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When Bruce finally wraps up his meeting and makes his way back to his office, it’s to a little boy out cold. Damian looks far too small in Bruce’s over-sized office chair, much too tiny swaddled up in Bruce’s suit jacket. He’s using it as a blanket, still trying to sleep off the side effects of the painkillers Alfred has him on.
Patrol last night hadn’t been kind. Damian had ended it with a nasty concussion and needing surgery, all to fish out a shattered bullet from deep in his thigh. With his combo of injuries, it left him needing to be monitored. Dick was needed back in Blüdhaven and hadn’t been available for the past three days. Jason was undercover up until Sunday, and Tim had left last night before patrol for San Francisco and his Titans team. Alfred himself was busy today with prior plans that Bruce hadn’t had the heart to tell him to cancel.
Henceforth, Bruce ended up pulling a ‘bring your child to work day’ earlier than the calendar called for. It wasn’t like Bruce was remarkably busy with Wayne Enterprises today. Besides the early morning meeting, all Bruce had to do involved a few stacks of paperwork to file through and sign- all things he could easily do while watching his son.
He pulls his phone out to check the time as he finds himself re-arranging his desk in order to get his work done. (He might also do it to grab a quick picture, but it’s not like Damian will ever know.) Everything decorating the front end of his desk like his nameplate and pencil cup is pushed to the sides so he can plop down- albeit gently- his work load. The clock reads 10:46, so Bruce opens his phone to Alfred’s carefully thought out instructions, sent to Bruce once he’d been informed that Bruce would be watching Damian.
It’s not yet time for medication or anything, so Bruce sets his phone back down and gets to work.
It’s easy to work- it’s almost as if there’s no one else in the room other than Bruce. Damian doesn’t make a sound, other than a muffled whine every once in a while. The chair he’s in probably isn’t helping him much, especially not for comfort, despite its price. In about an hour, Bruce has made a dent in the papers, and in another half, he decides there’s no better time to break for lunch than now.
He feels kind of bad when he gets to waking Damian up, but lunch is an important meal to have. When Bruce reaches for his son, he half expects Damian to jolt like he always does, highly alert to his surroundings. Instead, it takes a little more than just a shoulder pat to rouse him. When Damian does wake, he glares at Bruce and hazards a yawn.
“Hey, chum,” Bruce says, keeping his voice low. Damian goes to stand, possibly forgetting about his leg, but Bruce sweeps him up into his arms before his feet find the ground, careful to mind his wound. “I think it’s about time we get something to eat, hm?”
It’s only a little odd when Damian buries his head in the crook of Bruce’s neck instead of answering. Damian’s come leaps and bounds with his history of touch aversion, and pain meds- or, any medication, really- always seem to make Damian clingy. Bruce also suspects it might be partly because of the lights around them, possibly aggravating his headache.
“Have any idea what you want to eat?” Bruce asks. He’s not really expecting a response, and it turns out he’s not getting one either. There’s a little out-of-the-way sub shop Bruce already has in mind- he knows the owner there and they’re not too likely to be swarmed by the paparazzi while there.
The last thing Bruce needs right now is for the news to catch onto Damian’s injuries- it’ll become a big thing and, unlike Dick, Damian isn’t a very big fan of being in the media’s spotlight. The lie they’re using is flimsy at best right now- Damian fell off something, hit his head and sliced up his leg- and Bruce isn’t sure how keen he is about letting the press know about it.
Even making his way out of the office feels like it attracts too much attention. A good lot of his employees try to give him the space he and Damian desire, but others have important business things to discuss and questions to ask. The fact that Damian looks like he’s sleeping on Bruce’s shoulder helps a great deal- people keep their conversations short, or just let him go with a reminder to check his email around the time he finds his way back to work.
When they’re finally outside, it’s already ten past one, and Bruce is starting to think that driving sounds like a much better idea rather than his previous want for exercise. By the time they get there it’ll be almost two, and Bruce isn’t sure how comfortable Damian will be, being carried for over an hour.
In the end, Bruce’s subconscious makes his choice for him. His feet start walking towards the garage- one of those multi-level ones that Bruce absolutely loathes - on the side of WE. His car is only on the ground floor, put there by his paranoia, so it doesn’t take long before they can hit the road.
Damian wakes up again sometime while Bruce is struggling to buckle him into the backseat, looking much more groggy and annoyed than the first time he’d woken up. He starts to help but his arms are slow and Bruce manages to buckle him in before assistance is required.
“Where are we going?” Damian asks, quietly. His Middle Eastern accent sips in, but it’s much less heavy than it had been the night before. He looks much more aware than he had been earlier, and much less likely to search out physical touch.
“Out for lunch,” Bruce replies. “We’re getting subs.”
“Oh.” Damian’s nose scrunches up. He locks his eyes onto the console of the front seat, but he must not be able to make sense of it, because he ends up looking out the window once Bruce shuts the back door and climbs into the driver’s seat. Bruce starts backing out of the parking spot, when Damian asks, “What time is it?”
“Almost two,” Bruce replies, waving to someone in the garage as he exits. “The office was a bit busy today. I’m surprised you didn’t wake up while we were leaving.”
Again, Damian only mumbles out an, oh.
Since Damian seemingly isn’t up for conversation, the ride passes by silently. Somehow, Bruce manages to catch red light after red light- it’s as if every higher power in Gotham, or even just the city itself, is working against Bruce, just to keep him from getting lunch. To honestly think that today had been the only day that Bruce wanted to pass by smoothly. (Well, okay, he wants every day to pass smoothly. Today especially.) As he finds himself a parking spot close to the sub shop, he mutters words that shouldn’t be muttered- At least it can’t get any worse- and forgets to knock on wood.
By the time he gets Damian out of the backseat- Damian had spaced out and almost taken out Bruce’s eye with the pen he’d found in the cup holder- the clock on his phone reads 1:48. Bruce groans. It shouldn’t take almost two hours to arrive somewhere- let alone somewhere so close to Wayne Enterprises.
The next time this happens, he decides, I’ll just order in.
The walk to the sub shop proves relatively easy. Bruce only gets stopped once, by an older couple- two ladies, walking arm in arm in those expensive fur coats that Stephanie always squeals about. For far too long, they stop him to talk about his plan to renovate some of Gotham’s abandoned warehouses, into things like apartments or hospitals. While Bruce Wayne was doing it to ‘clean up the city’, Batman was done with warehouses. The chat took a decent chunk of time out of their lunch, and while Bruce technically didn’t have to go back to work, he’d have liked too, if only for the paperwork he hadn’t finished.
The only reason they even break away from the conversation is because Damian forces out a whine, along with a loud- and completely fake- complaint.
Once the ladies are out of ear shot, Damian huffs, “I don’t see why you entertain everyone’s opinions. You could have just told them you had something else to do, and never had talked to them in the first place.”
“Appearances are necessary,” is all Bruce says. He’s happy that Damian’s talking more, although he doesn’t fail to notice how Damian slows his words to keep them precise- and to keep himself from slurring, or letting his accent show. “I believe you’ll understand when you’re older. Are you feeling any better?”
Tersely, Damian replies with a choppy, “I’m fine,” and lets the conversation fade away. Thankfully, Bruce is close enough to the sub shop to close the gap and yank the door open, moving to set Damian down at the closest table. Bruce kneels down before him as he fishes out his wallet, swinging his suit jacket onto the back of Damian’s chair. There’s two other tables, but both are empty, so Bruce assumes that he’s missed the lunch rush. That, or the shop certainly got far less popular since Bruce’s last visit.
“Hungry?” Bruce asks.
Damian shrugs. “I’ll just have some of yours.”
“I was going to get meat on mine.”
Damian lets his nose scrunch up again, brows furrowing. Dick’s always said how adorable Damian is when he pouts, and Bruce thinks he’s right. “I don’t know what I want,” he mutters. “I’m just tired.”
The sentence speaks volumes about how well Bruce’s relationship with Damian is progressing. Back when Damian had first come to Gotham, he hadn’t wanted to admit ‘weakness’ to Bruce- he’d idolized Bruce to a point where Bruce wasn’t just Damian’s father, or his hero. In Damian’s eyes, Bruce could do no wrong. Damian considered hunger a weakness, along with getting hurt or being tired. While he’d complained plenty, it had always been for show. All Damian wanted to do was test how much slack Bruce would give. Admittedly, it wasn’t much, at first.
But they’ve gotten better. Much better. Damian knows that Bruce isn’t perfect. Damian knows that getting hurt, or being human is okay.
“I know,” Bruce placates, reaching up to tousle Damian’s hair. “As soon as we get back to W.E., you can sleep for as long as you’d like.”
Instead of pressing into what Damian wants to eat, Bruce only promises to get him something small. He gets into line behind a jogger, hair pulled up in a tight ponytail, and clad in tight workout clothes. Their leggings even have pockets, which Stephanie would freak out about, for some reason. In their ear sits one earbud, the other dangling in the air. Nothing’s playing, or if something is, it’s too quiet for Bruce to hear.
Bruce gets to studying the menu, rather than the young person before him. He already knows what his order is- he’s been here enough times to have his own ‘usual’. But, he’d never really checked the menu for vegan options- which he promptly kicks himself for, because he should’ve checked before leaving W.E.
In the end, he decides on something small. It’s chock full of leafy greens and tomatoes, with a slight hint of spice. It’s not enough to fill you up, but Bruce reckons it’ll tide Damian over until he’s hungry enough to eat something else.
When Bruce gets to the counter, the employee greets him with a grin. Bruce doesn’t need the name tag to know their name.
“Mr. Wayne!” he greets. He’s the owner’s kid, with a future (and a mind) as bright as his smile. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Carter,” Bruce replies. The door swings open behind him as the jogger exits the shop. “How are your classes going?”
“Just swell, sir,” he says, no hint of sarcasm on his tongue. “Dad says I’m getting rather good grades! Actually, I was just about to end my shift. Once I ring you up, I’ve got a study session to catch with a couple friends from University.”
Bruce nods. “I won’t keep you long, then.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mr. Wayne! What can I get you?”
Just as he’d said, Bruce is quick to wrap up his order. Carter nods and ducks into the back once he’s rung Bruce up, allowing for the owner to take up his spot and hand over Bruce’s subs. The owner- a big man, almost as tall as Jason, with a big belly, known to Bruce only by his last name- greets Bruce with the same smile Carter had flashed, reaching out to shake Bruce’s hand.
Once they exchange hellos, he peers behind Bruce. “‘S not Timmy, is it?” Mr. Ewell asks. He’s met every single one of Bruce’s wards, including Stephanie and Cassandra. Damian’s the only one that Ewell hasn’t met, yet. “Kid ‘s too small to be him.”
Bruce lets out a chuckle, glad to humor a short conversation. “You can replace the Batman with those smarts, Ewell,” he says fondly. Ewell lets out a booming laugh in return. “That’s my youngest son, Damian.”
“Damian,” Ewell repeats. “Where’d you pick him up?”
“I don’t think I picked him up,” Bruce says, vaguely. He likes Ewell, but he’s got the feeling that he should really get moving. “I think he picked me.”
Ewell laughs again, reaching over to clap Bruce on the shoulder. When Bruce pulls back, he leans down behind the counter. “I’ve got something for your Damian, then,” he grunts, dropping to his knees to grab it. “I’ve given one to each kid you bring in here- now where did I put them-?”
Bruce, for the life of him, can’t remember what Ewell had given Tim the first time they’d come here. Or Cassandra, for that matter. It might be a pin, for all Bruce knows.
Behind him, the door opens again. Damian shifts in annoyance, letting out a short whine as he shifts.
He racks his brain, trying to think of what Ewell might be grabbing. Whatever it is, he had to have given one to Stephanie too, which means Bruce has seen it more than once or twice. So, what is it?
Finally, Ewell’s arm shoots up, clutching a mint green box in his hand. His head pops up, face plastered over with a beaming smile-
It fades, the moment Ewell’s eyes fix on the area behind Bruce. Ewell struggles to his feet, far too fast, and Bruce whirls around, paranoia crawling it’s way up his face and pulling at his gut and-
BANG!
(An alleyway. Dark night. Zorro. Pearl necklace. Beads smashing against the pavement. A shrill scream. Shortcut. Father-)
Bruce drops to the ground at the same time he hears a thump ring in his ears. His heart is pounding furiously in his chest. The rational part of his brain- the one that’s been thrown around on Gotham’s streets for a thousand and one nights- works to subdue his panic. He picks the situation apart, compartmentalizing it. That’s Ewell behind him, possible bullet wound. Said wound inflicted by the gun in the hands of the six foot man standing in front of Bruce, his size hiding his companion and Damian out of sight-
Damian.
Damian.
Bruce isn’t Batman, right now. He’s only Bruce Wayne, expensive and far too well known. He can’t just rush into battle this time, even if the only witness would be Ewell and the two crooks. There’s cameras. His secret identity is too precious- too dangerous-
But there’s no heroes here. There’s no vigilantes in town besides Spoiler, right now, and- Stephanie’s in school right now. Even Duke’s out on a trip, unable to help them.
Bruce is all on his own.
His mind, above every other thought swirling around, says, Protect Damian. He has to make sure that no further harm comes to his son. It’s something that feels impossible, though, by the time that Crook #1 steps aside, making way for Crook #2, who has Damian held up in his hands. Damian’s face is twisted up in pain, and something that looks like terror. His eyes are clouded as he grits his teeth, hands wrapped around Crook #2’s wrist. Bruce can’t tell if it’s all for the sake of the act when Damian lets his face crumple into tears-
It pulls at all of Bruce’s instincts regardless, screaming and telling him, Do something, Bruce.
Before he can do anything rash, Crook #2 tosses Damian at him. Bruce catches Damian as carefully as he can, holding his son to his chest. He glares at Crook #1 as his companion gets to locking down the shop.
Crook #1 herds Bruce and Damian into the back of the shop, leaving Ewell up front. It takes all of Bruce’s energy not to tear into them for that- if he can’t help Ewell now, he might not be able to at all. Damian lets out a sharp whine when Bruce stumbles forward, nearly falling into a box of fresh, packaged meat. He hears Crook #1 shout back at #2 to open the register as he waves the gun in Bruce’s face.
“Father-?” Damian tries.
Bruce shushes him, one hand cupping the back of his head. “We’re going to be just fine, sweetheart,” he tries. “They’re only here for the money.”
“They shot him-”
“I know,” Bruce says, empty. “I know.”
Damian’s eyes cloud over again, looking far away. A full body tremor racks his body, as he hisses out a low, Mother. Bruce just runs a hand through Damian’s hair. He knows that the men out front have nothing to do with Talia or Ra’s.
“It’s just a flashback,” he says, quietly, waiting for Damian to pull himself back together as best he can. “Breathe for me. Can you do that? Deep breaths-”
“Shut the hell up back there!” Crook #2 shouts. Crook #1 steps forward, letting off a stray shot that digs into the floorboards by Bruce’s foot. Damian whimpers. The crooks are irrational, going by the code ‘shoot first, questions later’. That doesn’t bode well for their chances, but Bruce will be damned if he lets Damian get hurt.
For show, Bruce shouts back, “What is wrong with you?” He holds Damian tighter in his arms, forcing Damian’s head into his shoulder.
“I can’t believe we caught us a Wayne,” Crook #1 sneers. He gestures with the gun at Damian. “Two Waynes, by the looks of it.”
“You killed Ewell, and you think I’m going to give you money?” Bruce cries.
The man before him crouches down, fingering the trigger of his gun. With a toothy smile, he says, “Unless we get our money, I think that your little boy there will end up just like him.”
Bruce can only stare up at the crook before him, helpless.
There’s no one other than Dick to answer a ransom call, and even then, the chances of Dick picking up are slim to none. Bruce has seen enough hostage situations to know that these two are serious. If no one picks up on the first try, they’re going to send a bullet straight into one of their skulls. There’s no way in hell Bruce is going to let that happen to Damian, but they’ll shoot him first if they’re looking for cash. They need Bruce, not Damian.
Damian only serves as leverage.
The thought shakes Bruce to the core.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay, okay. I’ll get you your money,” he says.
He won’t, of course. He doesn’t think that Crook #2 has a gun of any sort on him, so if he can just disarm Crook #1, his chances are good. By fighting, though, Bruce is almost guaranteeing that his secret identity is going to go out the window. But, the Wayne family has only paid ransom once, and Bruce never wants to think about that day ever again.
Bruce can get them out of this. He can.
“Ah-ah,” Crook #1 sings, pulling out his phone. “I know you’ve got a thousand little brats around the city. You just sit nice and tight there, and you give me their number, so I can call them. See? You don’t have to lift a single finger. And if you do…”
He waves the gun in the air.
Bruce thinks that his chances have just gone up.
Besides being trigger happy, it’s clear that they’re careless. Bruce can use that. All he has to do is be quick about it, and get Crook #1 out of the way before #2 suspects that something’s happening. He can do that. He thinks he can do that.
The number that Bruce gives them is to Dick’s apartment in Blüdhaven. If he’s home, then it’ll just buy Bruce extra time to react. If he’s not, Bruce will just have to pray that he’s fast enough. Subtly, as Crook #1 punches in the number, he shifts so that he can slide Damian onto the floor and tackle Crook #1 before he realizes what’s happening.
As soon as Bruce hears the third ring, he’s off like a shot. Damian- thankfully- doesn’t let out much more than a sharp gasp, and once Dick’s voice breaks through over the phone, it’s already skidding across the floor towards Damian. Bruce hopes that Damian is aware enough to grab it and to call for help, but he’s not counting on it. Quickly, Bruce slides his foot behind Crook #1’s leg, making to slam him into the ground. At the last second, he catches the crook by his jacket, softening the noise he would have made.
It costs him a punch to the jaw, but it’s worth it to not have Crook #2 running in already.
Bruce reaches for the gun and pries it from the crook’s hand, and he makes the second mistake of the night. Instead of staying on top of Crook #1 and forcing his silence, he flings himself back towards Damian and plucks the phone from the ground, leveling the gun at the crook. Though Batman doesn’t use guns, Bruce- right now- isn’t above shooting his lower leg, just to get them both out of here unharmed.
“Damian, you need to tell Dick to call 911,” Bruce orders, as Crook #1 climbs to his feet. “Tell him we’re at Ewell’s sub shop.”
While Damian does fumble for the phone, he’s too slow to prevent Dick from hanging up. He gets to backing out of the screen to type in 911 himself, but Crook #1 reacts too fast. The crook shouts back for his partner and slams bodily into Bruce, knocking him off of his feet, and pulling the gun from his hands. Once Bruce is on the floor, and Crook #1 is looming over him, the crook kicks at Bruce’s ribs hard enough to make him cry out. Then, he yanks the phone from Damian’s hand, leveling the gun at him.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Wayne.”
The gun goes off again, and this time, Damian’s screams are loud enough to drown out those of Martha Wayne’s, as she slams into the pavement decades earlier. The memory of long Gotham nights flood Bruce’s veins, forcing him to his feet. Out of desperation, he attacks Crook #1 again, the sound of foreign- and yet all too familiar- sobs driving him forward.
Later, when he and Tim scan through the footage of the fight, he’ll notice that he hadn’t been fighting anything like Batman. Gone are the moves that Bruce has trained to perfect for years, instead replaced by the suffocating need to get out and protect Damian. He’s fighting like a father- one afraid to lose his son- and as it turns out, fathers can fight dirty.
With a battle cry, Bruce pushes Crook #1 off balance, before pulling his knee up in a mirror image of one of Jason’s moves- one of his more desperate ones, actually, and one that he’s pulled on Bruce once or twice. His knee connects between the crook’s legs, sending him crumpling to the ground. The gun clatters away and Bruce kicks it, hurtling it past Damian and to the back door.
He doesn’t have time to fall back and check on Damian before Crook #2 comes in, spitting out, what the fuck is going on, Freddy. Faster than Bruce can work with, there’s arms around Bruce’s waist, hoisting him up. He’s tossed to the side as quickly as he was picked up. Bruce rolls once, twice, thrice, until he finally comes to a stop under a fallen pile of greens, tucked away into clear tupperware. One slaps Bruce right over the head, hard enough to make him groan.
The thought of either one of the men- or, Freddy and the second crook, apparently- grabbing the gun again drives Bruce onto his hands and knees. Even though his ribs scream at him, he manages to wheeze out Damian’s name. Damian only replies with a tearful, Father-
Crook #2 looms over Bruce, and all Bruce can do is hope that they didn’t grab the gun. He can’t even tell Damian to run, right now. There’s absolutely nothing that Bruce can do to protect him.
A foot slams into his side, cutting off his thoughts and pushing him back into the pile of tupperware. Damian cries out, Father!, again, his accent slipping into his voice. No matter how much that accent might remind Bruce of Talia, Bruce can’t help but adore it.
A horrible thought hits Bruce at the same time as the second kick. He might just die here, in front of Damian. Or Damian might die here, bloody, bruised, and bleeding out. If Bruce dies, he won’t ever get to tell Damian how proud he is. He won’t be able to tell Jason that- or even Dick, or Tim. Bruce won’t get to watch Duke flourish into the bright young man he’s meant to be, or get to see Cassandra dance anymore as she continues to learn more and more. There won’t be anymore impromptu waffle brunches with Stephanie-
Oh God-
No.
Bruce won’t let himself die here. He won’t let Damian die here, even if it’s the last thing that he does-
Another kick comes. This time, Bruce rolls with it, using the force of the kick to roll onto his side and push himself up. Before he can get off of his hands, a foot comes to rest on the back of his neck. There’s a hiss by Bruce’s ear, a voice saying, “Don’t even try it, Wayne.” Bruce waits for the foot to force him back into the ground. Instead, the foot disappears.
Two hands snake their way into Bruce’s hair, pulling his head up long enough for him to get a glimpse of Damian and the broad chest of whoever’s holding Bruce up. His son is slumped on the floor completely, curled up around his shoulder. His eyes- green, just like Talia’s- bore into Bruce’s.
Bruce’s head slams down onto the crook’s knee, and Damian’s shriek of “Baba” is heartbreaking.
He can almost feel his nose shatter from the force of it. Bruce ends up falling onto his side when the hands disappear, only to return at the back of his neck, keeping him in place. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Freddy repeats.
Crook #2 lifts Damian up from the ground. Bruce can feel his heart fall to his feet at Damian’s following scream. Both of them are too powerless to even struggle against their captors.
“Please,” Bruce hazards. “Put him down-”
In response, Crook #2 shakes his head. His companion replies, “We’re going to call your other brat again. No funny business, or I’ll have Bobby here kill your boy for real. Understood?”
Damian tries to call out for Bruce again, but his words only dissolve into sobs. Bruce tries to find the humor in their names, like Jason or Dick would have done. Bobby and Freddy. Bobby and Freddy.
It doesn’t work. All Bruce can think about is how he’s never seen Damian act like this before.
It scares him, if he’s being completely honest. Damian had glared down the barrel of a gun last night, daring Penguin’s goon to pull the trigger. He’d spat curses and insults like he was only bantering with one of his brothers. Bruce had been held down, just like now, but he’d also been Batman. As soon as the trigger went off, he was able to react. It makes Bruce wonder how much of this- right now- is an act. Though, with how loopy Damian had been earlier, he finds it a little hard to believe.
But, even so, Bruce wants this whole thing to be an act. If it is, that means that Damian’s okay.
Bruce doesn’t know what to do, and that scares him, too. If he fights, and he fails, he’s risking Damian’s life again. There’s not even a guarantee that Dick will answer again. No matter how much Bruce knows he’ll answer an unknown number, the chances of him answering the same number twice is a long shot. He’ll just have to hope he does- or hope that he’s noticed that something was wrong that first time, or-
That’s a lot of hoping, Bruce thinks.
“It hurts,” Damian’s pleading. “Please-”
Bobby roars, “Shut up!”, as Freddy dials Dick’s number again. The first and second rings have Bruce’s heart pounding, and the fourth has it thudding violently against his ribcage. Pick up, Bruce wills. Pick up, pick up, pick up-
The call rings out.
Bobby’s reaction is enough to scare Damian into action. With another shout, he jostles Damian, crying out, “You’ve fucked it all up, you goddamn Wayne!” With the momentum, Damian kicks out as hard as he can with his good leg. Bobby drops him in surprise, and Damian hits the ground hard. Bruce knows that Damian’s not going to get up, so he tries one last time to force Freddy back. He can’t fail this time. If he does, there’s no way to know if they’ll make it out alive.
Bruce bucks up, slamming Freddy into the boxes behind him. When he can, he spins around and jabs his fingers into Freddy’s eyes- a move that he’d never dare to pull as Batman. While Freddy cries, he slams his elbow down onto his nose, hoping it’ll be enough to keep him down as he turns around to take on Bobby.
He catches Bobby before the crook can attack Damian again. Bruce wraps his arms around Bobby like he’d done to Bruce earlier, and with a grunt, pulls and then pushes. Bobby teeters down onto Freddy, who mistakenly attacks his companion in his panic. Using their confusion, Bruce sweeps down to pull Damian into his arms, saying, sorry, sweetheart, I’m sorry, just bear with me a moment longer.
Once Damian’s arms are looped around Bruce’s neck, Bruce rushes out of the back room. The front of the shop feels prickly and hot. With great care, Bruce steps around Ewell and ignores the feeling pooling in his gut, his adrenaline to caught up in urging him to get out of the shop, get out of the shop, get out of the shop, Bruce.
He only stops to yank his jacket off of the chair, pulling his phone out of the pocket to dial 911. The door to the shop has been locked and the blinds have been pulled, but the door’s made of glass- and not the expensive kind that Wayne Enterprises is built of. Twisting enough to keep any glass from getting onto Damian, Bruce slams into the door once. The entire upper part of the door bursts easily, and a kick to the bottom part has the same effect. Carefully, Bruce worms his way out and onto the street, pressing the phone up to his ear.
Around him, Gotham City bustles about her day, her people turning a blind eye to the gunshots sounding from the little sub shop tucked away. Those who walk by Bruce look at him with wide eyes, but they know how to survive in Gotham- Don’t interact with the dangerous and weird.
Right now, the broken glass scattered among the sidewalk, and Bruce’s bloody and rumpled person count as the ‘dangerous and weird’.
Someone picks up. “9-1-1,” they say. “What’s your emergency?”
“My son’s been shot,” Bruce croaks. “Someone’s dead- there was an attempted hostage situation inside Ewell’s shop, but I got out. They’re still in there, I think.”
It’s enough of a hook to get an ambulance and a few cop cars on the way- including Gordon, once Bruce tells the operator his last name. Though they tell him not to hang up, Bruce does, seating himself on the curb across from the shop, and cradling Damian against his chest. Damian’s face is in the crook of his neck, though Bruce knows he’s awake, because his lashes tickle against his skin every few seconds.
Eventually, Bruce’s phone rings again. Since he’d had it on vibrate, he has to look at the name tag to see who it is.
It’s Dick.
Despite himself, Bruce answers, pressing the phone to his ear. Absentmindedly, he rubs a thumb against Damian’s back, careful to not irritate his shoulder. “Dick?” he asks.
“B!” Dick cheers, voice tinny and tired. “You sound like you’ve had a long day, huh? Well, I’m only calling to tell you that I’m coming home tonight! So if you could let Dames know, that’d make my day. Oh! And I got the weirdest call today from an unknown number! It was a Gotham number, so I don’t think it was a telephone marketer, but once I answered, it was just kind of silent for a while. Like, there was a thud, as if someone dropped their phone, and then nothing! People these days… Is Dames asleep?”
Bruce lets Dick’s voice wash over him, unable to make himself interject. He’ll just have to text Dick and let him know to visit them at the hospital, rather than the manor tonight. “Yes,” Bruce replies, only so that he doesn’t have to make Damian move. Damian can hear Dick’s side of the phone, and if he wants to say something, Bruce won’t stop him.
Suddenly, Bruce remembers something.
“I have a question for you,” he says.
“Go for it,” Dick replies.
“You remember Ewell’s sub shop, don’t you?”
“I do- Did you finally take Dames there?”
To himself, Bruce nods, earning a quiet whine from Damian. “Something like that. You don’t happen to remember what Ewell gave you, do you?”
Dick lets out a gasp, and something tries to shake inside of Bruce’s chest. “I do!” he says, shifting the phone. “Actually, I’ve got it hanging up right here. It’s a picture of you- Timmy and Jay got the same one, and I’m pretty sure that Cass and Steph did too. He wrote on it, ‘Just so you remember that even he was young once.’ You’re laughing in it.”
Bruce thinks, huh, and he lets Dick’s voice carry him on until the ambulance arrives.
“I’m really proud of you, Dick,” he says, before hanging up. “I’ve always been proud of what you’ve done- you know that, right?"
“I do,” Dick repeats. “I love you, B.”
“I love you too,” Bruce ends.
The call terminates and Bruce feels like he’s somewhere else as they load Damian into the ambulance. Later, tomorrow morning, he’ll walk back into his office at W.E., having just finished a meeting, and it’ll be to two sons, wrapped up around each other. Both of them will be out cold, and Bruce will make mistake number three-
Things can’t get any better than this.