Takes place late January, the eighth month of Dick and Damian's time as the Dynamic Duo.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

I. Baba and Chikno

It was his fault. That was the only thing Damian could comprehend, through the forming bruises, the splatters of sanguine blood, the littering of bodies that may or may not have been alive (Damian found he didn't really care either way). He vaguely realized that his hands were shaking, and, when he risked a glance down, all he could see was the sticky red that covered the green of his gloves. Taking a hesitant step forward, he nearly stumbled on his own two feet, cursing himself for his clumsiness and squeezing his eyes shut against the wave of nausea that crashed down on him. His knees locked painfully, before melting to a jelly-like consistency and sending him careening onto the cracked, stained concrete.

He forced himself to his feet once more, swaying for several harrowing seconds until he righted himself. The world spun and pitched in front of him, but he took as deep a breath he could with his cracked ribs and continued to painstakingly shuffle towards the bloodied, bruised lump on the other side of the room. Several bodies, scattered across the warehouse, got in his way, and the ten-year-old picked his way over and around them. He's pretty sure some of them were still breathing shallowly, and he felt the overwhelming urge to kill them right then and there.

Forcing the impulse down, he finally reached the limp body he had been trudging towards, almost immediately collapsing onto his knees at the figure's side. Dark red blood covered most of the figure, staining the blue-tinged black and the gray until it was almost unfamiliar. Even through the blood and the thick layers of Kevlar, Damian could pick out the gashes and various wounds that marred Batman's body, having sliced right through even the thickest of the Dark Knight's armor. A horrible, sickening thought made his ears ring and his head spin. The heavy beating his mentor had taken, the amount of gore that coated the area around them. It was too much. There was too much blood on the floor, and not enough in his mentor's veins, and-

He was breathing. Barely. But Batman was breathing, his chest rising in a nearly imperceptible, uneven pattern. A faint whistling, gurgling noise broke the dead silence in the abandoned warehouse, and Damian clenched his fists to stop their ceaseless shaking. He wouldn't be able to get Batman back alive if he allowed such useless bodily functions to hinder him. Pressing his hands against the wounds, he hoped to stem the bleeding, while at the same time reaching across the unconscious man to trigger the button that would bring the Batmobile to them.

"Batman," Robin coughed, spitting out around the iron-tasting foulness in his mouth. "Batman," he hissed, jerking the man a bit to get him to wake. The Batmobile would be there soon. They would meet it in the alley right next to the warehouse, and then the autopilot would return them to the Bat-bunker. "Grayson, get up," the boy spat, ignoring the tremor that plagued his voice.

"Rrr-" Dick slurred, his consciousness too fragile and his throat too damaged to get the word out.

"Dammit," Damian muttered, although the venom in his tone was tempered by exhaustion, pain, and the seeds of worry that burrowed deep in his gut.

They needed to get out. Who knew how far off the police were, or if any of the many thugs were going to get back up, or if He would return soon to finish them off? (You're not my Batsy! Where is he? Where's the real Batman?) No, Damian had to get them out of there before anything else happened. They could not afford more trouble, not with his vision threatening to darken and Grayson quickly bleeding out on the ground. He was Robin, and Batman was in trouble, and damn it all, Damian Wayne was not a failure.

(Oh, ho ho. What have we here? The newest little birdie! Maybe you will be more fun than the others? Haha!)

Before he could even process what he was doing, Robin found himself on his feet once more. The pounding of his head worsened, and his equilibrium was thrown off, but he righted himself as soon as he was able. He crouched down, careful to keep himself from falling over, and hooked his arms under Batman's, receiving a grunt of pain for his actions. With the little scraps of energy he had left, Damian began the long journey across the warehouse and out to the Batmobile.

The going was slow, and painful, and Damian thought that maybe that was how Batman and Robin would die (stranded in an abandoned warehouse, left to bleed out and rot because the Joker hadn't even bothered to finish them off). His whole body shook from exertion, as, even if Grayson wasn't very tall, he still weighed a good deal with the entirety of his Batsuit, and he felt as if the only thing holding his body parts together was the suit that clung to his skin. Several times he fell, and each time he forced himself back up, even if every time felt like it would be the last. Grayson kept letting out rattling groans due to his battered body being shifted, and the arrangement of grotesque noises somehow managed to slice right through Damian with all the feel of an icy blade.

The final fall he took was through the rusted door that separated them from the outside. His back banged against the warped metal, and the Dynamic Duo's combined weight broke the hinges and sent the door crashing to the ground, them along with it. Fire laced through Damian's muscles, ripping them apart and leaving him with hardly any energy to go on. But what he lacked in energy, he more than made up for in will power. He ignored his own shortness of breath, born from his damaged ribs, he hardly noticed the icy winter winds that stung his exposed skin, and he completely refused to acknowledge the fatigue that coated his limbs.

Snow covered the ground, and most of everything in the vicinity, while beads of ice continued to pelt the ground at a vicious slant. The wind howled with a booming ferocity, sending the frozen rain against Damian's back. He struggled to regain his footing, the combination of several feet of snow, the ice that was underneath that, and the strong winds threatening to upend him. Eventually, his boots found traction and he once more started dragging Grayson towards the Batmobile, which was thankfully parked in the alley beside them.

Damian pointedly tried to avoid glancing at the trail of red that marked their passage through the snow, instead fixing his eyes on the increasingly worrisome rise and fall of Batman's chest. His back brushed against the Batmobile, catching him off guard enough that he nearly flinched. Had he not had so little energy, he would've scowled at his own imbecility. He twisted in his spot, freeing one arm in order to get the door open. The Batmobile's top slid up, leaving Damian to clamber in. He dragged Grayson after him, collapsing sideways across both the seats with Batman landing heavily on his chest and legs. His vision was tunneling dangerously, and the boy only just managed to get the Batmobile's door closed and trigger the emergency protocols.

"D-Da…mi?" the garbled, painful sounding voice broke the silence, before Grayson's head flopped down against one of Robin's shoulders.

Damian's arms tightened around his mentor's chest, as if that act alone could somehow hold the dying man together. "I didn't," he slurred out, eyes drifting shut of their own accord, "fail…you…Baba."

He jerked awake. Almost instantly, the fog that had wreathed his mind was burnt away by the memories that flowed through his consciousness. Patrol, Joker, Grayson. Various IV needles and tubes were ripped viciously away before he even thought. Agony exploded in his chest from his cracked ribs, and his entire body ached, but he practically lunged from the hospital cot. His bare feet slapped against the cold metal of the Bat-bunker's floor, and by the shivers of pain that laced up his legs, he knew that his ankles or shins were horribly bruised.

The arrangement of medical equipment erupted into a cacophony of noise behind him, but Damian's focus was on the other bed situated in the bunker's Med Bay. He needed confirmation, needed to be absolutely, one-hundred percent, without a doubt, positive. Steady, even breathing, a bag of blood and an IV drip sustaining his stable condition. Bandages covered a large portion of his chest, arms, and face, but they would heal. Grayson was alive. Damian had not failed.

"Young Master," the familiar voice interrupted Damian's thoughts, causing the boy to spin on his heel so he could face the butler. Damian hadn't even noticed that he'd been gripping the side of his mentor's hospital bed so hard that his knuckles had turned white. "You should not be out of bed yet," Pennyworth chastised, exasperation skillfully hidden in his tone.

"I'm fine, Pennyworth," the boy spat irritably, his scowl even more deadly than usual due to the pain he was putting up with.

"I'm sure you are, young Master Damian," Alfred nodded in appeasement. "I, however, feel no need to test fate with a heart attack," he continued primly, silencing the machines that Damian had set off in his frantic movement. "Indulge an old man?" the butler gestured to the empty hospital bed. "I assure you, Master Dick will be fine. He merely needs plenty of rest. As do you."

Damian narrowed his dark blue eyes, defiantly crossing his arms over his bandaged chest, only to suppress a wince as the action pulled at the few gashes in his torso. He sniffed pompously, refusing to give Pennyworth the satisfaction of being right, and made a show of reluctantly trudging to his bed. Pennyworth reattached the IVs and changed his young charge's wrappings while he was at it. Damian allowed the butler to work in silence, his eyes focused on Grayson's heart monitor.

"I have business to attend to upstairs, young Master Damian," Pennyworth informed the boy once he was finished. "I shall be notified if the readings of yours or Master Dick's vitals change," he added surreptitiously, offering Damian a look that was both warning and reassuring.

At that, the elderly butler turned to make his way up to the Wayne Penthouse, leaving the Dynamic Duo to rest in the bunker. Damian glanced at his retreating back, before averting his gaze to his hands which were nestled in his lap. He picked idly at a cuticle, before rolling his eyes and letting out a faint huff of breath.

"Your medical skills are…sufficient, Pennyworth," Damian commented, attempting a tone of nonchalance, but coming out more strangled sounding then he would have preferred. He felt more than saw the man pause and turn back slightly to face him. "Thank you," the boy added, equal parts hesitant and reluctant.

Damian Wayne was Robin, and he was not a failure, and he had gotten Batman home, but Pennyworth was even less of a failure, and had saved Grayson from dying, and deserved a bit of gratitude, at the very least.

"You are very welcome, young master."

And then Pennyworth was gone.

Damian had reason to believe that that was where Father had learned his 'disappearing act'.

He leaned back on the hospital bed, training his eyes on the ceiling of the Bat-bunker and taking measured breaths in order to fall back asleep. But Damian was simply not tired. Or, rather, exhaustion was not quite enough to pull him under, and instead he found himself thinking back on the amount of blood that had previously coated his mentor. The visions, while far from the most gruesome Damian had experienced in his short life, somehow left a near-tangible imprint upon his mind, and he could not seem to escape the memory.

It took nearly half an hour before his resolve broke. The images in his head would not go away, his wounds were beginning to hurt, and exhaustion weighed down on his limbs. Carefully picking his way off the hospital bed (not disturbing his wounds like he had earlier), Damian disengaged all the devices hooked into him so that they wouldn't alert Pennyworth and dragged a chair over beside Grayson's bed. Damian settled down cross-legged, steepling his fingers before his face and shooting a fierce glare at his unconscious mentor.

"Damn it, Grayson," Damian muttered quietly to himself. "This is all your fault," he scoffed harshly.

His face twisted into a scowl, pulling at a still-healing scar along his cheek, before he let out a huff of breath and practically deflated. His hands fell into his lap, and he couldn't help but avert his gaze down to them. Damian couldn't really bear to see Grayson so bruised and wounded on an uncomfortable hospital cot.

"No it's not," he corrected himself, voice barely audible even to his own ears. "It's my fault," the boy admitted in defeat. "You told me not to go after Joker, and I disobeyed you. You aren't…as big an idiot as I always assume, and I should have had more faith in your knowledge of the clown."

There. He had said it, and had gotten it off his chest. Even if Grayson hadn't been awake to hear, that was hardly Damian's fault. He had apologized. So, all would be forgiven, right? Grayson wouldn't punish him, at least not in the way that the League, or Father, or even Pennyworth would have. Damian had, in the end, pulled through and saved Grayson (had saved his Batman like he was supposed to). Grayson would live, and Damian wouldn't have to go on without his mentor. Everything was okay.

Right?

That's how it was supposed to work. He had been a good Robin. He hadn't even killed anyone in the past few months (even if he had been tempted plenty of times), nor had he gone against Grayson's wishes too often (the Joker incident notwithstanding). Damian had been good, which meant that good things should happen to him. In a perfect world, maybe. But Damian was aware of how imperfect his world was, and knew very well that bad things happened to good people all the time.

Like Dick Grayson.

It was his fault. But he had done his best to fix his mistake.

He wouldn't lose Grayson.

Would he?

When he came to, it was to the familiar sounds of the bunker's Med Bay. Steady beeping filled his ears, bringing both a sense of relief and a minor headache, while the bed beneath him was uncomfortable and made him want to move, even if the sharp sting of healing wounds forced him to stay still. He slowly blinked his eyes open, taking stock of his limbs and twitching his muscles to check motor functions.

His breathing was a bit labored and painful, so he quickly deduced a few ribs were bruised, possibly cracked, and one of his wrists had been dislocated or broken, judging by the splint wrapped around the joint. Several nasty gash wounds were covered with gauze over his torso, tape was placed over his nose due to a minor break, and he could feel the bandaging around his head, no doubt from an open head wound. Overall, he figured the situation must have looked worse than it actually had been. He'd probably be back out in the field within a few we-

Damian.

Dick lunged forward into a sitting position, ignoring the burn as his muscles protested and his stitches pulled. He nearly rolled right out of his hospital bed in his haste to find his kid. But the sight that met his eyes caused him to pause mid-freak out. Damian was alive. The brat was okay. In fact, said brat was currently curled up in an uncomfortable chair, arms and head resting on the edge of Dick's bed. The kid seemed to be in a deep enough sleep that the sudden movement hadn't woken him up, and Dick wasn't sure if he should be pleased or concerned by the lack of reaction.

Doing a quick once-over of the ten-year-old's injuries, Dick let out a breath of relief to find nothing life-threatening. Damian's chest was mottled with bruises and a few scratches that didn't even need stitches, while, as far as Dick could tell, he had one ankle in a splint intended for minor wounds. No major injuries. A part of Dick, the short-tempered part that he had been trying to drown out the past eight months, wanted to mention that Damian deserved the beating he had received. The kid should've known better than to go after Joker while Dick was out of town on League business (really, hadn't anyone learned from Jason's mistake?). But a larger part of Dick was reminding him that he had done the same thing during his own time as Robin. Not to mention, Damian had managed to get them both out of there alive.

The brat was still getting grounded, though. Big time. As in scrubbing the bunker, big time.

Since becoming Batman and making Damian his Robin, Dick had learned why Bruce had taken such joy in forcing others to clean the Batcave for him. There was something about it that was oddly therapeutic.

"Master Richard, it is good to see you up," Alfred broke his train of thoughts, causing him to glance up at the aging butler. "But you should not be moving about just yet," he reprimanded briskly, readjusting the various machines hooked up to Dick.

"Sorry, Alfie," Dick ducked his head bashfully, delicately resting his uninjured hand on Damian's head. "How long was I out?"

"Three days, Master Dick," Alfred supplied. "Young Master Damian has been at your side for the past day and a half," he continued, answering the unspoken question in his eldest charge's eyes.

Dick's eyes once more settled on Damian's sleeping form, and he lightly carded his fingers through the boy's hair. He…had not expected Damian to be sitting at his bedside. Although they weren't the first injuries Dick had sustained during his time as Batman, they were undeniably the worst so far, and Dick knew Damian well enough to understand that his kid was hardly heartless. Mostly, Damian was just trained to be heartless, leading to the boy having a hard time showing any outwards displays of trust or affection. Even so, Dick knew, better than anyone, really, that Damian longed to be loved, and to love others.

He just hadn't expected Damian to latch onto him.

Of course, Dick was no fool, and he knew that Damian, while the kid never mentioned it, did have a healthy amount of respect and even appreciation for his mentor. It was no small secret that Dick had been the first to ever treat Damian like a real person, so it was logical that the ten-year-old had at least some sort of attachment to Dick. But, still.

Really, Dick should have seen it coming. It was the same thing that he himself had gone through with Bruce (and that Jason, and Tim, and Cassandra had gone through as well). There was simply something about being an orphaned sidekick to a full-time hero that instituted a strong bond, more often than not. When someone as young as Damian trusted another with their life, it usually led to more than just a professional partnership.

Dick had expected a brotherly connection.

Damian did not need a brother. He needed a…

"Well, am I clear to head upstairs, Alfie?" Dick wondered before his mind went down that particular road (he had been trying to avoid it ever since his first month with Damian). "I don't really want to sleep down here. And I think Damian could use an actual bed."

By the look on Alfred's face, it was clear that he didn't want either of his charges moving farther away from medical care, but he knew a hopeless argument when he saw one, and Alfred was reassured by the fact that neither of them were presently bleeding out. He nodded in acquiescence, before turning to make his way up to the penthouse to prepare their rooms. "Master Richard," the butler called over his shoulder, "need I remind you to take it easy?"

Alfred's warning look was rewarded with a brilliant smile the likes of which only Dick Grayson could pull off, and he barely suppressed a fond grin of his own as he once more turned on his heel and stepped onto the elevator.

Dick methodically removed all the IV tubes hooked into his body and disengaged the machines in the Med Bay. He slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed and took his time in testing his balance and weight. His legs felt like Jell-O after three days of not being used, and it took him a few minutes of stretching until he could walk around without the threat of falling over.

Crouching down next to where Damian was curled in the chair, Dick contemplated waking him up. Eventually, though, he decided to tempt fate and opted on picking the young boy up. Damian wasn't particularly tall for his age, but he was all lean muscle. That being said, the ten-year-old was surprisingly light in Dick's arms as he carried his kid to the elevator and up to the penthouse.

Normally, Damian was a very light sleeper, and would wake at any minor disturbance, but it seemed as though the strain of his encounter with Joker and trying (unsuccessfully) to stay awake had worn the boy out. Dick made it all the way to Damian's room without so much as the kid twitching. He silently pushed the door open with his foot, and made his way over to Damian's bed. With great care and gentleness, he settled the sleeping child under the sheets and tucked them around him.

It was not the action of a brother. The thought suddenly occurred to him, all but knocking him off his feet and forcing him to sit on the edge of his kid's bed. Sure, Dick had carried Tim to bed on multiple occasions (usually after having drugged the stupid teen so he would actually sleep), and he had done so with Cass a few times, per her request; he had even done the same for Jason once or twice, back before his first brother had died. But, even then, brothers didn't carry kids to bed. That's what parents were for.

And none of them had any of those left.

They still had Alfred; although the butler (bless his heart) was always so good to them, he was simply too aloof and distant to be a parent. And Cass and Steph both knew their biological parents, but were both scared and hateful of them, while Damian had disowned his mother in order to continue being Robin.

No, Dick realized. Jason, and Tim, and Cass, and Steph. They had all grown up on their own time. They no longer needed the protection of a father (wanted it, perhaps, but did not need it). They needed Dick to be their understanding leader and their loving big brother.

Damian, on the other hand, was a whole other story. The kid was ten, and, loathe as he was to admit it, he still needed his father (or, at least, a father). Damian didn't need an older sibling. He needed a father.

Baba.

That's what Damian had called him, and that word alone was one of the few things that clung to Dick's fragmented memory. He hadn't been conscious for a lot (mostly just laughing, blood, pain, the usual), but he had definitely heard Damian call him (someone?) 'baba'. Dick wasn't stupid. Far from it, actually. He knew what the word meant, and the origins of it, and the fact that there weren't many reasons why Damian would have said it.

Unless he had been scared of losing Dick, the closest thing he had to a 'baba'.

Dick looked down at the innocent face of his youngest brother/kid/Robin/whatever the hell the brat was to him. He rested his uninjured hand on the less-bruised side of Damian's face, before leaning down and ever-so-lightly pressing his chapped lips to the boy's forehead.

"Goodnight, chikno," he whispered softly. "Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

A/N: 'Baba' is an equivalent of papa in various languages (such as Arabic, Chinese, Greek, Persian, etc.) 'Chikno' is the word/term of endearment for 'son' in one of the forms of Romani. I realize that just because Dick and Damian come from these heritages, it doesn't automatically mean that they use the vernacular language respective of each ethnicity. That being said, I was merely using their ethnic backgrounds as a fun way to express my love for the greatest Dynamic Duo and celebrate the (sometimes canon) diversity of the Bat Family. I did not intend for the content to offend anyone, and if I did, I apologize profusely.

I hope you all enjoyed my one-shot! I'm thinking of maybe turning this into a series of one-shots focusing on a father/son relationship between Dick and Dami (depending on how well this is received). Sorry if anything was out of character or incorrect (please inform me if this is so)!

Don't be afraid to drop a review or comment!

Thank you all for reading!

~PNGuin