You’d hoped to show me that change of heart tonight?”
Damian nodded.
“You’ve shown me that many times already.” Pennyworth told him, voice gentle again, “It would be impossible not to notice the change in you.”
Damian didn’t know how to respond. He had been trying to be better. Keeping things cleaner, helping Pennyworth where he could. He did try to thank the man often. But it still didn’t feel like enough. How could measly things like that tell him how much it meant to Damian that he helped him feel at home in Gotham?
He was still trying to figure out what to say when Pennyworth tugged him close, the movement was as he had been with Damian all night, gentle. His arms wrapped around him tightly and Damian did not hesitate to return the embrace. He worried for a moment at getting him sick, but he’d initiated the contact, and this felt like the first correct thing he’d managed.
“Thank you.” he whispered, and hoped that Pennyworth knew he meant for everything.
“You are very welcome.”
When he let go he allowed himself to be sent upstairs to shower. He planned on making it a quick one, enough to make sure he was clean. Once the water hit him he found he didn't want to move. It soothed the shaking still holding his chest and seemed to make everything feel better, at least temporarily. When he finally turned off the water, dried, and got dressed he was warm and sleepy.
He considered going to bed right then, but it didn’t feel right. He could, and in the morning things would be back to normal. But he’d left Pennyworth to finish cleaning, he’d let himself be talked into leaving. There was something more he needed to do. Maybe he’d figure it out when he found Pennyworth again.
He eased his way downstairs, careful not to move too fast and re-upset his stomach, and peeked into the living room. It smelled of carpet cleaner, bubbly and fresh. He inched over to the spot on the rug and found the stain gone, a damp spot replacing it. He swallowed down a fresh wave of shame and backed out.
He would check the kitchen, perhaps Pennyworth was finishing up in there. He did not think he could get away with going downstairs. As patient as Pennyworth had been with him that night he had no excuse to be down in the cave. Especially after he’d been assured of his family’s safety. If he did not find anyone in the kitchen he would have to go up to bed.
Richard was drinking a glass of milk. He grinned at Damian around the glass when he walked in, then set it down, and ran his sleeve across the white mustache.
“Heya, Dames. Were you waiting for us to get back? How are you feeling?”
Grayson did not seem to know anything about Damian’s throwing up on the rug, or about what had passed between he and Pennyworth. This meant Pennyworth had not told Father or Grayson about his accident. Damian would never assume the man would do it to embarrass him, but he might give them that information if he believed it would help Damian. He was glad he had not deemed it necessary.
“A bit.” he answered, “Where is Pennyworth?”
“He said he was going to sit up and read for a while before bed.” Grayson told him, “Do you need medicine or something?”
Damian shook his head, “I was thirsty.” he said, needing to explain his presence in the kitchen.
Even as he said it he realized it was perfect. If Pennyworth were reading for a while he might appreciate some chamomile to help him sleep. Damian never minded a cup before bed. He also had it often enough it would not make Grayson suspicious of an ulterior motive.
He moved to get a kettle and fill it with water to heat up. As he worked, his brother chatted about the evening, catching Ivy, and convincing Bruce to call it a night early. Damian hummed appropriate answers when needed and soon had a steaming cup ready.
Grayson nodded at him, like he’d been waiting for Damian to finish, “Alright, I’m heading to bed. Get some rest, I’d hate it if you were feeling worse in the morning because you stayed up for us.”
Damian nodded and Grayson ruffled his hair before leaving the kitchen. Damian gave him a few minutes before exiting himself. He kept the tea far from his face and tried his best not to breathe on it as he climbed the stairs and moved down the hall to Pennyworth’s room.
He knocked lightly on the door before easing it open, and stepping inside. Pennyworth was peering up at him from a worn paperback, it was a cozy mystery of some sort with knitting needles on the the front making the X of a skull and crossbones made of yarn.
“I thought you might like some tea.” Damian said, still standing in the doorway, “I tried not to breathe on it.” he added.
Pennyworth smiled and waved at him to come near. Damian stepped over, careful not to spill the tea and put it on the side table.
“It is chamomile.” Damian added, unsure of what else to do.
Pennyworth lifted the teacup and sipped on it. “It’s quite good.”
He nodded, and stepped back to leave the room. “Goodnight, Pennyworth.” he said.
Damian was almost out the door when Pennyworth’s voice stopped him again, “Master Damian?”
He turned, Pennyworth was smiling at him, “Thank you.”
Damian nodded. A small smile was creeping up on his face and he ducked it, “Goodnight.” he said again, and left to the sound of Pennyworth repeating his sentiments.