Chapter Text
The training room echoes with the sharp thwack of fists against leather. Damian doesn't pause between combinations, doesn't give himself time to think, just moves from one drill to the next with mechanical precision. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Again. Faster.
He's been at it for over an hour, and somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice suggests he should stop. His chest feels tight. There's a faint wheeze when he exhales. The Gotham humidity has crept into the manor today, making the air thick and heavy.
Damian ignores it all.
He's a Wayne. He's been trained by the League of Assassins. A little shortness of breath is nothing, he probably just needs to push through it, get his second wind. That's what athletes do.
Another combination. His vision swims slightly at the edges.
Tt. Pathetic.
He attacks the punching bag harder, as if he can beat his own weakness into submission. The bag swings wild under the assault, chain creaking. Sweat drips into his eyes. His lungs burn, but not the good burn of exertion, something tighter, more constrictive, like invisible bands wrapping around his ribs.
Damian throws one more punch, and his knees buckle.
He catches himself against the bag, gasping. The air won't come. He tries to inhale deeply, but it's like breathing through a coffee stirrer, thin, insufficient, wrong. His chest heaves with the effort, but his lungs refuse to cooperate.
No. Not now. Not here.
Panic flutters at the edges of his consciousness, which only makes it worse. Panic constricts airways further. He knows this. He's studied this. The knowledge doesn't help when his body is actively betraying him.
He slides down the wall, one hand pressed to his chest, the other braced against the floor. Each breath is a wheeze, high-pitched and desperate. His inhaler, where's his inhaler? Damian's vision tunnels as he tries to remember. Bathroom? Nightstand?
Stupid. Careless.
The room tilts. He can't get enough air to curse properly.
Tim is looking for his favorite hoodie, the one that mysteriously migrated from his room sometime last week, when he passes the training room. He almost keeps walking. Almost.
But something makes him pause. Maybe it's the absence of sound where there should be noise, or maybe it's the years of Robin training that taught him to notice when something's off. Either way, he backtracks and pushes the door open.
"Hey, Damian, have you seen my—"
He stops.
Damian is on the floor, back against the wall, face pale and lips tinged faintly blue. His chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths that whistle audibly even from across the room.
Tim's brain catalogs the scene in milliseconds: acute asthma attack, severe, needs intervention now.
"Shit." He's across the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside his youngest brother. "Damian. Damian, look at me. Where's your inhaler?"
Damian's eyes are wide, unfocused. He shakes his head, whether in answer or denial, Tim can't tell.
"Okay, okay." Tim's mind races. Damian's room. The inhaler has to be in Damian's room. "Stay here. Don't move. I'll be right back."
He's up and running before Damian can protest, not that Damian seems capable of protesting anything right now, which is perhaps the most terrifying part of this whole situation.
Tim takes the stairs three at a time, crashes into Damian's room, and starts searching. Nightstand, no. Bathroom counter, there. He grabs the blue inhaler and sprints back, already pulling out his phone to text the family group chat with his free hand.
Tim: training room NOW. Damian. asthma attack.
He doesn't wait for responses.
When he gets back, Damian hasn't moved, but his breathing sounds worse, more labored, more desperate. Tim drops down beside him again.
"Got it. Here." He shakes the inhaler, removes the cap. "You need to try to breathe out first, okay? Then inhale when I press this."
Damian's hand shoots out and grabs Tim's wrist. His grip is weak, but the intent is clear: I can do it myself.
"Damian, you can barely breathe. Let me help."
For a moment, their eyes meet. Tim sees the fear there, buried under layers of pride and stubbornness. Then Damian's grip loosens, and he gives the tiniest nod.
Tim positions the inhaler. "Okay. Breathe out... now breathe in."
He presses the canister. Damian inhales, or tries to. The breath is still too shallow, too restricted. Not enough medication getting in.
"Again. You've got this."
They try again. And again. On the third attempt, Tim sees Damian's shoulders drop slightly, the wheeze quieting just a fraction.
The training room door slams open.
"Where is he?" Dick's voice, sharp with worry.
"Here," Tim calls back, not taking his eyes off Damian. "He's breathing, but it's bad."
Suddenly the space is crowded. Dick appears on Damian's other side, one hand immediately going to his youngest brother's shoulder. Jason's in the doorway, and Bruce. Bruce is there too, solid and calm in a way that makes Tim's own racing heart slow slightly.
"How many puffs?" Bruce asks, kneeling down. His voice is level, controlled, but Tim knows him well enough to hear the underlying tension.
"Three so far. Not sure how effective they were."
Bruce nods, takes the inhaler from Tim's hand. "Damian. Look at me, son."
Damian's eyes, still wide and frightened, find Bruce's face.
"You're going to be fine," Bruce says, with the kind of certainty that makes you believe him even when you're suffocating. "But I need you to take another puff. Slow breath out, then in through your mouth. Can you do that?"
Damian nods weakly.
Bruce administers the inhaler with practiced ease, and that's when Tim realizes this isn't the first time Bruce has done this. How many attacks has Damian had that Tim didn't know about? How long has he been hiding this?
"Good," Bruce murmurs. "Again."
Another puff. This time, Damian's inhale is deeper, more effective. The blue tinge around his lips starts to fade.
"There we go." Dick's hand moves from Damian's shoulder to his back, rubbing slow circles. "You're okay, baby bird. Just keep breathing."
"Don't—" Damian gasps out, "—call me—that."
Jason barks out a laugh from his position by the door, and the tension in the room breaks slightly. "Oh, he's fine. He's arguing. That's a good sign."
"Jason," Bruce says warningly, but there's relief in his voice too.
They wait. Slowly, painfully slowly, Damian's breathing evens out. The wheeze fades to something quieter, less desperate. Color returns to his face. His shoulders, which had been hunched up around his ears, gradually relax.
Tim sits back on his heels, suddenly aware that his own heart is pounding, his hands shaking slightly with adrenaline. He'd found Damian. If he'd kept walking, if he hadn't stopped—
"Tim." Dick's voice cuts through the spiral of what-ifs. "You did good."
Tim nods, not trusting his voice.
After what feels like an eternity but is probably only ten minutes, Bruce pulls back slightly. "Better?"
Damian nods. He still looks exhausted, pale and drawn, but he's breathing. That's what matters.
"Can you stand?" Bruce asks.
"I'm not an invalid," Damian mutters, but his voice is hoarse, weak.
"That's not what I asked."
Damian glares, but it lacks his usual heat. "Yes."
"Then let's get you upstairs. Kitchen. You need water and rest."
"I need to finish—"
"You need," Bruce interrupts, in a tone that brooks no argument, "to sit down before you fall down. Training is over for today."
For once, Damian doesn't argue. That, more than anything, tells Tim how badly his little brother is feeling.
Dick and Bruce help Damian to his feet, one on each side. He doesn't quite lean on them, but he doesn't pull away either, which is basically the same thing for Damian.
Jason falls into step behind them as they make their way out of the training room. He catches Tim's eye and jerks his head toward the door. Come on.
Tim follows, grabbing Damian's inhaler from where Bruce set it down.
The kitchen is bright and warm, afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. Alfred is already there, of course he is, Alfred always knows. Setting out a glass of water and what looks like a light snack.
"Master Damian," Alfred says, his tone perfectly neutral despite the concern in his eyes. "I trust you'll be taking the rest of the day to recover?"
"I'm fine, Pennyworth," Damian rasps, but he sits in the chair Dick pulls out for him without protest.
"Of course you are." Alfred sets the water in front of him. "Nevertheless, humor an old man."
Damian picks up the glass with both hands, they're shaking slightly, Tim notices, but Damian continues to drink. He drains half of it in one go, then coughs, which makes him wince.
"Slow," Bruce says quietly, taking the seat beside him. "Small sips."
Dick claims Damian's other side, while Jason leans against the counter and Tim hovers near the doorway, still holding the inhaler like a talisman.
"So," Jason says, breaking the silence. "That was fun. Let's never do it again."
"I didn't do it on purpose, Todd," Damian snaps, but his heart isn't in it.
"Could've fooled me. What were you thinking, training that hard without your inhaler nearby?"
"I had it under control."
"Yeah, you looked real in control when I got there," Tim says before he can stop himself. "Very controlled. Much composure."
Damian's glare could melt steel. "I didn't ask for your help."
"No, you didn't," Tim agrees. "But you needed it anyway."
"Boys," Bruce says quietly, and they both subside.
Dick reaches over and musses Damian's hair, which is still damp with sweat. "You scared us, D."
Damian jerks away from the touch, but not before Tim sees his expression soften for just a moment. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Dick says, gentle but firm. "And that's okay. You don't have to be fine all the time."
"I'm a Robin. I'm supposed to—"
"You're supposed to ask for help when you need it," Bruce interrupts. "That's what being part of a team means. What being part of a family means."
Damian stares down at his water glass. His jaw works like he's trying to find words and failing.
"Look," Jason says, pushing off from the counter. "I get it. Asking for help feels like weakness. But you know what's actually weak? Passing out on the training room floor because you're too stubborn to admit you're having a bad asthma day."
"Jason," Dick says warningly.
"What? I'm being helpful. This is me being helpful."
Despite everything, Tim feels a smile tug at his lips. This is so typically them, concern wrapped in sarcasm wrapped in genuine care.
"Master Jason makes a valid point," Alfred says, setting down a plate of fruit and crackers. "Though perhaps with less tact than ideal."
"Tact is overrated," Jason mutters.
Damian picks up a strawberry, examines it like it might be poisoned, then takes a small bite. They all watch him eat with varying degrees of subtlety. It's probably driving him crazy, but he doesn't comment.
"The humidity today is particularly high," Alfred observes, refilling Damian's water glass. "Perhaps indoor training was not the wisest choice."
It's as close to a reprimand as Alfred ever gets, and Damian has the grace to look slightly ashamed.
"I didn't think—" he starts, then stops. Tries again. "I thought I could push through it."
"Some things you can't push through," Bruce says. "And that's not a character flaw. That's just biology."
"Father—"
"I mean it, Damian." Bruce's hand settles on Damian's shoulder, steady and warm. "You're one of the most capable people I know. But everyone has limits. Everyone has vulnerabilities. Acknowledging them doesn't make you weak. It makes you smart."
Damian doesn't respond, but he doesn't pull away from Bruce's hand either.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the kitchen filled with the quiet sounds of Damian eating and drinking, slowly regaining his strength. Tim finally moves from the doorway to the table, setting the inhaler down in front of Damian.
"Keep this on you," he says. "Please."
Damian looks at the inhaler, then at Tim. Something passes between them—an understanding, maybe. An acknowledgment.
"Fine," Damian says finally.
"And maybe," Dick adds, "let one of us know when you're planning an intense training session? Just so someone can check on you?"
"I don't need a babysitter."
"No, you need brothers who give a damn whether you can breathe or not," Jason says bluntly. "Deal with it."
Damian's lips twitch. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "You're all insufferable."
"Yeah, but you love us anyway," Dick says cheerfully, slinging an arm around Damian's shoulders.
This time, Damian doesn't pull away.
An hour later, after Damian has been thoroughly hydrated and fed and fussed over, Bruce walks him up to his room. Tim watches them go, Dick and Jason flanking him.
"He's going to be okay, right?" Tim asks quietly.
"Yeah," Dick says, squeezing Tim's shoulder. "Thanks to you. You probably saved his life today, Tim."
Tim shakes his head. "I just found him. Anyone would have—"
"But you did," Jason interrupts. "You found him, you kept your head, you got help. That's not nothing."
It's probably the nicest thing Jason's said to him in weeks. Tim feels his throat tighten.
"He's going to hate that we all saw him like that," Tim says.
"Probably," Dick agrees. "But he'll get over it. And maybe— maybe he'll learn that it's okay to not be invincible all the time."
"Damian? Learn something about his own limitations?" Jason snorts. "I'll believe it when I see it."
But there's affection in his voice, and when Dick suggests they order Damian's favorite takeout for dinner, Jason's the first one to pull out his phone.
Later that evening, after dinner has been delivered and consumed, Tim finds himself standing outside Damian's door. He raises his hand to knock, hesitates, then does it anyway.
"What?" comes the irritated response.
Tim pushes the door open. Damian is in bed, propped up against pillows, a book in his lap. He looks better, color back in his face, breathing normal, but still tired.
"Just checking on you," Tim says.
"I'm fine. You can go."
Tim doesn't go. Instead, he steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "You know, you don't have to pretend with me."
"I'm not pretending anything."
"Damian." Tim sits on the edge of the bed, uninvited. "I saw you today. I saw how scared you were."
Damian's jaw tightens. "I wasn't—"
"You were. And that's okay. I would have been scared too."
For a long moment, Damian doesn't respond. Then, quietly: "I couldn't breathe, Drake. I couldn't—" He stops, swallows hard. "I thought I was going to die on that floor."
The admission hangs in the air between them.
"But you didn't," Tim says gently. "Because you're not alone. You have people who care about you, who'll come running when you need them."
"I should have been more careful."
"Yeah, probably. But we all make mistakes. The important thing is learning from them."
Damian looks at him, really looks at him, and Tim sees his little brother clearly. Not the arrogant Robin, not the assassin's grandson, just a kid who got scared and is trying to process it.
"Thank you," Damian says finally, so quietly Tim almost misses it. "For finding me. For helping."
Tim smiles. "That's what brothers do."
There's a knock at the door, and then Dick pokes his head in. "Room for one more?"
"I suppose," Damian says with exaggerated reluctance, but he's already shifting over to make space.
Dick comes in, followed by Jason, who's carrying a stack of movies. "We're thinking movie night. In here, since the patient isn't supposed to be moving around too much."
"I'm not an invalid," Damian protests, but he's already eyeing the movies with interest.
"Yeah, yeah, you're a big strong Robin," Jason says, setting up his laptop on the dresser. "Now shut up and pick something to watch."
Bruce appears in the doorway, Alfred behind him with popcorn and drinks. "I heard there was a movie night?"
"You're all ridiculous," Damian mutters, but he's smiling. Actually smiling, small and genuine.
They pile onto and around Damian's bed, a tangle of brothers and father and butler, arguing good-naturedly about what to watch. Eventually they settle on something, Tim's not even sure what, because he's too busy watching his family, all together, all safe.
Damian's inhaler sits on the nightstand, within easy reach. A reminder, but also a promise: that it's okay to need help, okay to have limits, okay to be human.
And as the movie starts and Jason makes a sarcastic comment that makes Damian laugh. Actually laugh, breathless and bright. Tim thinks that maybe, just maybe, Damian is starting to understand that.
Being part of a family means you don't have to be invincible.
You just have to be there.
And let them be there for you.