The clock in the Batcave ticked louder when no one else was there. Damian could hear it echo against the stone walls, steady and sharp. The monitors flickered softly, painting the cave in shades of cold blue light. He sat in Tim’s usual chair, back straight, hands clasped on the table. His knee bounced restlessly despite his best effort to stay composed.

They were late. Too late.

The mission had been simple enough—on paper, anyway. A raid, quick and coordinated, something that shouldn’t have taken longer than two hours. It’d been nearly five. He’d tracked the comms chatter as long as he could before the line had gone silent, and Alfred had assured him everything was “fine,” but Alfred’s voice had that calm edge he used when he was worried.

Damian didn’t like that.

He kept staring at the clock until the sound of the elevator broke through the stillness. Metal against metal, a soft hum, then the hiss of hydraulics. He was on his feet before the doors even opened.

And then the world tilted.

The smell hit first—copper, gunpowder, sweat. The kind of scent that came from the field, from fights that lasted too long and went too far. Then came the sight of them—one by one stepping through the elevator doors, each of them coated in red.

For one terrifying second, Damian couldn’t breathe.

The light from the cave caught the streaks of crimson on your suit, on Bruce’s armor, on Dick’s gauntlets. It dripped off Jason’s jawline, pooled in the cracks of the floor, smeared across Tim’s cheek. He could see the dark patches on the edges of your cape, glistening wetly, and his chest locked up completely.

His mind screamed one word: blood.

He stumbled backward a step, heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. His throat burned, air catching somewhere between a gasp and a shout. It didn’t matter that he was trained for this. It didn’t matter that he’d seen blood before, that he’d caused it. Seeing it all over you—over his family—was different. It was like every fear he’d buried under bravado and training clawed straight up his spine at once.

He couldn’t tell whose it was. He couldn’t think. And for a moment, he really thought he was going to pass out.

Bruce was the first shape that moved toward him, big and dark and silent, the way he always was. The faint sound of metal hitting the ground echoed when Bruce removed his cowl. Damian caught a glimpse of his father’s face—tired, jaw tight, streaked with grime and red. His heart lurched again. There was too much blood for this to be fine.

Then Dick spoke up—low, calm, voice shaking just slightly as he approached Damian. He didn’t touch him yet, didn’t get too close, but his words came out steady, practiced, soothing. Damian couldn’t quite process them at first, his mind still spinning, but the tone was familiar. It grounded him.

Bit by bit, the haze cleared, and he realized what Dick was saying.

It wasn’t their blood.

Well—mostly not.

Damian’s eyes darted from one face to the next, breathing ragged. Jason was pulling off his helmet, muttering something with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His left arm was wrapped tightly with a blood-soaked bandage, but he didn’t seem fazed. You stood beside him, leaning heavily on one leg, the right side of your uniform slashed open along your ribs, gloved fingers pressing against it to slow the bleeding.

You were hurt. Jason was hurt. Everyone else looked exhausted but intact.

The panic twisted in his chest again—smaller now, but sharper. He hated that sound, the tiny hitch in his breathing, the way his hands trembled even though he tried to hide it behind his cape. He hated that his throat burned, that he couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or cry.

You noticed him first. You always did. Even through the exhaustion, the dirt, the pain—you always noticed Damian.

The second your eyes met, something in him broke loose. His expression crumpled, only for a second, before he bit it back. The tears stung the back of his eyes but didn’t fall. He was a Wayne, after all. A soldier.