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A sickness had taken hold of Damian’s mind, and that was the only logical explanation he could come up with.
It all started shortly after a confrontation with Poison Ivy. Due to his negligence, Damian was exposed to a batch of concoctions she had been working on. Surprisingly, nothing seemed to affect him. His first thought was that it was odd. Typically, these encounters would leave him with some form of discomfort or pain. They had all experienced Poison Ivy’s creations, which ranged from annoyingly painful to life-threatening, but this time, nothing happened at all.
So, Damian concluded that it must have been a dud.
After detaining her again, they regrouped in the cave to tend to any injuries sustained. He hadn’t been hurt too badly—just a few scrapes and some muscle aches that would likely diminish by the next day. However, what stood out to Damian was the feeling of…nothing. He blinked, staring at his hands. The notable sensation was the hollow void in his chest. He found it peculiar. Usually, he felt accomplished, satisfied that things had gone exactly as planned. Tonight, there was none of that.
“Damian?” Dick's voice broke him out of his thoughts, and Damian quickly snapped his head up.
He had developed a fondness for his eldest brother and grown closer to him over the years. It was safe to say that out of everyone in the house, it was Dick who didn’t elicit immediate annoyance from Damian. He was the only one capable of warming Damian's heart. However, as he looked at him now, all Damian felt was emptiness toward his beloved brother.
“Yes?” Damian said, acutely aware of how flat his voice sounded.
Blinking, Dick squinted at him. “Are you alright? Do you need a check-up?” Dick asked, already scanning Damian with his eyes. The absence of one made him suspicious of Damian’s behavior.
Damian would have been touched, if not mildly annoyed, by Dick’s worry, but the growing numbness inside him prevented him from thinking about how warmed he would have felt. “I’m fine,” he replied simply, now aware of the ache within him. “Just a bit restless, if anything.”
Dick raised an eyebrow, noting Damian’s demeanor. “You must be tired,” he concluded, walking up to him and pressing a hand to Damian’s forehead. “You feel a bit warm, too. Why don't you go rest? You can fill out your report tomorrow.”
At any other time, Damian would have refused, rolling his eyes at Dick's suggestion and ignoring it in favor of completing his tasks efficiently. But this time, he couldn't summon the energy to care. “Alright,” he nodded, even though the idea of sleep was still far from his mind. He just didn't want to be around anyone right now.
Dick, who had expected a flat-out refusal, widened his eyes in surprise at Damian's acceptance. “Are you sure you don't need a check-up?” he asked teasingly, but he deflated a bit when Damian didn't even react with a frown.
Damian walked to his bedroom, his steps heavier than before. He curled up in bed, twisting and turning until he finally looked up at the ceiling. A chill ran through him, the cold sensation in his chest clinging to him like a disease. Perhaps he was getting sick, he thought. After a night of rest, he hoped he would wake up feeling more energetic.
The next day came, and the emptiness hadn’t gone away.
These emotions– if he could even call this abyss that, were something he could vaguely recall. During his early years in the League, most of his time was spent unlearning what his brain had been trained to do: untethering himself from a natural predisposition to empathize.
Compassion, understanding, and mercy were all feelings he knew he could experience, but they served no purpose in the League. In his grandfather's words, such feelings were useless, especially if Damian's only mission was to kill. A tool did not require such emotions.
Damian had managed to distance himself from these feelings for most of his life. He could kill a man without a second thought, stare into the eyes of a dying man, and sleep soundly at night. The only time he felt a semblance of connection was with his mother. Perhaps it was her love that didn’t wholly eradicate his ability to feel.
There’s a sort of desperation—a void-like feeling that isn’t precisely sadness but more of a sensation that crushes Damian’s chest. A boredom clings to him throughout the day, and even while tending to his animals, he finds that the excitement usually associated with it is absent. In fact, a sense of pointlessness arises as he feeds his animals.
A brutal sense of self-awareness crosses his mind, but it doesn’t hit as hard as it should. Damian knows this isn’t normal, even by his standards, but the detachment in his mind has severed his connection to his emotions. He realizes that he can’t bring himself to see the meaning of caring about it.
Breakfast is served. Damian chews his food slowly, feeling an odd sensation in his mouth. Alfred's cooking is usually stellar, and his meals always satisfy Damian's hunger; however, today was different. The food tasted bland, failing to fulfill the craving in his stomach.
"Is the food to your liking, Master Damian?" Alfred asks, noticing how Damian moves the food around on his plate.
Damian puts his fork down. “Yes,” he lies, not wanting to make a bigger deal out of it than it is. “I woke up with no appetite, that’s all.” A nagging feeling was inside him, a concern that his insatiable hunger might never be satisfied. He scoots out of his chair, the noise grating against his ears.
“Is Father out on a meeting?” Damian asks, more out of politeness than genuine interest.
Alfred’s expression is complicated and hard to read. “Correct, he shall return around the evening.” He picks up Damian’s plate and glances over at Timothy, who is half-asleep on the table. Damian’s eyes drift to his brother; it’s not unusual to see Timothy slumped over, crashing after days of sleeplessness.
What’s unusual, however, is Damian’s reaction. The sight would usually spark annoyance in him, irked by Timothy’s inability to care for himself properly. Yet now, he feels indifferent, unmoved by his brother's state.
Damian leaves the dining table without another word. Distantly, he can sense Alfred’s eyes on his back.
Night falls, and everything remains the same. With Timothy getting the much-needed rest he deserves, Damian is on patrol with Dick. It's a quiet night. The streetlights of Gotham flicker, the air around them is stale and polluted, and the unnerving silence is bound to be shattered by the first crime of the night. To fill the silence, Dick engages in small talk, rambling on about his day. This is typical when the two are together. Damian would respond, but he doesn’t feel the need to.
It’s like a blank space inside Damian—a barren wasteland full of nothing but impassivity. As he walks alongside the rooftops, with Dick in front of him chatting into the void of the night, Damian draws closer to the edge, waiting for something to ignite within him—nervousness, fear, anything. But nothing comes.
The commotion across the block jolts him back to reality, and Dick immediately leaps into action, causing Damian to fall a bit behind. He steps off the high rooftop, losing the sensation beneath his feet as the wind hits his face. With his eyes fixed on the ground, it draws nearer and nearer.
Just before Damian hits the floor, he grapples at the last second, his body lifting upward. Yet, there is no stir in his chest; not even the proximity to death elicits a response from him.
Continuing their search for the source of the commotion, Dick and Damian quickly spot a group of muggers trying to steal a woman's purse. Springing into action, Dick immediately confronts two of them, delivering an elbow to one’s face and a knee to the other.
Meanwhile, Damian yanks one of the attackers off the woman, delivering a flurry of punches that leave the masked man reeling. He swiftly turns to subdue another attacker, kicking him in the chest. The force of the blow knocks the wind out of him, and he grunts in pain. As Damian stares down at the two incapacitated muggers, he finds himself at a loss to comprehend their suffering. He reaches out, ready to—
Suddenly, the woman’s voice cuts through the tension as she sobs, “Thank you!” She hugs Nightwing tightly, her body trembling in fear. It’s clear she isn’t from Gotham. Apart from the fact that it’s standard for no one to be out this late, she’s dressed in too fancy clothes.
Dick gave a friendly, diplomatic smile as he carefully pulled away from the woman's hug, gently patting her back. “It’s not safe to be out this late, miss,” he said, casting a weary glance at Damian, who was watching the interaction.
Damian blurs out the interaction. There’s a whole lot of gratitude, tears, and emotions he’s unable to understand. He instead chooses to tie up the group of thugs, pulling out a communicator to get the police to their location.
Dick offered to walk the woman home. Although she had been shaking with fear mere moments before, she insisted she was only a block away and could get there safely on her own. Even after she left, Dick decided to patrol the area to ensure no other incidents occurred.
Damian can’t help but think back on the fight, his mind replaying it repeatedly, asking the same question. What was he planning to do when he reached out?
And why– couldn’t he find it in himself to care about what he was about to do?
“Are you okay, Robin?” Dick called out, seated on the rooftop and snacking on a pack of gummy worms.
Damian turned to him, his feet dangling off the rooftop's edge. “I’m fine, Nightwing.” And that was the problem—he wasn’t hurt or in physical pain; he just felt a disconnection between his emotions.
This feeling… he hasn’t been like this in a while– he’s not this . He isn’t empty, not entirely. All that stopped when he found his footing and learned to be human .
Dick’s expression showed he didn’t believe him. He had come to know Damian well enough to sense when something was off, even in the slightest way. It was both a blessing and a curse in Damian's eyes.
“Is B giving you any trouble?” Dick asked, trying to make light of the situation. “It’s about that time he gets broody,” he joked.
At that, Damian doesn’t know how to respond. The only emotion he’s able to conjure up is pure disinterest, he feels bored at the conversation, and he finds Dick’s words a bit…trivial.
"When is he not?" Damian asks, pulling a protein bar from his utility belt. "Everything's fine. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." The words escape him more harshly than he intended. He expected to feel a pang of regret—the guilt that comes with being mean to Dick—but none came.
Dick's expression shifts. He blinks in surprise and hurt.
"Whoa, okay," he says apprehensively. "I didn’t mean it like that." He tries to backtrack, but it’s a rather pitiful attempt. Dick always seems to bend to Damian’s whims, allowing him to get away with almost anything.
If he were in his right mind, Damian would be horrified by his thoughts and how easy it would be to take advantage of Dick’s kindness—something he hadn’t done since becoming closer to his brother.
Damian chooses not to respond.
The patrol ends rather uneventfully. Upon arriving back at the cave, he can feel his father’s gaze on him, and with Dick lingering to chat, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what they’ll be discussing. He doesn’t understand. There isn’t sadness, there isn’t joy, there isn’t anything at all.
Damian sits on his bedroom floor, the cold floor doing nothing to ground him. He stares at Titus, his once-beloved pet, analyzing him with mixed emotions. There is no warmth left, nothing he can associate with his former affection.
He reaches under his bed and grabs a dagger.
Approaching Titus, Damian fixes his gaze on the dog's eyes, which reflect unwavering devotion—a loyalty only an owner would understand. Grasping Titus’s collar, the Great Dane doesn’t flinch; instead, he looks up at Damian with trust and curiosity.
As Damian raises the dagger, he feels nothing.
“Hey, did you ever fill out that report—what the fuck !” Timothy's voice cuts through the tension, snapping Damian's attention to him.
Damian blinks, and before he can respond, Timothy crosses the room and wrenches the dagger from his hand. Stunned, Damian stands there in silence.
Timothy’s expression is one of deep unsettledness, thoroughly disturbed. “What—what were you…?” His voice trails off as his eyes flicker back to Damian and Titus. He becomes even more troubled when he realizes that Damian’s demeanor hasn’t changed. “We are heading to the Batcave now .”
Damian is practically dragged and forcefully seated on the medical bed. Timothy explains to a very confused Bruce what had happened. Bruce's expression shifts from confusion to utter concern, mirrored by Dick, who is also present.
Approaching the bedside cautiously, Bruce looks at Damian wearily. Damian hasn’t made any move to escape. His son instead looks calm, too composed.
“What were you planning to do to Titus, Damian?” Bruce asks gently, his eyes analyzing.
Damian merely shrugs his shoulders. In honesty, he doesn’t know what he had planned. Part of him wanted the emptiness to fade away—to feel his body respond and make him feel human again.
Bruce doesn’t view the silence as a good sign and decides to conduct a few tests. Throughout this process, Dick remains nearby. Whether out of concern or fear, Damian isn't quite sure.
After a few hours, Bruce returns with a much calmer demeanor.
“You were exposed to one of Poison Ivy’s poisons,” he explains. “I scanned your brain, and it has affected parts of your limbic system, specifically the amygdala and hypothalamus. My theory is that you encountered an early batch of her mind-control poisons.”
As Bruce speaks, Damian struggles to feel anything at all. Despite this, he still asks, “When will I begin to feel the effects lessen?” He is uncertain how much longer he can endure this overwhelming ache. It’s consuming him.
“In a few days or so,” Bruce replies, his gaze softening. “You’ll be alright, chum.”
Dick squeezes his arm, providing a small comfort that he himself is unable to feel. Damian nods at his father and then feels Dick’s arm wrap around him in a sweet embrace.
“It’s okay, Dami,” he says soothingly.
Damian looks down at the ground. “I can’t... I can’t feel the warmth of your hugs,” he admits, his voice devoid of emotion. “It’s too cold.”
With a sympathetic glance, Dick hugs him tighter. “I know. It’ll all go away soon.” If Damian could feel anything right now, he knows he would wish for the ability to sense his brother’s comfort—to revel in the one thing that has always brought him a semblance of happiness.
Days pass, and one night, Damian awakens with sorrow in his heart.
It consumes him—the emotions he had been unable to feel over the past few days hit him like a truck. Regret, guilt, sadness, and devastation flow through him. His eyes tear up, and he throws the covers off as the tears begin to fall. He rushes into the room that Dick had occupied for the past few days.
When he opens the door, a sleepy Dick grumbles at being woken up, but his expression shifts to one of concern when he sees the tears shimmering down his brother’s face.
“Damian?” Dick calls out sleepily, sitting up and frowning at Damian’s state. “What’s wrong?”
Unable to respond verbally, Damian reaches out and pulls Dick into a hug. Tears begin to flow even more as the comforting presence of his brother’s arms surrounds him.
“I can finally feel it,” Damian says softly. “Your warmth.”
He has missed this– missed being able to feel his brother’s love.