Chapter Text
Ships, Damian decided, were there own special, horrible brand of torture. They were cold, damp and miserable, full of the worst examples of human kind; men too annoying or too stupid or too malodorous for normal society on land. It was loud, every lurch and sway causing the old, worryingly rusted hull to creak and screech, and Damian was not thinking about lurching or swaying. It was bad enough that he had been found, but it would be infinitely more mortifying if he went and vomited all over his captors shoes. Or maybe it would serve them right.
Stupid boat.
He held on to his stomach, tried to think of a way out of this that would neither compromise his life nor Grayson's cover. The lumbering fool who held Damian by the scruff of the neck would be easy to take down. He was slow. Over-confident. There were tattoos running all the way up his arms; skull and crossbones, names and hearts and bare-chested women and Damian would have scoffed at the man's attempts to look like he was something more than your average mindless thug. He was trying too hard. His grip was strong, but Damian could think of twelve ways to free himself. The only problem was he'd already been seen, and that had never been the plan.
Big and ugly shoved him through another hatch way and out onto the deck. Even though it was half way to dark Damian still squinted at the light. He'd been inside, hiding in the shadows for the past three days, and his eyes had forgotten anything other than dull orange overhead lamps.
Ice-cold spray crashed over the exposed gangway and Damian closed his eyes against the sting of salt, the shock of cold. It was raining, hard, and the ship pitched suddenly sideways and Damian stumbled, his stomach turning over and over. His captor laughed; a deep, unfriendly sound that was more or less the exact opposite of the way Grayson laughed. It made Damian feel even worse and he decided, to hell with it, and gave up the fight with his stomach, let himself puke all over the guy's trousers and boots. It was worth it to see the looked of shocked disgust on his face. It was less worth it to feel the guy's fist against his cheek.
Damian's vision went black, his ears ringing, the taste of blood in his mouth and it took embarrassingly long to gather himself together enough to realise that he was lying face-down on the deck. Water washed under him as the boat swayed and Damian grit his teeth at the way it seeped into his sweater, through the layers of his clothes. Too cold.
Blinking away the grey spots from his vision, it took all of Damian's self control not to rip the bastard's throat out.
"Fucking brat," big and ugly spat. "Stay down or I swear to god I’ll tip you over the side."
Damian believed him. He couldn't risk messing this up, anyway. Giving himself away. As much as he wanted nothing more than to get up off of the wet, freezing cold metal of the deck Damian did as he was told and stayed down.
Behind him his captor washed himself down and Damian took the opportunity to scope out what he was dealing with. From where he lay he could see three other men, two looked like sailors and one another thug. Damian knew from Grayson's intelligence before he'd left on this sorry excuse for a mission that there was a hired crew of eleven and a separate compliment of nine thugs for the shipment. Ten if you included Grayson. Or more like nine and a half, seeing as Grayson didn't have it in him to be thuggish enough to count as a whole bad guy. How he'd convinced the gang members he was the perfect addition to their smuggling operation Damian would never know. Maybe if this were a sailing ship it would make more sense; Grayson would be perfect for clambering about in rigging. But this was an old lumbering cargo ship with a sputtering, polluting diesel engine. Damian could feel the vibration of it under his hands.
The two crew members kept about their business, studiously ignoring him. They were afraid. Weak. Unwilling to stand against the thugs. Or maybe they just didn't care that some hulk of a man was beating up a little kid right in front of their eyes. Not that Damian was little. Or a kid. On principle, Damian hated them.
The other smuggler, a smaller man, bulked up by layers of warm clothes and a heavy rain coat, sidled his way over. He carried an automatic weapon lazily in his hands, a telling familiarity that this man's gun wasn't just for show.
He nodded towards Damian. "What have we here?"
"Stowaway. I'm taking him to the boss."
Damian was darkly pleased to see the puked-on thug was having difficulties getting the vomit out of his bootlaces.
The man with the gun kneeled down beside him. "Feeling a little rough, huh?" He sounded more amused than sympathetic. Damian wanted to break his nose. Damian wanted to break his entire face when the kneeling man poked him in the face. "He's a baby. How the fuck did he get on here?"
"He won't saying nothin' to me," big and ugly said. Grunted.
"Probably too scared. I bet he pissed himself." Man-with-a-gun laughed, and his puked on compatriot joined in, and Damian worried that if these two got any more stupid he as going to catch it.
Finally, finally they stopped laughing and big and ugly shook his head disbelievingly, dragging Damian up off the ground by the scruff of his neck.
"Boss'll get it out of him. Boss has got some real effective ways of getting kiddies to talk." His smirk was predatory. Sickening. As he was hauled along Damian resisted the very strong desire to murder the freak by thinking of every single method he knew to cause men pain.
It was a relief when big and ugly pulled Damian into another hatch way. Not much warmer, but a lot drier, those strong, too-loud gales no longer deafening him. Here, Damian could hear the murmur of conversation, the clatter and clunking of metal against metal. The engine rattled the walls, spitting and choking. Damian wondered how the ship had managed to escape being scrapped.
The man with the gun followed them through the hatch.
Big and ugly didn't bother to look back. "Aren't you supposed to be watching the crew?"
"They're not going anywhere," gun guy scoffed. "This is gonna be way more fun."
The world lurched suddenly again, tipping the big thug against Damian as he stumbled, only just managed to catch himself before he crushed Damian between is bulk and the wall. Damian's stomach twisted again and he felt the blood drain from his face.
"You puke on me again, kid," big and ugly said, "I will fucking kill you."
Damian believed him.
Straightening, the thug grabbed Damian roughly by the neck, squeezing to the point where Damian found breathing difficult. He gritted his teeth, let himself be led. Dragged along.
Days ago, back in the Batcave, Damian had studied the blue prints for the ship with Grayson, finding good defensive positions, ways to scupper the ship if he had to. Damian recognised the corridor they were in; crew quarters to the right, stairs down to the cargo areas to the left, and at the end of the hallway the mess area. The way they were headed.
The voices he'd heard as unintelligible murmurs grew louder, more raucous.
Damian could make out, "...will pay for a sports car."
And, "If we don't sink in this fucking storm. The crew are freaked."
"The crew are pussies," said another voice.
Encouraging.
Then another voice, telling whoever was listening to shut the hell up bitching and this one Damian would recognise anywhere. Dick.
It wasn't relief Damian felt, he was certain of it. It wasn't that he maybe didn't feel quite so helpless. He was just glad he wouldn't have to go home and tell his father his favourite circus boy had been murdered by a bunch of pathetically weak smugglers. He was glad to have back-up. That was why Damian was here after all. Grayson would understand that.
Big and ugly hauled Damian through the open door and into the biggest room Damian had yet seen on the ship. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, unwashed and unclean and that didn't help Damian's uneasy stomach one little bit.
"Guys, look what I caught," big and ugly declared, lifting Damian up by the neck and shaking him like he was a rag doll. It would be easy to break the bastard's wrist, Damian thought. It would. Even if his vision was greying at the edges and his head was fuzzy and thinking was getting kind of hard.
He heard Grayson yelling something that sounded like, "What the fuck," but couldn't be certain. Damian had never heard Grayson swear like that. He supposed it fit his cover though; down-and-out hired guns from out of town weren't supposed to be gracious, educated individuals.
The next thing Damian knew the fingers gripping his neck loosened, then let go, and Damian felt himself shoved sideways. He fell to the floor, trying to catch his breath. His throat hurt.
A hand settled lightly on top of his head. Blinking his eyes open, Damian saw Dick standing in front of him, glaring viciously at big and ugly, his free hand raised into a fist.
Big and ugly's eyes were wide in surprise and there was blood on his lip.
Grayson somehow managed to sound like he actually meant it when he said, "You touch him again and I swear to god I’ll break every bone in your goddamn body."
From the doorway the guy with the gun who'd followed them from the deck sneered, "He your boy? You got hobbies we don't know about?"
Grayson's eyes narrowed. "He's my brother, asshole."
Damian leaned his head against Grayson's leg, leaned into Grayson's touch in what he imagined to be a suitably brotherly fashion. Later, Damian was going to tell Grayson exactly what he thought of the insinuation that he was biologically related to the idiot, but for now he let it go. He didn't know the situation, was still unsteady when he clambered to his feet, shivering with the cold and holding onto Grayson's arm. Grayson's eyes never left big and ugly who was glaring back with undisguised disgust. He would be one to watch.
"And what the fuck is your brother doing on this little pleasure cruise?" ugly spat. He had a hand to his cheek, his skin already turning red, swelling into what would certainly become a spectacular black eye. Damian was almost impressed with how hard Grayson had to have hit him.
Pulling Damian closer against his side, Grayson frowned. "I dunno. The kid must've followed me."
It took all Damian's self-control to stop himself from bristling at being called a kid. This, obviously, was the cover Grayson was going with. It was weak. Unconvincing: who would ever mistake them for brothers? But Damian could see the logic to it. And Damian had, in truth, followed Grayson here.
There were four other men in the room, sat on the padded benches around the edges of the room, smoking or drinking or both. Damian could see the outline of weapons in the line of their clothes. Scars on their faces. Typical thugs. Ruthless, perhaps, but more than likely useless without a gun. None but two had any kind of the musculature dictated by a familiarity with hand-to-hand combat. It would have been a depressing example of criminality in the modern age- no challenge at all- if Damian still didn't feel like he was going to empty his stomach at every rise and fall. If he wasn't so damned cold. He clamped down on his teeth until his jaw hurt, knowing they would chatter if he let them.
In the far corner, the meanest, oldest-looking man leaned forward, looking Damian up and down.
"Your brother." He didn't sound convinced.
"Yeah." Dick gave up glaring at big and ugly in favour of addressing mean and old. "He won't be any trouble, boss. He knows how to keep his mouth shut."
Grayson squeezed his shoulder in warning and Damian nodded dutifully. This was humiliating. Playing the scared, needy brother. It was like impersonating Tim Drake. Grayson owed him for this.
"Oh, I know he won't," the boss grinned. His teeth were yellow. "What I want to know, Lyth, is how a kid got onto my ship. You were supposed to make sure no one knew about this little trip. In fact, I remember you guaranteeing it."
Predictably, the boss levered himself upright, prowled in what Damian supposed was meant to be a menacing way towards Grayson. Damian found himself being shoved unceremoniously behind his supposed brother. It was a ridiculous farce. Even Grayson could have taken out everyone in the room without much effort. But that wasn't what this mission was about.
Infiltration, Batman had said. Information gathering.
It seemed like even more of a pointless, time-wasting exercise to Damian now he actually had to be involved in it.
"I didn't know-"
Damian knew what was going happen the moment Grayson relaxed, preparing for the blow he could see coming. He took it, didn't fight back as this pathetic excuse for a leader's fist cracked across Grayson's face. He punched him again, and again, and Damian would've lashed out, broken the grinning fool's legs for beating his old partner if Grayson hadn't kept a tight hold on Damian's arm.
It was impossible to understand how Grayson could stand such treatment from low-lifes like these. And the other thugs laughed and snorted in amusement and the so-called boss didn't stop until Grayson's nose and mouth bled profusely.
"It was your job to know. Either you're lying or incompetent. I don't like either option."
The boss raised his fist again and Grayson raised his hands.
"I was looking for cops or those assholes from the South-side or something. Not my baby brother."
Damian was not a baby.
Grayson coughed, wiped blood away on the sleeve of his shirt. "He knows what I do." He shook his head. "Wants to be like me. You know what brat brothers are like."
And Damian did not want to be like Grayson, of all people.
"Kid wants to be a small-time thief and murderer like you?" Gun-guy, leaning lazily against the door frame, looked directly at Damian, face twisted in disbelief. "Get some aspiration, little guy. Your brother is a loser."
Be that as it may, Grayson was his loser. He was also supposed to be playing the devoted sibling, apparently.
"He is not!" Damian tried to sound as pitiful as he could.
The boss's attention shifted instantly to Damian. At least that would stop him hitting Grayson.
"He's not, huh?"
"No."
The boss leaned down until he was close enough that Damian could smell his terrible breath. His eyes searched Damian's face.
"And what do you think your brother's job is, kid?"
This guy was so creepy it wasn't difficult to feign unease. Damian reached up to hold onto Grayson's shirt, tried to inch behind him.
Back in the cave, Damian had read over this alter ego's profile. It had been as ridiculous and unconvincing then as it was now. "He... beats people up." How would a kid who didn't even know how to hold a knife properly understand this? "He makes lots of money."
Boss-guy smirked. "Gives it all to you and mommy and daddy does he? Family man, is he?"
The alter ego's profile had made him out to be ruthless, violent. Just the kind of man these smugglers would have been looking for. Not the family-loving, generous fluffy bunny Damian knew Grayson to be.
"Boss-" Grayson protested.
"The kid will answer or I'll gut him where he stands."
The way Grayson tensed told Damian all he needed to know; the man wasn't bluffing. Not that Damian could ever believe this supposed leader could touch him, let alone kill him, but Grayson's cover would be blown and the mission would be over. Damian couldn't imagine Batman would be very pleased with him. Grayson had been working weeks on this. If it hadn't been for the ridiculous cold and the abnormal rolling of the ship making him ill Damian would never have been found and everything would have been fine.
Damian attempted to look appropriately scared.
"No," he said. Without a briefing from Grayson on the situation, the less he said the better but he couldn't resist adding, "He only likes me."
The smugglers laughed.
"I look after the kid," Grayson cut in angrily. "He helps me sometimes."
Understatement, Damian thought sourly. Without me you would be dead twenty times over.
"Helps you do what?" Big and ugly sneered. "He looks fucking young enough to be in diapers."
"Lifting and carrying. Jesus, you assholes. You know kids are getting in on this shit younger all the time."
The boss eyed Damian in a way that made him inch further behind Grayson. Considering.
"I didn't take you for a guy who'd get kids involved in this life, Lyth," he said, not looking away from Damian.
At that Grayson shook his head, smiled wryly. "It's not like I have a choice. He's stubborn as hell."
They all stood in awkward silence, Grayson tensed and ready to fight if it came to that and the smugglers itching for beat something to a bloody pulp and the boss-guy still staring at Damian with his wrinkled, scarred face.
"You keep him out of the way. You feed him yourself. You lose five percent of your cut for failing to find a fucking child hiding out on my ship."
Grayson stepped forward angrily. "Wait a-"
"Be glad your brother isn't losing five percent of his face, Lyth," the boss spat, cutting him off. He turned to the other thugs, pointing as he ordered, "Search every inch of this bucket. If you find any more kids throw them over the side." He stalked out of the room and his gang followed obediently after him. Like dogs, Damian thought sourly. They muttered complaints under their breath, at losing out on the chance for a little torture and murder, Damian supposed. They growled threats to Grayson as they passed and shot Damian hateful sneers.
Pathetic lackeys, so weak they had to make themselves feel powerful by baring their teeth at a ten year old.
Big and Ugly stopped right in front of Grayson, too close to be anything other than posturing.
"I'm gonna find a reason to hurt you and the kid, you useless fuck, and I'm gonna enjoy it."
Grayson smiled and it was a cold, cruel thing. It looked all wrong on his face. He said nothing, instead turning to Damian, ignoring the thug. Damian was glad to see his smile turn to something less hateful.
"Come on, kid."
Facing him, Damian could see the extent of damage the boss-guy had done to Grayson; his right eye already swelling, blood drying on his lips and nose. Grayson wiped at the blood again with his sleeve before leaning down, picking Damian up. It was a completely unnecessary thing to do, even if Damian did perhaps feel a little less cold, and possibly maybe was glad to not have to stand on his unsteady legs anymore. He hadn't realised how tired he was until he laid his head on Dick's shoulder like he'd seen other kids do. Sappy, weak kids. The kind Damian hated but had to pretend to be and he wished very hard he had obeyed his father and stayed behind where there was steady land and everything didn't smell like rotting fish.
Graciously, Damian thought, he let himself be carried. Out the door, down a narrow, dim-lit stairway to the right, and then along a corridor that smelled strongly of exhaust fumes and damp clothes. For all its unpleasantness Damian had to admit it was warmer and drier than where he'd been hidden these past few days. For that he was grateful and he felt himself falling asleep, exhausted and sick and too tired to shiver from the cold, uncomfortable weight of his damp clothes against his skin. His throat hurt where the thug he'd puked on had throttled him and his cheek was starting to throb where he'd been hit. But he was still Damian Wayne so he fought to keep his eyes open. To memorise the path Grayson was taking in case he needed to find his way back later, to be aware of his surroundings.
The ship lurched suddenly to the side and back again and Damian's stomach lurched. He put his hands over his mouth, not wanting to vomit all over Grayson.
"Hang on." Grayson's hold on Damian tightened around him. He spoke so softly Damian almost couldn't hear him over the deep, continuous humming and clunking of the engines, the scraping of metal against metal as the ship pitched and fell. "We're nearly there."
It was odd. Damian didn't remember a time when anyone had held him like this before; protective, absurdly careful and mindful of his comfort. Only Grayson would be so effusive. At any other time Damian would have kicked him in the face for it. But, Damian reminded himself, it wasn't real any way. They were just playing parts; the responsible big brother and the adoring little brother. Meaningless parts. Even if Grayson was passably comfortable.
They turned a corner, descending into gloom and Damian grimaced at the oil and dirt streaked across the walls. His eyes were too heavy and he thought he might have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew there was bright light and someone was pulling his jacket off. Damian reacted instinctively, lashing out, his fist connecting satisfyingly with something soft.
"Jesus, Damian." Grayson's voice. He sounded irritated, like those times when he attempted to get his father to tell him his plans, or explain something. Grayson was either incredibly wilful or completely incapable of learning because in the short time Damian had known Bruce Wayne even he had come to understand that Batman did not explain himself to anyone. "I'm trying to help you," Grayson was saying and, oh yes; ship. Brothers. Damian wanting to be sick.
"I need a bucket," Damian said, because he wasn't about to admit that he had been taken by surprise, and he certainly wasn't going to apologise.
"There's one beside you. Open your eyes, kid."
Damian hated being called that.
"I have a name." Damian tried for indignation but felt the feeling was lost somewhere between his chattering teeth, his stomach roiling and Grayson yanking his sweater over his head. He was immediately wrapped in a blessedly dry blanket, Grayson pulling it tightly around him and rubbing his arms.
"You have a name I can't use here-"
"You just did," Damian pointed out petulantly.
"-I can't use again. What the hell are you doing here anyway?" A hand laid gently against his sore cheek. "And what the hell did they do to you?"
"I'm gonna puke," was all Damian could reply. He heaved and was glad when Grayson held out a bucket under him. He rubbed his back.
Grayson sighed. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"
"You needed back up," Damian tried to explain.
He blinked his eyes open blearily when Grayson's hand on his back went still. The expression on his face surprised.
"It's not that shocking," Damian glowered. "We were partners. Batman just has a higher opinion of your ability to not get yourself killed than I do."
Another long, heavy and what Damian thought was an unnecessarily melodramatic sigh. "You are so like your dad. I hate that I can't stay mad at you."
"You just realise that you need me." Damian tried for confident, superior, but it was difficult when his teeth were still chattering and the room around him was spinning.
"Yeah, sure. That must be it," Grayson snorted. He took his hand from Damian's back and Damian resisted the fierce urge to miss the warm touch. There was moving, Grayson opening and closing the door of a cupboard, or maybe he was leaving Damian. It was weirdly hard to concentrate. But then he was back, pushing a glass to Damian's lips. "Take these," he ordered. "Then sleep. We'll talk when you're awake enough to understand what's happening."
Damian would have protested because he understood perfectly well what was going on thank you very much, but the thought of sleep- of rest- was too enticing. He was almost warm out of his wet clothes, wrapped in blankets. There was a relatively comfortable mattress under him and at some point Grayson had put thick, too-big socks on his feet. Damian could feel the itchy material against his skin. So he obeyed, took the offered pills and drank cool water and laid down when Grayson told him to. More covers where piled over him until they were almost too heavy and despite the thought that he shouldn't be so ridiculously dependent, and that there was work to be done, and he didn't know the situation here Damian knew he could trust Dick.
As he closed his eyes, ignoring the discomfort in his stomach and the musty smell of the pillows under him, Damian was certain he felt a hand on his head, in his hair. Certain it was Grayson being needy, Damian let it go. It did not help the chills recede. It did not help his stomach settle. It did not help him find sleep.
***
Damian woke with a headache, an aching cheek and a sore throat, but warm and almost comfortable. There was the sound of gentle breathing somewhere close by; Grayson, Damian was certain. Sleeping on the job, as usual. Blinking his eyes open, Damian saw that there was a glass of water on the shelf beside the bed and he sat himself up, careful to keep the blankets around his shoulders, gratefully drank it all. He was hungry, too. Surviving for days on biscuits and stale bread would do that.
The ship still lurched and creaked around him and Damian's stomach still turned at every motion, but not as badly as before. The pills Grayson had given him must have been for motion-sickness. Just for that, Damian determined to attempt to give up insulting Grayson for an entire day. Unless he did something particularly ridiculous. Then Damian could not be held responsible for his reaction.
He leaned against the wall behind him, wood panelled and worn with age but clean enough. The sparse furniture in the small room were in much the same condition, decorated with Grayson's dirty clothes. A heavy, damp waterproof jacket hung from the door, a bag full of well-used, oil-covered tools beside it.
It was impossible to tell how long he'd slept; there were no windows here, but it felt like that time late into the night when the world was at its coldest, the morning at its closest. The ship seemed quieter somehow even though the engines still hummed and clunked. You could hear the ocean down here, Damian realised. They must have been below the waterline.
On the other side of the room Grayson sat slumped down in an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair, chin to his chest and eyes closed. The side of his face had swollen to an angry red and his eye had turned as purple and yellow as Damian had expected. There was grease and dirt on his clothes that hadn't been there when Damian had last seen him. In his sleep, Grayson had wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his hands into his armpits and Damian could understand why; it was freezing. Cold enough that Damian could see the fog of his own breath.
For a moment Damian considered waking his supposed brother. They had a great deal to discuss and to plan if they were going to both survive and complete this mission. But something in Grayson's undignified sprawl spoke of an exhaustion that Damian did not want to compound.
It wasn't in his nature but Damian waited. Or at least, he waited until his stomach decided it had had enough and he found himself throwing up into the bucket beside again. He was never, Damian decided, getting on a boat ever again.
It left him feeling ridiculously shaky, cold all over again, and then Dick was there at his side apologising and telling Damian it would be alright. That he'd be okay, when very clearly he was dying.
When Damian could breathe again Grayson held out more pills and water and Damian took both gratefully.
"I hate the sea," he complained.
"I think it feels the same about you," Grayson smiled, and Damian hated him very much at that moment. "Don't feel too bad. I've been taking the pills myself since this storm started." He frowned, looking up at the ceiling. "It's making doing anything other than helping to keep this bucket floating almost impossible."
Damian screwed up his nose. "That would explain when you smell so bad."
Of salt water and sweat and Grayson was too close, crowding into Damian's space, and what was new? He'd produced a damp cloth from somewhere and pressed it gently against Damian's inflamed cheek. The cool material was a relief.
"You're still here aren't you? And not at the bottom of the ocean?"
"At least I wouldn't get sick down there." Damian was tired of being ill and he was tired of being coddled by Dick. He pushed Grayson's hands away.
"We don't have time for this."
"Actually," Grayson said, "we have a whole lot of time. There's at least another three days until we reach port."
"And which port would that be?"
"I don't know." Grayson shook his head in frustration, pulled up his chair beside the bed and sat down heavily. "These guys just don't trust anyone. I've asked. They just say I'll find out when we get there, and what do I care anyway? I don't want to push it."
"You've been part of this group for weeks and you haven't even found out where this shipment is going?" Damian had always known Grayson was a hopeless case, but he hadn't realised the extent of his complete ineptitude.
"It's not that simple."
"What's not simple? If you can't convince them you find the information yourself. Or you beat it out of them."
For some unfathomable reason a smile ghosted across Grayson's face. "That's your dad talking."
"He would have gathered the information we require already."
Grayson gave Damian a long assessing look before making to stand. "I don't have the time to explain this to you, so I'm gonna let you work it out yourself. Here. In this room. I have to work to do and you are staying here."
He turned away, opening the door of what looked like a closet. The hinges were broken and the door hung crookedly as Grayson rummaged through a pile of clothes.
Damian did not come all this way to stay in bed. "I am not."
Turning back to face Damian, thick blue sweater in one hand, Grayson rubbed at his eyes, wincing as he put pressure on the bruising. "Please, for once, will you do as you're asked?"
"I told you I came here as back up and I meant it. If you can't do the job then I will."
"It's not about doing the job or not doing the job." He sighed, moved closer and lowered his voice. "At the beginning of this little pleasure cruise two of the crew tried to get into the shipment. Sawdon- the boss- threw them both over the side." There was a darkness to his expression that made Damian think Grayson wasn't telling him the whole story. Having met Sawdon and his associates Damian suspected there was probably torture and maiming involved before the end. That would explain why the members of the ship's crew that Damian had seen looked so frightened.
Another thing Damian had never understood about Grayson; why he continued to keep the very worst truths from him. Even knowing who his mother was. Knowing who his grandfather was and how he had been raised Grayson persisted in his nonsensical desire to try and protect Damian from the dark, violent world they inhabited.
"I'm working with the crew," Grayson went on. "There aren't enough of them to keep the engine working."
"That is not going to get us-"
"No," Grayson cut in. "But it's going to keep us moving and alive."
As if to punctuate the point, the ship lurched so violently that Grayson had to grab hold of the edge of the bed to keep from falling over. The empty glass slid from its place on the shelf, crashing to the floor.
Damian folded him arms. "Fine. I understand. I can still help."
"Did you miss the part where I said they threw the crew over the side? They were useful. You're -not. Not here, I mean. To them."
It was absurd, too, how Grayson seemed to care about Damian's feelings.
"They won't see me."
Getting his balance back, Grayson threw his sweater down onto the bed and knelt down, picking up the broken shards of glass. "Like they didn't see you hiding in the forward hold?" he said, not looking at Damian.
"I was sick."
"And you still are. You're not at your best. You'll make a mistake." When Grayson stood up, levelled his gaze with Damian's, there was something of his father's steel there. "I know from experience."
"Maybe you would, but I won't make a mistake."
"Dammit Damian." Dick took hold of his shoulders. "This arrogance is going to get you killed."
It was not arrogance, Damian wanted to argue. It was the truth. But he knew Grayson well enough to know that he was stubborn, inflexible when he had it in his mind that somehow Damian was going to do something to get hurt. Instead he said, "You used my name again."
"Alright, kid." Grayson backed away from the bed. "Stand up and convince me you can handle this."
As loath as he was to have to move from his warm nest of blankets Damian was determined to prove to Grayson that he was fine. It was no less than he'd seen Grayson do before. His father had told him stories of Grayson when he was the first Robin, who had survived insurmountable odds and come out the other side laughing. Damian could be better. Would be better. Then he realised; he had no clothes.
"Where is my shirt, big brother?"
"Ah! Sorry." Dick hurried over to the far corner of the room where there was a small heater, and over it hung Damian's clothes. Gathering them up Grayson grimaced. "They're a little damp still." He looked at his closet. "Maybe you could try on something of mine."
"Don't be ridiculous." Damian had to be less than half Grayson's size and twice as hygienic, judging by the pile of haphazard shirts and sweaters he could see. He held out his hands for his clothes.
He dressed quickly, trying not to shiver at the touch of half-dried fabric against skin. Grayson took the opportunity to change his sweater to the mildly less soiled one he'd thrown down on the bed. Undressed, Damian couldn't miss the deep purple and yellow bruising covering Grayson's back and sides. No stranger to that kind of damage it looked to Damian like bruises on bruises, built up over weeks.
"What happened to you?" he couldn't stop himself asking.
"They're in to fighting," Grayson shrugged, covering himself quickly. "I try to lose."
He succeeded too, by the looks of it.
"Now, show me what you can do, tough guy." Grayson put his hands on his hips, waiting.
It wouldn't be easy. Damian's legs felt unsteady even sitting down, and the constant swaying of the ship would only make staying upright more difficult. Cautiously, he slid to the edge of the bed, swung his legs over the side. He was still wearing Grayson's too-big socks. Something else to factor in as he put his feet on the floor, felt the irregular rise and fall beneath him. It was an unfair test, Damian thought sourly.
Standing wasn't the hard part; Damian kept his heels against the side of the bed, but as soon as he was on his feet the ship rocked and he overbalanced, pitching forward so suddenly he would have fallen had Grayson not been fast enough to grab a hold of him.
"I rest my case." Grayson sat Damian back down on the edge of the bed. "Just rest a while longer, okay? We can- reassess the situation when I get back."
Grudgingly, Damian had to concede that, for now, he had to stay put, build his strength, and that reminded him; "I'm hungry," he announced.
"I'll bet." There was a tin box on the room's tiny desk, tucked safely into the corner. From it Grayson took out a couple cereal bars. "There's chocolate in there too, if you want it," he said as he offered the bars to Damian. "But you might not want to try them until your stomach is better." He handed over a handful of pills, pointed out bottles of water hidden in the bottom of his closet. "Promise me you won't leave this room."
"Unless there's an emergency."
"Unless there's an emergency," Grayson allowed, then stopped himself. "Wait. What counts as an emergency with you?"
Damian tutted in irritation. "Just go, you idiot."
Grayson shook his head sadly. "I don't think that's something my adoring little brother would ever say to me. Got to stay in character, my young apprentice."
Damian's scowl was enough of a reply and Grayson held up his hands placatingly.
"I'm going."
Halfway out the door Grayson paused. "Don't think I'm not angry about this, kid," and with that he was gone.
And there was Damian thinking Drake was the dramatic one.
Maybe he was right to be angry though, because for all of Damian's training and diligence he had been discovered. He had let both his father and Grayson down. His being here had put them both in danger, added another complication. It had let to Grayson being hurt. Letting it happen. Damian wasn't going to apologise for being here because he was certain Grayson needed the assistance, but he was ashamed at his failure. He would not fail again.
***
There was an emergency. Or at least, what Damian classed as an emergency after sitting in Grayson's claustrophobic, untidy excuse for a room for hours on end. He'd slept. He'd found that Richard Lyth, Grayson's alter-ego, did not own a single book, kept knives under the mattress, and hid several thousand dollars in small bills in an air vent with a loose grill. Unoriginal.
Then, even over the loud thunking of the engines and the distant roaring of the sea Damian had heard the distinct sound of gunfire. He counted four shots. The sound echoed, reverberated through the metal structure of the ship. Fired inside. Pulling on his now mostly-dry sweater, Damian was headed out of the door in an instant.
Long, boring lectures and hard-learned lessons had taught him to use at least some caution, to assess the situation before engaging, so even though Damian wanted nothing more than to run he edged silently down the corridor. He checked every corner, identified blind spots, didn't stop even when two more shots were fired. Closer to the source of the noise now Damian could hear laughter and he moved just that little bit faster. He wasn't worried. He just wanted to know what was going on.
The steps up were the most problematic; they led upwards steeply, emerging blindly into the floor above and Damian had no idea if he would be seen. From the blue prints they'd looked over in the Cave, Damian knew it led up to another corridor, so there was no reason for anyone to be lingering there but he couldn't be certain. Damian cursed himself for not getting more information from Grayson when he'd had the chance. Too late now. Above him someone was yelling in agony, and the laughter suddenly cut out, a familiar voice demanding to know what the fuck is going on.
Grayson, doing his usual knight in shining armour routine, and this was really not the place. As Damian had suspected; it was impossible for Grayson to play the ruthless mercenary, and that was the precisely the reason he had decided Grayson needed back up.
Damian climbed the stairs quickly, prepared to fight if necessary, but the corridor was empty. Up here he could hear the argument more clearly. He followed the sound of their raised voices, keeping close to the wall, staying in the shadows as much as possible. His clothes were, at least, mostly dry now. He'd forgone shoes, too wet, because they'd creaked with every step he took, and instead had to rely on Grayson's over-sized socks to dampen the sound of his steps. His feet were cold.
"I caught him." Big and ugly's voice and Damian sneered.
"You can't keep killing the crew. We're too many hands down already. Did you notice there's a fucking hurricane going on outside?" Grayson, loud and angry.
"I don't give a fuck about the hurricane, pretty boy," Big and ugly spat. "The cargo-"
"Is going nowhere, you stupid bastard. We're in the middle of the ocean. Who the hell do you think he was going to tell?"
There was a roar of anger then the sound of fists against flesh; a fight.
"You don't call me stupid," Big and ugly roared, and then Damian heard a thud, a grunt of pain, and he was certain Dick was down.
There was maintaining your cover and then there was letting yourself get killed. Damian sprinted the rest of the way down the corridor towards the sound, not stopping to assess what he was running into. Grayson could berate him for his lack of caution later after Damian had saved his skin. He rushed through a hatchway and into what looked like an office, or what had once been an office because now it was a morgue. Blood stained the back wall, the bodies of two men were sprawled face down on the floor.
Big and ugly had Grayson by the throat, choking the life out of him. Throttling people must have been a hobby for him or something.
Both he and Grayson caught sight of Damian at the same moment, paused in surprise. Damian would have found it funny if he hadn't seen the glint of murder in Big and ugly's eyes, the blood on Grayson's face and the way he held his stomach. Damian launched himself at the thug, wishing he had a knife, a crowbar, anything to hurt him. But before he could lay a single punch Grayson kicked out, low, and Big and ugly went down hard. The next thing Damian knew Grayson had him by the collar, shaking his head at him and pushing him away.
"I will- kill you both," Big and ugly wheezed, furious. Damian could see his face turning red with rage. He was slow, no match for anyone trained by the Batman, even a softie like Grayson, and Damian watched as Grayson easily blocked an attack. He responded with an elbow to the thug's breastbone, easily breaking through his meagre attempts at defence.
"I told you. You don't touch my little brother." He punctuated words with punches, backhanded Big and ugly so hard Damian heard a crack, saw blood stain his cheek.
Foolish, sentimental idiot. Damian could look after himself.
Big and ugly was struggling back to his feet and Grayson had moved into a defensive stance when the boss flanked by two of his lackeys stormed into the room, weapons trained on Grayson's head. Damian clenched his fists but Grayson shot him a look he'd come to know too well from their time as Batman and Robin; stay where you are.
The boss took in the scene before him, Big and ugly cradling his jaw, the bodies going cold on the floor, red staining the ground, the way Dick moved to stand before Damian, and arched an eyebrow. "You've been holding out on us, Lyth."
"It's never a good idea to show all your cards from the start," Grayson said.
For a long time they stared at each other, long enough that the lackeys behind the boss guy- Sawdon, Grayson had called him- started fidgeting. Grayson held Sawdon's gaze, and Damian doubted that was not something Richard Lyth would have done.
Sawdon narrowed his eyes. "Lock the kid in the boiler room."
Grayson straightened, moved closer to Damian. "Boss-"
"Do it," the boss ordered. "If you try to stop them I will blow the kid's brains out myself. You will go down to the engines and you will keep us moving. You will stay there, and you will pray I let you go when we reach port."
Grayson stepped forward, moving to fight, and Sawdon must have seen it because he swung his gun towards Damian, found his target and fired. Damian had heard the loud retort of guns before, too many times to count, but it was somehow louder- deafening- when you realised that bullet was meant for you. He should have expected it, Damian found himself thinking in that instant. Batman taught them to expect everything and anything, and neither of them had anticipated this. He felt a burning sting across his face, heard Grayson shouting. But he was still alive.
"Brave kid," he heard Sawdon say, the world gradually righting itself, his vision clearing. He'd panicked, Damian realised. He'd actually panicked.
Then there was Grayson, kneeling in front of him and holding his face, tilting his head to the side and swearing, "Jesus. Jesus." It hurt when Grayson dabbed at his cheek with the sleeve of his sweater. The sound of his heart, beating too fast, was deafening in his head.
"Just a scratch," Grayson was telling him, laying one hand on Damian's shoulder. "It's just a scratch."
"It won't be next time." Boss guy, standing directly behind Grayson, and Damian didn't have time to warm him before Sawdon brought the gun down across the back of Grayson's head. The blow sent Grayson sprawling, landing close to the bodies on the ground. He hissed, still conscious, and that was something.
Two hands- not Grayson's- gripped his shoulders and Damian would have reacted on instinct, broken the strangers' hands even though he still felt strange and light-headed, but Dick was looking at him, told him, "Do as they say, kiddo. It'll be okay."
The meaning was clear; Fight any more and we'll both be killed. It was logical, Damian supposed. Locked doors and trap they could escape from. Bullets aimed at their heads in small rooms with nowhere to run was more difficult. Damian relaxed, let himself be pulled and shoved. As he was led from the room he looked over his shoulder to see Grayson being lifted roughly to standing by Big and ugly. There was that murderous, gleeful look in his eye again and Damian tried to tell himself that Grayson could look after himself. But if he really believed that then Damian wouldn't even be here.
***