Work Text:
Robin and Batman stood silently on the roof. Their capes snapped in the wind as they looked out on the city.
“You need to be more careful,” Batman growled finally.
“I did my best,” replied Damian tightly, stubbornly avoiding his gaze.
“Did you?” Asked Batman, raising his voice slightly, “because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to hurt him.”
“Obviously!” Damian shouted, turning to look into the reflective lenses obscuring Batman’s eyes. “He had a gun!”
“He could die,” Batman said, his voice still level.
“Maybe he deserves to,” Damian snapped back. Without waiting for Batman’s reply, he launched himself off the roof, shooting out his grappling cable to swing away. Batman stood impassively on the roof. He wasn’t worried in the slightest for his son. He was a little concerned for the criminals of Gotham. Bruce considered comming Damian to tell him he was grounded, but decided it could wait until he got home. Damian probably knew anyways.
Damian did know he was grounded, and it made him furious. He could feel the anger almost tangibly running through his veins, making him hot all over. He had made his escape, and it would have been safer to run over the roofs, or even through the streets like a normal person, but Damian didn’t put away his rope. He flew along, pushing himself to swing faster and faster, hoping to tire himself out and diffuse the anger. It didn’t work. His arms ached, shaking from the effort of propelling him through the air. His core pulsed with pain. It wasn’t enough.
When the sun began to rise, Robin found himself outside one of the smaller safehouses. He ditched the suit and changed into civilian clothes, correctly guessing that Batman would have at least one tracer installed in his suit.
He was still so angry. It was like being drowned in a thick liquid, clogging his throat, clouding his vision, he couldn’t think through it. So, Damian walked. He didn’t know where he was going, he didn’t care, he just had to keep moving.
Being trained as an assassin from such a young age had done some interesting things to Damian’s sense of self. For one, he occasionally forgot that he was still a child, particularly when he was on his own. At this point, he had retreated so deeply into his own mind, so engulfed in his own seething anger, that he didn’t even notice the reactions of those around him. He was small for thirteen. He didn’t look his age, and he certainly didn’t look like he could defend himself. So, while he was downtown, he didn’t see the sympathetic, worried looks, and when he wandered too far south, he didn’t notice that those looks were few and far between, replaced mainly with irritation or sly, predatory glances.
It was still very early in the morning. Boys with places to go home to, with loving parents were still in bed. He was small and under his sweater, especially, skinny looking. Damien didn’t notice the man following him until it was too late. And if it had only been one man, he would have been fine. Even if it had been two, or maybe even three, but there were five of them in the alley he’d walked into.
Damian broke one man’s nose, another man’s arm, but they were all big and he’d been caught off guard. He went down easier than he could have. It hurt, but he didn’t want them to knock him unconscious. That didn’t stop him from screaming as they pinned him to the ground and tied him up. He screamed with the anger and fear he’d been keeping in his chest. He pulled all the air from the street and shouted it back, until one of them planted a foot in his ribs, and pushed the air impotently from him. Damian gasped with the suddenness of it, choking on nothing. Someone shoved a dirty piece of fabric in his mouth and taped it there. Damian didn’t move. He didn’t make another noise as the kidnappers loaded him into a van they had waiting. He wasn’t afraid now; he was thinking.
These men were being paid by someone to take him. They weren’t amateurs, they’d wrapped the duct tape all the way up his forearms, and from his ankles to his knees. He was trapped like a fly in a web. That thought made his breath come a little quicker, but he let the panic wash over him, letting it diffuse until he could ignore it. It wouldn’t help him now. The van drove over a pothole, making his head thump painfully into the floor. Damian struggled to focus. It was imperative.
The real question here was whether or not these men knew who he was. He’d seen all of their faces, if they were holding him for ransom, that was a very bad sign. If they intended to sell him to the highest bidder though, it probably didn’t matter so much.
He seemed to spend forever in the van, every bump in the road making his head collide with the hard metal floor. By the time they hauled him out, and had dragged him into a seedy basement, he was feeling quite sick. He wanted them to remove his gag so he could trick them into giving him more information, but nobody spoke, or even looked at him. The men barely talked to each other, and then only in whispers. They were waiting for something.
Damian never got to find out what. While he was lying on the floor, desperately trying not to be sick, and knowing he would choke on it if he was, something broke upstairs. There was a tremendous noise as someone crashed down through the ceiling. Red boots followed by blue tights. Damian’s thin brows beetled together. It was… Superman?
“Now we can make this real easy, gentlemen. If you get on your knees now, I won’t have to hurt anyone. If you want to fight though, I can’t make any promises.” Slowly, one by one, each of them knelt to the ground and placed their hands on their heads. Damian wondered if he’d hit his head a little harder than he’d thought. This seemed so far beyond the realm of usual criminal behaviour. Superman hadn’t even had to hit one of them.
Superman had tied them up in the blink of an eye. He walked more slowly over to Damian, kneeling in front of him.
“Hold still,” he said, gently. Superman carefully peeled a corner of the tape up. Quickly, he ripped it the rest of the way off. It burned, but Damian didn’t make a sound, only bit into the filthy cloth in his mouth to keep himself quiet. Superman tugged on the fabric, and Damian let him pull it out of his mouth. “Did they hurt you?” Superman asked seriously, no trace of his characteristic grin in his face or voice.
“I’m fine,” Damian said, a little less snappishly than he would have with one of his family. “Why are you here?” He demanded. Superman cast a pointed look in the direction of the bound men in the far corner of the room.
“You father had me out looking for you. I heard you yell.” He said carefully. “I’m here to take you home.”
“I’m not going home,” Damian hissed. His head was spinning.
“Where do you want me to take you?” Superman was clearly bemused. His bright blue eyes were guileless. Damian wanted him to stop looking at him.
“I don’t care. Put me back on the street.” Superman frowned at him.
“No,” he said slowly, “I think you and I should have a talk.” He gathered Damian up, taking the stairs this time, instead of jumping through the hole he’d made.
“Put me down.” Damian howled. He thrashed in Superman’s iron grip, but only briefly. He felt like he might be sick, and he really didn’t want to throw up on Superman.
“I’m sorry,” and damn him, he looked it too. Damian was still. He closed his eyes as Superman jumped into the air and his stomach surged. He didn’t relax into Superman’s arms as Tim or Dick might have, he just counted his breaths, trying to keep himself in one piece as they flew. Superman touched down, and Damian opened his eyes to find himself in unfamiliar country. There were no roads, no cows, no trees, only slow hills and bright green grass.
“Are you okay?” Superman asked carefully, setting Damian down.
“Untie me,” Damian demanded. Superman sighed, giving him a look that Damian couldn’t decipher. It didn’t take him long to get the tape off. They were both thankful that Damian was wearing long clothes: none of the tape was stuck to his skin.
“So,” Superman said, sitting back on his haunches as Damian massaged his legs. “Why can’t I take you home?”
“I don’t know,” said Damian snidely, “maybe Wayne manor isn’t my home.” He was getting angry again. Angry at his father for not trusting him, for not coming to get him, angry at himself for getting caught, at Superman for rescuing him like a pathetic child. He felt like a pot about to boil over. “I didn’t ask for your help.” He seethed.
“I know,” Superman replied mildly.
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” he said it in the exact same tone. It was infuriating.
“So why don’t you just leave me here,” Damian yelled, “and I’ll get myself home.”
“Who are you mad at, Damian?” Superman asked, with a kindness Damian couldn’t stand.
“I don’t know!” He screamed. “Everyone!” his blood was rushing in his ears. “You, father, myself, everyone! I’m just angry.”
“I just want to take you home,” Superman said softly, like he was talking to a wild animal. And maybe he was. “Bruce was very worried about you.”
“Don’t lie to me,” his voice was raw, furious tears streamed down his face. “He doesn’t even like me. He thinks I’m just some- some kind of killing machine. I serve him for years and yet he still doesn’t trust me. I’m not his son, I’m just a threat.” The energy went out of him. Damian fell to his knees. Everything was spinning around him. He was choking on hot sobs, his stomach churning. It was more than his body could handle. He threw up. Superman was there instantly, an arm across his shoulders, keeping him steady. He rubbed Damian’s shoulder as he retched, was slow to release him when he’d stilled.
“Feel better?” Superman asked softly. Damian sniffed and dragged a sleeve over his face.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, not meeting Superman’s eyes. The grass and sky were still reeling.
“I don’t think so. You’re overwrought. I think you might have a concussion. I should really get you back to the manor.” He was looking at Damian again, in a way that made him feel transparent. He hated it.
“No,” Damian squeezed his eyes shut. He was desperately trying not to throw up again. “I’ll run away again anyways.” Superman sighed, crossing his arms and tilting his head as he looked over the boy in front of him.
“What about Metropolis then?” He asked. Damian looked at him, almost sharply except that he felt fuzzy around the edges, like maybe he was going to pass out. “I want to get you resting. At least if you’re with me, you’ll be safe if something happens. That should keep Bruce happy, and you won’t have to talk to him just yet.”
“Fine,” Damian muttered. He took a step towards Superman, but something was off. He stumbled, would have fallen, but Superman was there, scooping him into his arms. Damian made a small, discomfited noise, turning his face into Superman’s chest, pressed his hand against him as his head swam. He didn’t care if he was being a baby. Compared to Superman, practically everyone looked like a child. Anyways he wouldn’t tell Bruce.
“I want you to know,” Superman said more cheerfully, as they took off, “If you start dying on my couch, I am going to take you to a hospital.”
“Whatever,” Damian muttered, wiggling slightly. Superman’s arm tightened around him, just a bit, and while Damian didn’t say anything about it, he might have sighed just the smallest breath.