Keep Long Vigils by the Silent Dust
By Amphitrite II

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For Damian, dying is neither quick nor painless.

The sword pierces him without mercy, plunging its freshly sharpened edges through his body and out the other end. Every nerve ending flares with shock and pain as he chokes on his last breath.

After an agonizing, interminable moment, the world goes black, and all he can think about is how he has failed.

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He awakens in a familiar room, instantly recognizing the vaulted, eggshell-white ceiling above his bed. Immediately, his attention turns to the feel of the soft sheets beneath his arms—it is the first physical thing he has touched in a long time. Another startling sensation is the heavy ache in his bones, not to mention the dull burn in his chest. With these realizations come the thought that if he is tangible, he must, once again, be a part of the realm of the living.

Grayson did it. The idiot actually did it.

Tentatively, he smoothes his fingers over the sheets and rubs his own skin in wonder as he marvels at the things he has missed. Simple things—the rhythm of blinking, the warmth generated by the heater, the sensation of thirst. Breathing. In that in-between place, he had felt like more of an idea—a memory—than a real person. Sometimes, while Wayne Manor slept and he wandered the cold hallways, he had begun doubting that he had ever existed at all.

Looking around, he notices the chair at the bedside. There is a black jacket draped over one of the arms and a tablet on the seat. He recognizes both items as Grayson's immediately. Upon a tray on one of the side tables sits a nearly full glass of water and a half-eaten sandwich with cheddar melted down the edges.

The rest of the room is as he left it: spotless. He is staring at the barren top of his bureau and wondering if he should add a sentimental framed picture there when he hears footsteps down the hall—unmistakably Grayson's, light but precise. Suddenly, he feels inexplicably nervous about facing his partner, who he has been observing all these weeks. Back when he was invisible, it had somehow seemed much less awkward having watched him cry.

Grayson appears in the doorway like a guardian angel. He looks… Improved is the only word Damian has for it. His hair is tousled but not untamed, and though the bags under his eyes still remain, the clear blue reflects a renewed sense of purpose, as well as a certain confidence that had been absent for too long.

Their eyes meet, and Damian blurts out, "Hello," like an idiot.

The expression that blooms on Grayson's face is one of pleased surprise, and the smile that spreads across his features reminds Damian of sunlight uninhibited by clouds. Grayson bounds across the room and ignores the chair in favor of sitting beside Damian on the bed, grabbing his hands and squeezing them as if to ascertain that they are real.

"That's it?" Grayson twitters, voice uncharacteristically shaky. "You go and die on me, put me through hell, and all you have to say is a measly 'hello'?"

"I suppose you expect me to thank you," Damian grumbles as he drinks in Grayson's welcome proximity and comfortingly familiar features. They are wearier and heavier than Damian remembers but still stupid and annoyingly lovable.

Grayson ruffles his hair. "What's a guy around here gotta do to get a hug from his little brother?"

Damian sniffs disdainfully. "If you promise to behave, I will allow a brief embrace."

Grayson laughs, harder than the situation calls for. It had taken a long time for Damian to recognize and accept that whether Grayson is laughing with him or at him, it is never malicious or mocking. Though he would be hard-pressed to admit it, he always feels a swell of pride when Grayson emits even the tiniest chuckle at something he says.

"Well?" Damian says impatiently when Grayson makes no move to hug him, simply staring at him happily. He nearly regrets it when Grayson crushes him in his ridiculous arms, burying his face in Damian's hair.

"I'm so glad you're back," Grayson whispers into the dark strands. Damian allows himself to lean into Grayson's shoulder. The soft cotton of the blue T-shirt is comforting, as is the familiar woody scent of Wayne Manor soap.

"Me too," Damian mouths against the fabric, not daring to speak the words too loudly for fear of shattering whatever miraculous lines keep him anchored to this world. He knows Grayson will understand.

Damian feels different. Perhaps that should not surprise him, but he can't deny that he did not come out of that void as the same person he was going in. During the long, lazy days of his slow recovery, there is a certain lightness to his being that he has never felt before—a strange willingness to let go of (many) things, a compulsion to be (mostly) honest, an indescribable optimism about (certain) irritating people and situations.

"Tall, dark, and broody is looking for you," Todd announces, coming up the stairs two at a time as Damian descends them. Damian amends his evaluation of his mental state: Some people are just as annoying now as they ever were.

"You should not antagonize him," Damian reprimands, hating that he has to look up to glare at Todd, even though he already has the advantage of standing a step above him.

Rolling his eyes irreverently, Todd scoffs, "Just telling it as I see it. Your bad attitude must have leaked across during the transfer. I've never seen him so pissy for no reason."

"Transfer?" repeats Damian.

All of a sudden, Todd looks ashamed. "Shouldn't have said that," he says abruptly. "Shit. Do not let Dick know I said that."

"What transfer?" Damian demands, reaching up to shake Todd by the shoulders.

He curses and shrugs him off (with little effort, Damian notes irritably). "Don't look at me, kid," Todd says gruffly. "I just found the spell."

"Which spell?" Damian's frown deepens. It is impossible to overstate the degree to which he dislikes being left in the dark. When Todd tries to make an escape, he is quick to block the way.

Todd holds up his hands in surrender. "Not a conversation you should be having with me," he says defensively.

Damian shoves his shoulder, not hard enough to dislodge him but just hard enough to make him grunt. "Fine," he growls. "But if I find out you convinced Grayson to do anything stupid…"

Todd snorts. "Trust me, kid," he says flippantly. "When it comes to you, Big Brother does not need any convincing."

It doesn't take Damian long to find Grayson. They quite literally run into one another as Grayson turns the corner from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in his hands.

"Oof!" Grayson exclaims, and their lightning fast reflexes allow them to dodge each just in time to avoid Grayson spilling the burning liquid all over Damian's front. Damian dusts off his shoulders and sniffs in disdain at the apology he knows is coming. He is in no mood for such things, not when there are secrets being kept from him. "Sorry, didn't see you there—which is funny because I was just looking for you."

"What for?" Damian asks, anger briefly surpassed by curiosity. He follows Grayson into the television room, where the massive screen is already switched on and is displaying the start screen of a certain video game that Damian may or may not have been quite excited about before everything happened. Despite his annoyance at Grayson, he can't help his eager query: "Swordwalkers? You got it?"

Grayson beams at him. "Yup," he says, setting the drinks down on the table, which is already home to a massive plate of freshly baked cookies. "You wanna play?"

"Might as well," Damian says, but Grayson smiles at him with his infuriating knowing smile. "You know I always enjoy taking you down a notch."

There are about a thousand questions he has for Grayson on the tip of his tongue, but he is strangely reluctant to interrupt the moment. Though he will never admit it aloud, he is quite fond of times like these, when they take a break from the unsolvable cases and unrepentant criminals to play at being normal. He wants to be angry at Grayson for keeping things from him; he wants to know how he "resurrected" him; he wants to let loose and yell at somebody because he can't handle how kind everyone has been since he woke up.

"I call Player One," he says instead.

He tells himself Grayson's smile is worth it.

Grayson is an adequate adversary when it comes to video games, and it is the most fun Damian has had in a long time, even if he will never admit it aloud. After they're worn out from at least twenty matches and rematches—Damian is determined to come out on top—they both slump back on the couch and finish off the last of Alfred's impossibly delicious cookies in a companionable silence. Damian is the one who breaks it, at last.

"Grayson, be honest," Damian says. Though he is hesitant to shatter the moment, he has no patience for speculation, and he desperately wants to hear the truth from Grayson's mouth. "How did you bring me back?"

Grayson's mood shifts instantly, his forehead crinkling. "Isn't it enough that you're back?" he asks vaguely. His expression is dark, and Damian notes that he won't look at him directly. It only makes him more eager for the truth.

"It's my life," Damian retorts. "I deserve to know."

Grayson bows his head. "Ignorance is bliss," he mutters. Damian crosses his arms in annoyance. Surely Grayson is overhyping it. Whatever he's done could not possibly be so bad that he thinks Damian would hold it against him. Perhaps…

"Tell me you did not resort to dark magic to bring me back."

Grayson looks shifty. "I didn't use dark magic to bring you back," he says obediently, and Damian can tell he's trying not to be annoyed.

"But you did something," Damian points out, and Grayson says nothing. "I'm not stupid, Grayson, I know how these things work. When you brought me back, there must have been a price. What did you pay?" Damian demands. Grayson says nothing, his lips turned down. His eyes flicker away briefly before meeting Damian's squarely.

"I did what I needed to do."

Damian stares at him. The bags under his eyes betray his exhaustion, as do his still limbs. Grayson is drained. He's smiling and laughing—genuinely—but there is a certain hollow exhaustion to every muscle. Perhaps it's not fair of him to pry. Perhaps Grayson doesn't need him pestering him about this. Perhaps the how of the matter is unimportant when there is the why to consider.

"You're an idiot," he says, and then softer but more honestly: "I don't deserve it. Whatever you did."

Grayson doesn't bother asking for permission this time: His arms come around Damian, gripping him tightly, as if he could disappear at any moment.

"You're worth it," Grayson whispers. Damian thinks it's funny that he's so willing to share affection but unwilling to share the truth. His instinct is to brush off the sentimentality, but his eyes are mysteriously damp as he returns the embrace with less reluctance than he will ever admit.

The truth is that there's a reason Damian was able to communicate with Grayson and not with anyone else. There's a reason Grayson was the one to figure out how to bring him back. And to want it enough to actually achieve it. There's a reason Grayson is his favorite partner—then, now, and likely for the rest of their fragile lives.

"Thank you," Damian whispers into Grayson's ear, "for believing when nobody else would."

"Love you, Little D," Grayson says easily, as if it were as simple as that.

A sharp rebuttal is on the tip of his tongue, but Grayson sags in his arms, and Damian thinks he'll let him get away with that one.

Just this once.

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FIN