Chapter Text
Wearily, Damian's gaze follows Hal’s hand, even as the man settles into his reclining chair a few feet away from the tamale to make himself more comfortable.
The small item calls to mind a familiar feeling, nagging in the corners of his mind, blooming in the form of an uncomfortable pressure in the pit of his stomach.
It’s like an answer on the tip of his tongue. There is something so recognizable about the ring.
So he does what he’s learned to do best, gathers information.
“Not from this Earth?” Damian plays up his curiosity as if he’s not a child who’s seen much more at his current age than he should have. Combat with aliens is second nature to him. Not to mention, his father’s relationship with Earth’s resident Kryptonians have made extraterrestrials commonplace in Gotham.
Harold does not need to know that. Not yet at least
The irrational, paranoid genes passed onto him–courtesy of his mother–demand that he proceed with caution.
Don’t play your hand immediately. Feign ignorance until you get what you want.
“Just a figure of speech, kiddo.” Hal says–too quickly. Subtly rehearsed in a way that only one trained to pick up on speech changes would notice. Hal is lying to him–but for what reason, Damian doesn’t know. And it’s not just because he’s a kid.
“Weird.” Damian supplies–a cover as he mentally wracks his brain for whatever he can remember about that ring . His immediate reaction is to kick himself for his inability to think rationally and clearly. Damian a month ago would have been able to make the connection within seconds–but Damian today is marred by emotional turmoil he’s never experienced before.
He returns to slurping up his food, using the bland spices and sodium injected eggs to ground himself. He purposefully makes a mess of it, furthering the childish facade.
Hal, seemingly convinced by Damian’s faux childishness, launches into a long drawn conversation about the weather. Damian nods, though his mind has found its way to the batcave. Brain sorting through thousands of computer files, all labeled with the names of different potential threats to Earth–heroes and villains alike.
Maybe his paranoia is from Bruce. Not his mother. Because in his idle moments, his brain always makes its way back to his father’s lair. Back to the lessons he’s learned. How an ally can be a villain. How a kind man with an innocent piece of jewelry must have skeletons in his closet.
Digital files fly through his mind like a swarm of honey bees.
The Flash and his red suit–Martian Man Hunter and his vibrant green skin–John Constantine and that nasty trenchcoat–Hal Jordan and his Green Lantern ring.
It takes everything for Damian’s utensils not to clatter onto the plate.
He recalls the man’s brown hair and pale skin–pixalated on the large batcomputer. Damian figures if he slapped a green, skintight suit on the Hal in front of him, he’d like just like him.
His mind goes to a million of the wrong places. Hadn’t Fath–Bruce talked about wanting to form an alliance with the Lantern–this one in particular. Had they not worked with one another on occasion? How many times had Batman returned to the cave to complain about the ‘annoying Lantern from Central City’ but useful nonetheless.
Damian takes a dry swallow of the untouched biscuit, eyes watering as the food goes down heavy.
“You okay kid?”
“Fine,” he coughs out, mentally retracing every moment he’s spent with this man until now. Everything fit together so perfectly. What were the chances that the Green Lantern–a man his father has reluctantly allied with–found him first. Are they working together? Is he going to take him back.
No, Damian makes up his mind. He’s not going back to Gotham. He’s not going back to his mother. And he won’t let anyone get in the way of him deciding his future for himself.
Especially not a second rate space cop.
Hal is still talking about weather by the time Damian’s grip on the knife changes. The grasps evolving between a child’s clumsy attempts at stuffing their face with food to a prepared strike against a target. Hal finally sits and reclines in his chair, arms relaxing behind his neck leaving it exposed. He even closes his eyes–classic rookie move.
So much for a galactic space cop.
Damian positions the knife, the smell of eggs and toast still heavy in the air. Part of him feels guilty for what he’ll have to do. But the part of him that wants to survive goads him on, reminding him that he’s had harder kills.
The knife launches into the air, momentum prepared to be broken against the fleshy surface of Hal’s neck.
“I was wondering when you’d do something like that.”
The knife falls to the floor with a sharp clank. Just as quickly as it does, Damian finds himself trapped in a green, transparent cube. Instinctively he kicks at it, and braces his hands against the sides as it begins to levitate.
“Green Lantern–” Damian states, though it comes out more of a hiss.
“Brightest day, kid,” Green Lantern jokes as he shakes the box again, “And who are you actually? Is your name even Damian? Barry couldn’t find you. Let me guess, someone from the Red Lantern corps sent you. It’s possible, I can feel the anger coming off of you in wave kiddo.”
“Red Lantern Corps? What are you even talking about?”
Hal seems to be ignoring the boy now, fingers pinching his chin quizzically as he goes off into a silent conversation amongst himself. All the while, the construct still holds.
“Hal! I’m still here.”
“Yeah, yeah I know, kid. I’m just trying to think of which one of my enemies sent you to kill me–no, can’t be Sinestro–”
“What? No one
sent
me. And I was telling the truth.” Damian protests, scoffing at the assumption that his skills were to be wasted on a target as easy as Hal Jordan. Then again, he is the one suspended midair in a box. The Lantern is more skilled than he thought.
“You left out the part where you can throw a knife like a bullet, so I don’t think you were being entirely honest with me.”
“You wouldn’t have believed me if I told you who I actually was and why I was running–”
“Kid, try me.” Hal deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest, "I've seen stranger things. Just usually not on the planet.”
Damian could almost laugh. Looks like the Lantern finally decided to expand on what “not from this Earth” meant.
A tense silence befalls the two as they enter a contest of stares. To Green Lantern's credit, he doesn’t budge, matching Damian’s own stubborn glare with a pensive one of his own. The comedic failure that Batman had painted him out to be seems highly exaggerated. This is a man who managed to capture Damian without even looking at him, with his neck fully exposed. Nothing on his person implies he’s to be crossed.
“Okay, let’s start with something else. Why did you try to kill me.” Hal still holds the gaze, though materializes a green stool so that he can sit down. Damian smirks–a win is a win.
“Becuase you’re working with Batman.” Lying probably won’t help. It’s best to be as honest as possible so that he can get the man to let his guard down.
To his surprise, Hal snorts. “ That pretentious asshole? Why the hell would I be working with him? And if I were working with him, why would you even care?”
Damian goes silent again, searching Hal’s expression for any sort of deception. His trust in his judgment is shaky at best, though. He thought the man was an easy target, and was wrong. So, perhaps his initial assumption that the man is an ally of Bruce is wrong as well.
“Come on kid, tell me. I’m not working with him, and if that guy’s the one you’re running from I
can
keep you safe. I just…I just need to know what’s going on.”
Now Hal looks away, and with his eyes no longer scrutinizing Damian, the construct retreats back into the ring. Damian’s feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and he stares wide eyed at the earnest show of trust.
The urge to tell this man everything arises within him. And for the life of him, he doesn’t know why.
Maybe it’s because Hal is not treating him like a weapon, and treating him like an actual child. Maybe it’s because the Green Lanterns are supposed to protect people–even the bad ones–no questions asked. And maybe it’s because Damian so desperately wants someone to listen to him.
But he takes the olive branch offered, and opens his mouth to speak. With hunched shoulders and voice barely steady, he relays his situation the best he can.
“I...I’m one of the Robins–was one of the Robins. That was until I killed someone. He has a no kill rule, but the person was going to hurt someone else, and I–”
“Kid, stop. You’re working yourself up. I think i’ve got it.” To his surprise, Hal moves to comfort him. The harsh judgment and scorn he’s used to from his father is nowhere in this man’s voice.
“You’re not…angry? That I killed someone?”
“Why would I be? He was a bad person hurting someone you cared about, and you killed him before he could do it again?” Hal paraphrases, smiling as the boy nods.
“Sounds reasonable to me. And you know, my job,” Hal gestures to his ring, “Sometimes killing people is unavoidable, but it has to be done. I don’t believe in shaming someone for doing something like that.”
The respect he has for the Green Lantern rises immensely. Damian can’t recall the last time his actions were met with such validation. Perhaps his mother was the last to shower him with unconditional praise. Though he wonders if that messed him up to begin with.
“So that’s it? I can stay here?” He clears his throat, “at least while you help me.”
“For now, yeah. Though eventually we’re going to Gotham and I’m going to knock some sense into that man’s skull. I personally think the entire concept of a Robin is unethical, and holding you all to such ridiculous standards. It’s not like he’s your dad or anything, he has not right to do that,” Hal says as he settles back into his chair, huffing as if he’s just run a marathon.
He sits up when he’s met with uncomfortable silence.
“Kid, he’s not your dad is he?” Hal says, leaning over the chair, “Because if he is then that’s not only fucked up, but he shouldn’t be making you feel this way.”
“He…yes, he’s my dad.” Unguarded against Hal’s bluntness, Domain finds himself uttering the truth.
“Well that certainly changes things,” Hal whistles, “I really feel strongly about beating some sense into him. But what to do now?”
Hal stands suddenly, much to Damian’s surprise. He launches, again, into his monologue of choices and decisions. Pacing up and down his small living room.
“Do you have a mom or someone you can go to? Maybe someone who’s got nothing to do with this and can keep you safe?”
“No, she’s…it’s complicated. She’s not in the picture anymore.” That’s as much as he can say without being bitter and angry and sad that he was even brought into this complicated mess of a world. That she birthed him for some weird leverage against a man who held him to inhuman standards, and abandoned him.
Maybe in the future he’ll learn to forgive her, but she’s just as much of a piece of this fucked up puzzle as his father.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
“I’m not.” Damian responds, “I want to talk about something else.”
“Well I'm all out of conversation starters,” Hal admits, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t get you settled while we decide what to do. I don’t think you wanna spend another night on my musty couch.”
He follows Hal as the man gestures for him. They walk through a virtually non-existent hallway until they eventually end up standing in a doorway.
“What to do?” Damian repeats.
“Yeah, what to do. I’m famously not well on making normal decision on my own. So i’m going to ask some friends for help. Some more friends. And trust me, they’re good people. They won’t bring you back to Gotham. Just hang tight.”
The room is nothing special–a bed, a dresser, a chair and some old items. Instinctively Damian begins to look through the drawers, ensuring there’s nothing that can be fashioned into a weapon against him.
He’s met with folded clothes, some socks, and what looks to be jewelry.
“You wear this, Harold?” He takes it out, surveying the rosy beads and the cross at which it terminates at.
“No, my dad did though. It’s a rosary, you’re supposed to pray with it. Here, he’s got more of his stuff here too.” Damian steps back as Hal sorts through the drawer, pulling out a small card and a small statue of a veiled woman.
“He um…died in a plane crash, but these are some of the things he left me. Told me before he died if anything ever happened to him or if I was alone or scared, not be because Mary was watching over me. I don’t know if it helped much after he died, but luckily I had a great living mom to get me through it,” Hal offers, sheepishly, “though she encouraged me to pray all the time. I think I stopped when the ring took me to space though.”
Damian's eyes scan over the card and the statue that Hal’s put into his hands. His green eyes gloss over the contents of the prayer card– Most Loving, Remember Most Loving Virgin Mary– before returning to the statue.
He thinks that he should consider it odd that Hal just expunged a traumatic experience to him, but something about the situation reminds him of what a loving parent should be like. It’s less weird and more comforting.
“But, that was another time,” the sadness in his voice is barely contained by a tight smile, “well anyway, i’ll leave you to it while I go contact some help. Stay here and rest or watch TV or whatever you need to do. Feel free to put that stuff back in the drawer.”
Hal leaves almost as quickly as he came, and Damian moves to put the items back into the shelf, surrounded by a wall of underwear and shirts never to see the light of day again. His throat tightens at the thought of Hal’s father ensuring his son’s security even after death. Leaving small mementos here and there so that his love for his son would never be forgotten.
Most Loving …Damian thinks to himself as he reads the card, fitting.
It seems sacrilegious to put the statue and card back into its tomb again. And not because Damian has any particular allegiance to the religion it belongs to, but because it seems to be a one way window between Hal and his father.
Something Damian does not have.
And regardless if Damian believes in it or not, the idea of being watched by some benevolent being sits well with him. God, mother, father–he so desperately wants someone to care for him.
After a short deliberation, the items find their place atop of the dresser, watching over Damian and his new dwellings.