Chapter Text
By the time the tank runs empty, Damian is certain he’s driven for at least 15 hours straight. The sun has peaked through it’s peachy clouds, the radiant beams outstretched around the quiet horizon on Coast City.
Already there’s an aching behind his lids, and the sunrise only adds to the irritation. Not to mention the growing tightness in his throat, courtesy of the countless hours he spent crying, like a pathetic whelp who needed his mother to hold his hand.
Damian is furious at himself. Enraged . And as he steps out of the now useless vehicle he’d hotwired the evening before, he slings his knapsack over his shoulder and pulls his hoodie over his head. With a final sweep of the interior of the car, he takes off.. He surveys his surroundings, just to ensure that no one’s prying eyes linger too long on a lone child stepping out of a vehicle. The parking lot that he’s in is hardly populated, which is to be expected considering it’s just shy of 5:30 in the morning. But there’s cars sprinkled around here and there, and with the supermarket he’s found himself in being open 24/7, there’s bound to be nosey people there. He sincerely hopes though that he’s managed to mix in with the nonchalant morning crowd.
He just needs a few things for the road. Some food and some more tools to break into the next car. No need to keep the same one he stole, not when the cops are probably looking for it.
Not when Grayson is looking for him.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, averting his gaze from the other shop goers as he maneuveres himself through the large isles. He just needs the basics. Food, packets, first aid supplies, and batteries. He supplies himself within the first ten minutes, debating on whether or not he should steal what he’s gotten. There’s money in his pocket, courtesy of his Father’s pockets. It’s not a lot, considering Bruce Wayne apparently doesn’t carry cash, but it’s enough to get him place to place.
In the end, he decides to pay. No need to cause a ruckus when, especially when he’s going to be stealing a car from the parking lot. Being a lone child purchasing items at 5:00 a.m in the morning is suspicious enough, he doesn’t need to draw more attention to himself by stealing.
On his tippitoes, he slides his coins and bills over towards the teenage aged cashier, answering his questions with an already prepped answer.
“You alone, kid?”
“My dad’s sick,” he supplies, “we live alone and he doesn’t have anyone to shop for him except me. It’s not far, my house is two minutes up the road by foot.”
He doesn’t need to do much to convince the man not to ask more questions, but he gives him a knowing like he’s not the only kid that’s come up with that excuse. There’s a part of Damian that gets a bit nervous, especially as his eyes fall on the “Human Trafficking Poster” behind the man’s head. He may have dropped the conversation with Damian, but there’s nothing indicating that he wouldn't call the cops.
With a swiftness, the young assassin snatches the bag from the rotating rack, plowing through the store and towards the exit. Still there aren’t many people, but there were certainly more than there were to begin with. The sun has risen higher through the clouds and is irritatingly bright. Damian catches a glimpse at it as he makes his break towards the parking lot. It’s distracting to say the least, so much so that Damian drops his gaze out of instinct. He’s so used to operating in the shadows.
Distracted, Damian doesn’t realize the patron that walked in, eyes glued to his phone.
To his shock, both collide into one another, Damian bouncing off of his legs, and the man steadying himself so that he doesn’t trip. Damian on the other hand nearly loses his footing.
“Whoa there buddy, you alright there?” Before he can protest, the man in question steadies him, large hands on his shoulder, “You could’ve gotten yourself hurt.” There’s such concern that floods his voice that Damian’s heart drops. The man is so gentle with him, and he dotes over him like Damian wanted father--no--Bruce to. He touches him unaware of the baggage he carries, of the shame he is.
“Kid?”
His brown eyes are knitted together tightly, his eyes scanning the store for assistance. “Where are your parents, maybe--”
“I’m fine,” Damian defaults to his normal stubborn self, shoving the man off of him and standing himself straight, “I do not require your assistance.” He leaves to the sound of the man’s obvious concern, refusing to look back as he enters the parking lot.
Besides, he managed to pick the man’s pocket. No need to make friends with him when he’s going to be stealing his car.
With some trial and error, Damian finds the car.
It’s quite generic, the only unique accessory being the “Air Force Veteran”* license plate. That’s not an issue for Damian though. He doesn’t need something big and flashy, just something to get him to where he’s going next. After adjusting the seat to acclimate to his small size, Damian searches through the car for some sort of identification. He finds it in the form of the insurance information in the glove compartment.
“Harold ‘Hal’ Jordan…” Damian reads, the name somewhat familiar in his tongue.
Regardless, Damian doesn’t ponder too much longer on it. He doesn’t have time to sit there and wonder, and immediately turns the car on and presses the gas. The car moves forward into the empty space in front of him.
And then--
“Thunk”--
He’s met with a painful jolt forward, head nearly slamming into the steering will. For a split, split second, Damian swears he sees some sort of vibrant green construct in front of him, like a tiny brick wall, but green. Though as quickly as he’s seen it, it’s gone.
Did he hit his head too hard? Has the exhaustion finally gotten to him? Damian doesn’t have time to even think about his answer, as a tapping against his window draws his attention elsewhere. Standing by the car, bent down slightly and peering into the car is the man from earlier.
“So, when you didn’t need my assistance” I'm guessing that was a lie?”
---
Damian considers his options. With precision perhaps, he can render the man unconscious and drive away with his car. He can use the door as a shield to knock the man over and drive away. But then he recalls the green construct and the familiar, familiar name.
Something is off about this situation, about this man. And without knowing just what it is, Damian doesn’t move.
“Okay, I’m coming in, and you and me are going to have a bit of a chat.” And like that, the door clicks open. Damian jolts. The man has no key or keypad on the outside of his door. How on Earth did he…
“Scooch over kid,” he mumbles, swiping his insurance info from Damian. Shocked and utterly unsure of what to do, Damian moves to the passenger seat, large green eyes taking in the man, Harold.
“So...what is this? Are you running away? Are you--”
“Foster care.” He supplies too quickly, then corrects himself, “temporary housing, with relatives. But we don’t get along.”
All at once he conjures up the buried memories of his father’s cold, cold eyes at him. Of the strife he’d caused between his brothers--Bruce’s sons--just by existing.
“Somewhat believable,” Harold says, “but not enough to excuse the grand theft auto.”
“I need it to get away from them, before they find me.” He says a little too quickly, “they’ve been tracking me since I left Goth--River Val,” he corrects himself again.
“You mean to tell me, you, a six--”
“Ten--”
“A ten year old drove from New Jersey to California?”
“No Harold, I took a train from New Jersey to Kansas,” Damian leaves out the part where he conveniently stole a car, “And drove here from Kansas to California.”
“First off, it’s Hal, second of all, that doesn’t explain any of this?”
“Can I just use your car?”
“Can I just call the police? Or like CPS?”
“NO!” Damian shouts, “They’ll take me back to my father!”
Hal is quiet, for a very, very long time. His eyes, dark brown, seem to bare into Damian’s green ones.
“Where are you trying to go then? I can’t just let you steal my car and drive to God knows where. So where do I need to take you?”
“I...I don’t know.” And that’s the honest answer. Because Damian had wanted so badly just to get away. So badly that he put his hope in places he shouldn’t have. He’d tried Clark Kent, only to run when he’d seen his father had already beaten him too it.
He isn’t sure where he’s going now. In the past, his mother told him about safehouses that the League built all around the world, and he’d gone to the ends of the country hoping he could follow the breadcrumbs to one. But...but what if he can’t find one? What if he went there and there was nothing there? Where would he go then? Who would take him in?
“Whoa, whoa kid, calm down.” Hal’s voice, eerily soothing, pulls him back yet again, “Um...you won’t let me call the police will you, or CPS-”
“NO!”
“Okay okay,” Hal raised his hands in mock surrender, “we could...do you wanna stick with me for the day until we can sort this out? I’ve got a friend, he’s a cop--a good cop. We could talk to him about what we should do, okay?”
Damian nods, the confusion of the situation compelling him to agree.
Besides, he can’t help but feel calm in Hal’s presence. He feels like he can trust him. He gives him the same sensation that Grayson does. Trust and love. And as Hal starts his own car and pulls out of the lot, Damian allows his head to rest on the cold glass, letting the jolts and bumps of the car put him to sleep.
Besides, if Hal tries anything, Damian will kill him.