Work Text:
Damian knew taking this role, out of all the jobs he was qualified for, was insane.
One thing he understood was that nobody was quite sane. So he and Peter had to kill someone to save millions. So what if it was in Gotham, a city he hadn’t been in five years, running back to the League before being put in the White Collar division to sort the moles. What was another life to add to his ever-growing number of murders? It’s not like it was unprecedented; Damian didn’t enjoy killing, but he wasn’t against it either.
-
‘Target: Will be told after you are in position at high-class elite Gotham party.’ Fair enough. Damian nestles comfortably in his armchair as he waits for Burke to change, then heading in to put on a blonde wig and brown contacts over his green ones. Neither really did anything. He could not risk getting recognized. He puts a small gun in his hidden pocket and about three knives in another. Some habits never change.
He’s not shabby. He’s honed his abilities over the years, taking up a new identity and staying in the shadows. New York press is unbelievable, worse than Metropolis’; they want to record every even mildly popular celebrity that enters their grubby little hands; Damian is no small celebrity; it’s especially hard to exist when you’re a millionaire by day and a vigilante by night.
Damian wrestles with his tie before slipping into the luxurious limo with Burke. What a wonderful eighteenth birthday. Damian hands his forged invitation over to a brunette who looks a bit too much like Brown, thanking her with a smile to discourage the suspicion she must have had. He walks in with a terrible posture and Peter nagging repeatedly to sit upright. If he’d taken a good hard look in the mirror he would’ve realized he looked like a reverse C.
“When are they going to tell us the target?” Damian sticks to Burke’s side, hissing out his question with a tinge of irritation. He needs to get back to New York and patrol.
“Soon. Got something to do, Caffrey?” Bitterness coats his words like butter on toast. Damian wishes he could get toast from Alfred. Right. He had never quite befriended Burke; he’s sure either Timothy or Richard could have done so easily. Burke still thought he was a criminal. How ironic, considering they were here to murder someone in cold blood.
Damian follows Burke to the food table and nabs a steamed vegetable with salt and pepper, pointedly ignoring the meat on the side. He wrinkles his nose. It tastes horrible. There’s a tap on his shoulder and someone who definitely is Timothy hands him a small plate of berries. A stupid part of Damian hopes Timothy recognizes him. He doesn’t, but Damian still thanks him for the berries. Seriously, he got attached to this office. Well, not exactly, because it turned out the whole thing was organized by his mother. And Grandfather, who’s apparently still alive. Certainly appalling stuff.
“Vegetarian, huh?” Damian nods, watching the strawberry juice drip into the bowl and mix with the fast melting blueberries. Richard liked blueberries. Damian looks around. Is everyone he knows here? That was a terrible inconvenience.
“You know, my brother was a vegetarian.” Alarm bells ring in Damian’s head. Does Timothy recognize him?
“What happened to him?” Timothy. He’s right here.
There is an embedded chip in his collarbone that Talia put to hear what he says; if he messes up it explodes and he dies.
“He left. I don’t know, he could be living his best life right now. Bruce still puts money in his account; it was his birthday today. We got him a cat to replace the one that passed away.” Alfred the cat died? What a tragedy. Damian gives himself a second to grieve and offers a solemn apology to Timothy, touched with young memories of interaction with the cat. He hopes the man is perfectly healthy.
“What are you working as?” The question takes Timothy by surprise; he must be better known nowadays. Damian reads the news everyday and pretends like he doesn’t dimly glow with pride.
“.. A CEO. Wayne Enterprises.”
“That’s impressive. Might wanna step outside for a moment, seems like the crowd,” Damian points to the man and woman arrogantly strutting their way towards Timothy; “ Is looking for you.”
Timothy nods and walks out of the gala. Damian lied. It’s because soon, there will be blood. And no matter who Timothy thinks he is, he doesn’t want him to see him as a cold blooded killer, even if that’s what he is. Annoyingly unchanged.
-
Damian was getting restless, and every person that approached him startled and increased his already heightened awareness. He could feel every part of fabric touching his skin, the cold press of his knife on his chest; besides, the multiple connections of people he found intolerable were around the room; he wanted to reach out, he was here, but what has he become? A murderer. That’s what he is, that’s what’s in his blood. Forever.
He spotted Burke signaling to the assassins in the room, and sprints over there; there’s only two of his family here, and they’re both outside.
A man walks in.
Peter cocks his gun and aims it at the man, shooting his back while screams erupt out of the crowd and everyone runs in different directions.
Time slows down and Damian can separately hear every scream, every click-clack of a heel, Burke reloading his gun and the man falling graciously to the ground, the chandelier illuminating every single second. Courageous men scramble to hold up the wounded.
Damian catches a glimpse of his face; they make eye contact.
Richard.
-
Damian takes a split second to quickly carve out the chip; there may be an extra one, but who cares. He shoves Burke aside so hard the man falls to the ground and shoves every single person in his way until he reaches. Richard’s side. He uses the comm link he hasn’t opened in years.
“Timothy. Brown. Enter the room right this instant. This is a code red.” His voice is eerily calm, stabilizing the blood flowing out of Richard’s back. The multitude of awaited questions didn’t come, but stayed looking over Damian. Why had the idiot come alone? Why hadn’t Damian pieced together the identity of their target? The most important man at this convention other than Timothy and Father; only one person remained. Whispers elude his hearing as the world blurs and all he can focus on is the breathing of his brother. No Kevlar. Richard was getting too risky. He would without Damian. This was his fault. He should’ve known.
“What are you doing? We have to go.” Burke rushes Damian and taps his foot impatiently, barely visible in the hordes of men and women dashing around. Damian glares up at Burke.
He’s never been quite the mentor Richard was. Damian considers using his small gun to shoot Burke in the head; a meaningless death compared to the one being lost in his hands. He won’t. Richard always brought the best- or possibly, weakest- parts of him. Damian opts to throw the gun at Peter and knock him out instead. He’ll get a killer headache instead of being killed. People are staring, horrified. Finally getting the gist, the last of the elite cave in and run away.
Timothy and Brown fight off the multitude of assassins; Talia either didn’t put or didn’t utilize the possible extra chip. Damian’s clothes turn bright red from his and Richard’s blood, and every step he takes squelches in whoknows-who’s blood, ending up in an alleyway only he knows the location of.
Mother will find him and kill him in merciless ways.
“Richard. Richard, you have to stay with me.” Damian slaps Richard’s face as he briskly walks into the safe house and slaps a band-aid on his wound before sanitizing and cleaning Richard’s; it missed all the vital organs, how lucky.
“Wake up. Richard, wake up.” Damian finishes wrapping the wound before falling to the ground.
-
“Wake up, Damian. Wake up.” Damian shoots up; was he late? Mother was going to kill him- no, no, Richard was hurt, where-
“Damian!” Timothy clicks his fingers infront of Damian’s eyes and he groans, rapidly blinking. Timothy?
“Damian, holy shit; why the fuck would you put a plaster on a wound on your collarbone?! Are you a fucking idiot?” Damian breathes out softly; his wig has fallen off and his contact lenses are obstructing his vision; he reaches out and removes them, flicking them away; certainly not his finest moment, but he’s been worse. He slumps against the wall of Timothy’s safe house he had found years before, putting his head in his hands. Richard was safe. Timothy and Brown were safe.
Damian feels a hit on his shoulder and hisses at the flare of pain.
“Why, forgot to talk in five years? Feel that? That’s the pain of you not taking care of yourself. Where the fuck have you been?” Brown is fuming, towering over him with a blazer over her dress; possibly Timothy’s, and purple boots. Some things never change. She has her Spoiler mask half off. She must be, twenty-four by now.
“There was no time, Brown. Richard was dying.”
“So he upgrades to Richard but I stay as Brown? You know how long it took to sanitize your wound? Hours! It was infected!”
“Is Richard fine?”
“He’s been worse.” So has all of them, Damian says in his head, but he thinks his face says enough. Timothy sits next to Damian.
“Here comes the genius who didn’t recognize his brother and started talking to him about him.” Damian states, barking out a short laugh; he hears a small giggle in the corner too.
Brown stares at him with her blue eyes for an uncomfortably long period of time, eyebrows furrowed before she bursts into a smile and hugs him. He tries to peel her off to no avail- it’s so strange. None of them are this touchy. Maybe Richard. She’s like a leech. She won’t come off.
“I was thinking whether or not you were a clone, and I knew you weren’t from your scowl! I missed you.” Brown hugs him and Damian allows it for a millisecond before pushing her away. He’s missed her too. Timothy joins in when Brown attempts, and Damian rolls his eyes, crawling over to where Richard was, sitting on the half polished half demolished stool beside him.
“You knocked out the dude who tried to kill me because you were supposed to kill me.” He rasps.
“Exactly.” Damian leans against the bed where Richard was lying, half-listening to the soft bicker of Brown and Timothy.
“Bruce would be proud. I am. It’s nice to have you back; when I can move again I’m going to trap you in a hug.”
“It is nice to be back.” For now, hangs in the air. Damian doesn’t have to worry, for once. Doesn’t have to worry whether Richard will remember to stretch before patrol or whether Cain to take deep breaths before trying to say a sentence, doesn’t have to worry whether Todd would take good care of Titus or Drake of his body or Brown of her esteem.
He shifts in his stool, leaning closer as the sting in his collarbone lessens, and he opens his mouth to start telling a story with no huge change in the air.