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Whumptober 2023
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Published:
2023-10-06
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2,118
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1/1
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despite all of his efforts

Summary:

The first time Damian had endured solitary confinement, he’d been three years old. It was not, unfortunately, the last time his mother and grandfather had deemed that particular hell necessary for Damian to experience.

He prefers to believe that he has mastered the ability to undergo isolation.

That belief is challenged as soon as Grayson orders him to go to his room.

Or, Damian gets sent to his room after disobeying a direct order on patrol and it kind of, sort of, maybe triggers some anxiety and insecurities.

Notes:

Whumptober23 No. 3: "Like crying out in empty rooms, with no one there except the moon." | Solitary Confinement

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

The first time Damian had endured solitary confinement, he’d been three years old. It was not, unfortunately, the last time his mother and grandfather had deemed that particular hell necessary for Damian to experience. 

Damian is grateful for most of his training. However, he could never bring himself to do anything more than loathe being in solitary. There was value in every lesson his mother and grandfather taught him, he knew that. A skill to be gained or perfected. A weakness to be excised. 

He prefers to believe that he has mastered the ability to undergo isolation. 

That belief is challenged as soon as Grayson orders him to go to his room.

“For how long?” Damian demands. It is always more tolerable when he knows the length of his imprisonment. 

“I don’t know.” Grayson pushes the cowl off his face. 

An unpleasant iciness frosts the pit of the ten year old’s stomach. 

“I don’t see why I should be made to suffer when my actions lead to victory.”

“You disobeyed a direct order. You got lucky.”

Indignation overwhelms the tiny smidge of fear. “‘Lucky?’ I thoroughly considered every outcome before I made a single move. There was nothing fortuitous about my success, Grayson,” he snaps. 

“You. Disobeyed. A direct. Order.” Grayson’s usually bright blue eyes are darker than Damian knew they could be. “You-” He cuts himself off. “We’re going to have a talk about your performance in the field today, but it’s not happening right now. Right now, you are going to your room.”

“But-”

“I said, go to your room!”

Grayson’s voice echoes throughout the bunker. 

“Tt.” Damian draws himself up to his full height, stiffens his upper lip. “Very well. But I will not be relinquishing any of my personal items to your possession for the duration of my stay.”

Grayson looks mildly confused and it occurs to Damian that the soft-hearted man may not have even considered taking anything away from him. He regrets planting the idea in his mind. Before Grayson can attempt to further assert his authority, Damian stomps off to his room.

He knows he’s being laughably childish with each stamp, but he doesn’t care. He feels small and powerless and anxious and all because stupid Grayson somehow discovered his loathing of being in forced isolation and has decided to weaponize it against him as a form of punishment. Perhaps he has not given him enough credit. It appears Grayson does indeed have a capacity for cruelty in his so-called kind heart.

He should be impressed by this. Respect it. Instead, he feels oddly…disappointed. How disconcerting.

When he gets to his room, Damian considers slamming the door to further emphasize his displeasure. The sound of a lock turning echoes in his memories. He has zero desire to close the door. 

It’s preposterous really. Even if Grayson did decide to lock the door, Damian could easily escape. He is not trapped. He isn’t. 

He simply cannot leave until he receives permission to do so. 

Damian inhales deeply. He has persevered through solitary confinement several times. He will survive this. 

Still, he opts to leave the door cracked. There is a modicum of comfort to be obtained in the thought that he is not entirely cut off from the outside world. 

It takes precisely four minutes and thirty-seven seconds for his internal clock to malfunction. Although Damian had long suspected that being in isolation warped his typically flawless perception of time, the digital alarm clock perched on his bed stand confirms this. It ought to make the ordeal more bearable, knowing that he has not been confined for as long as it feels. But he has no idea how long Grayson intends to leave him here. It is impossible to estimate.

He should do something. After all, he does still have access to activities. If he pretends he’s simply in his room by his own volition, perhaps he could thwart the panic stirring in his chest like a bear awakening from hibernation. 

Damian picks up his sketchbook. Sharpens his pencil. Stares blankly at the page. 

He is not here of his own volition. He cannot leave even though he’d rather be anywhere else. He cannot even take a shower, wash the sweat and grime of the night off of his body. 

The stickiness is abruptly overstimulating. 

Does he have any water up here? 

He does. Half a glass, leftover from last night. That’s…not very much. It is better than nothing. However, he’s not sure it would be wise to use any of it to dampen a cloth and allow himself a minor reprieve from the intense cling of filth. Again, there’s no telling how long he’s to be kept here and he’s unsure if and/or when food and drink will be provided. 

When he’d been with the League, sustenance had never been guaranteed. Sometimes the starvation and dehydration was a part of the test. Admittedly, it does seem a bit severe for Grayson to go that far. But Damian has already underestimated him once, and he will not be so foolish as to do that again. 

His skin itches. His throat is dry. His heart may be beating with increased rapidity.

Damian Al Ghul is not a boy who begs. But Grayson seems the type to be pliable by such methods. It could free him from this hell. 

Or, it could inter him longer. 

Why couldn’t Grayson have just given him a timeframe? 

A knock on his door startles him out of his despair. His gaze shoots to the clock- it’s only been fifteen minutes. For what purpose has Grayson arrived? Perhaps he is here to define the conditions of this punishment.

“You may enter,” Damian huffs. His heart plummets when Grayson enters empty handed, no food or drink in sight. 

The older vigilante is uncharacteristically quiet as he walks in and sits on the end of Damian’s bed. His body language is frustrating to discern. He is certainly not as upset as he was in the bunker, but he’s still tense. 

“Damian, I’m sure you thought everything through before you acted, and I’m sorry for not giving you enough credit,” he says and Damian utterly fails to mask his shock. “You see situations differently than I do, and I’m sure I could learn a thing or two from you. But,” ah, there it was, the inevitable ‘but’, “I very clearly told you to stick with me. Believe it or not, I had a plan.”

Damian scoffs. “You never plan.”

“Not like you, or Bruce,” Grayson concedes. “But I plan in my own way, and your safety is a big factor in my plans.”

“I was safe!” Damian protests. As safe as he could be, given the circumstances. 

“No, you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” he hisses. “You caught me and-”

“Exactly! I had to catch you otherwise you would’ve-”

“But I knew you would catch me! I knew you would. I trusted you, Grayson, like you are always lecturing me to do, and now you are punishing me for it!”

The words land better than any punch or kick Damian has ever thrown at him. 

“I…I hadn’t considered that.”

Clearly. Damian crosses his arms. It is a nice admission of Grayson’s idiocy but it is insufficient placation. 

Grayson covers his face with his hands, sighs. Pulls his hands away and looks at them with an indecipherable melancholy. Damian narrows his eyes. 

“I’m really glad you trusted me, Damian. Honestly, I guess I didn’t trust myself to catch you. I thought…I thought I was going to lose you.”

Oh. He had not considered that. 

Damian is unsure what to say. Is an apology in order? Is he still going to be forced to stay in his room for an indeterminate length of time? 

“Tt. You did catch me though, Grayson. I never doubted you would.” He hesitates. “I am sorry I did not do a better job communicating with you.” Until they have better synced up, it seems like it will be wisest to spell things out more. Grayson still does not seem completely at ease. With much resignation, Damian reaches out and awkwardly pats him on the back. “Thank you. For catching me.”

Grayson half-laughs. “Anytime. But, let’s not make a habit of this, okay?”

He ruffles Damian’s hair, which Damian resents but allows without much complaint and stands up. He is clearly going to leave. It’s now or never. 

“How much longer must I stay in my room?”

Grayson frowns. “Um, you don’t have to anymore?”

Now it’s Damian’s turn to frown. “But…it’s only been fifteen minutes.” 

He’s not complaining. He simply doesn’t understand. At minimum, he’s always spent twenty-four hours in isolation. What is the point of a mere fifteen minutes?

“Yeah? I mean, you can stay in your room if you want. But you should probably shower,” Grayson makes an over-exaggerated face, “because you stink.”

“Am I to return here after? Will I get dinner? Is the punishment over?” 

The words come out all in a rush. He bites his lip, frustrated by his lack of self-control. It’s silly, he knows, wanting things to be laid out in no uncertain terms. But there’s still a part of him that feels trapped, that feels like that three year old child who was convinced the world had forgotten about him in that small, white room. 

Deep concern crashes over Grayson’s face and Damian is sure he sees pity too. 

“Never mind. I assume I have my freedom once more. But know this, Grayson, I have withstood solitary confinement for far longer than this and still can so-”

“Solitary confinement?” He sounds baffled. Mildly horrified? Peculiar. “You’re ten.”

“Yes, and? Is it not a common punishment?” What is it called in layman’s terms? Ah, yes. “Do you Americans not put your children in time-out?”

“Damian, time-out and solitary confinement are…there’s some similarities, I guess, but they’re very different.”

“Not in my experience.” He shrugs. The semantics disinterest him. 

Grayson looks like he wants to hug him. This is entirely unacceptable. Damian moves away, discomfort tugging at him. He hates when this happens. He’ll say something, sometimes to prove his superiority or capability or just to add to the conversation and Grayson or Pennyworth will look…not heart-broken, but something akin to it. It is unfathomable. Yes, his upbringing was atypical but he is not a typical boy. Why is this such a hard concept for them to grasp? 

“I’m sorry,” Grayson says. 

It is painfully evident that he wants to have A Talk about this. Damian is not in the mood. 

“Don’t be,” Damian replies, shoving his way out of the room and straight to the bathroom where he immediately locks the door. 

He will not be discussing this with Grayson ever. Never will he confess such vulnerabilities. Their relationship is purely professional. It will always and forever only be that. He may be Bruce Wayne’s heir, his biological son, but Damian knows that deep down he is not apart of their family. Even Drake, the smug idiot, is more Grayson’s brother than Damian ever will be. 

Not that he cares. He doesn’t need to be their brother. 

He simply needs to be the best Robin. Once his father is unable to deny his value, he will have all of their respect, however begrudging. He does not require their…affection. Their love. 

 

That night, he dreams that he is three years old and imprisoned. He knows it is a dream, but he cannot force himself to wake up. 

It is torture. 

He screams until his already raw throat gives out. There is no response. He cries and pounds on the walls, tries to reach for the doorknob but he’s too short. The panic magnifies, consumes him. He knows, in the way one simply knows things in their dreams, that he has been forgotten. No one will ever open that door. He is replaceable, expendable. 

No matter how hard he tries, he will never reach his full potential. He is, despite all of his efforts, a disappointment. Unwanted. Unnecessary. 

And then the door opens. Batman stands in the door, then scoops him up. 

It is not his father. 

“There you are, Dami,” Grayson says, “I’ve been looking for you.”

Damian’s eyes snap open. 

He is back in his bedroom. There are tears on his face. He is alone.

With his right arm, he roughly scrubs the tears off of his face. There is no excuse for this behavior. He’s too old to be having nightmares. It was only fifteen minutes.

It is absurd to expect Grayson to have been in his room, comforting him when he awoke. 

Notes:

Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!

Any and all kudos/comments are deeply appreciated + I do my best to respond (but! if you'd rather i didn't just leave a lil ** somewhere in there 💞)

 

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