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It is degrading, but Damian accepts his fate of waiting for a ‘guardian’ to retrieve him from his volunteer hour at the animal rescue. Technically, his age is five years below the criteria required for volunteers at this particular rescue. Richard put aside his usual compunctions of leveraging their family name to enroll Damian for the Wednesday afternoon shift.
He signs his name at the front desk, nodding curtly to Miss Claudia.
“See you next week?” she dismisses with utmost sweetness. It is a falsity, Damian knows. He’s seen her verbally discipline the high schoolers who lean around, racking up volunteer hours for their pathetic resumes. He’s also seen her physically remove an abrasive man who was intent on taking home a pit bull despite not meeting adopter qualifications.
Damian quite likes Miss Claudia, even if she believes him to be a child and acts accordingly.
“Yes,” he confirms. The encrypted calendar shared among Richard, Wallace, Pennyworth, Brown, and Gordon contains no mandatory events the following week. The scheduled patrol route is one unlikely for Robin to be called to join, not that Batman has ever requested Robin’s assistance on a godforsaken ‘school night.’ He even allowed Damian to sleep through an Arkham breakout. Completely unacceptable. “Please inform Mrs. Lao that Nelly ate her entire meal.”
Miss Claudia brightens further. “Will do. You have a special touch with Nelly, that’s for sure.” The Boston terrier has an aversion to eating, not that Damian has witnessed it. Some people simply do not have the patience required, he supposes.
He has nothing left to report, so he leaves.
Technically, he is meant to wait inside the animal rescue to avoid kidnappers and gossip columnists alike. This does not serve Damian, so he ignores the rule. The punishment has remained consistent: a firm reminder and a lecture on Wayne kidnapping history, complete with slides.
Notably, Richard is the only one to dispense any punishment and he is not scheduled to retrieve Damian from the rescue.
There is a Titans annual review that Nightwing is required to attend. As such, Wallace is set to arrive any minute to accompany Damian on his walk to the Penthouse.
The air is humid and his clothes stick to his skin the moment he steps outside. He endures. Wallace is impressively allergic to punctuality.
A city bus trundles by. Damian steps back to avoid the splash of mucky standing water. This city is an affront to olfaction.
There is a popular Venezuelan restaurant across the street. Richard has picked up dinner there twice, bowing to Damian’s distaste of dining out.
He surreptitiously scans the roofline. No misformed shadows, but one can never be too careful. The crosswalk timer clicks over to the flashing orange hand. Damian carefully counts the seconds. It is easy to stage a car accident by modifying the timing of the lights.
The bell of the stationary shop dings and a woman with two teenage daughters steps out. They hurry to where their car is parked in the fifteen minute zone. Their bags bulge with unknown items. A bomb, perhaps. Or an expanding staff.
They drive away.
Damian memorizes their license plate all the same.
The reflection off the adjacent windows reveals a man walking a dog and pushing a stroller. The child babbles happily to the schnauzer. Damian listens carefully for any hidden code. One is never too young to-
A soft clang echoes from the alley two store fronts down from the animal rescue. Damian frowns, shoulders stiffening. Abandoning his position is cause for disciplinary action, usually in the form of watching inane ‘stranger danger’ PSAs that Richard digs out from the eighties. However, it is a Robin’s duty to assist those in need. And it is an assassin’s onus to assess the threat level of their surroundings.
Another low vibration, like someone has headbutted the overflowing dumpster.
Decision made, Damian briskly approaches the alley.
His phone transmits his location to Richard and Gordon. Unfortunately, there is little else the device does, beyond calling and texting. It is a rather rudimentary thing compared to what his ingrate classmates carry. There have been many failed attempts to entice Damian to improve his etiquette at civilian identity establishing social functions. An Internet-enabled device has been the most tempting reward, but he holds strong. As long as Robin’s wrist computer is not threatened, he will manage just fine without a device more fitting his station.
The sun is dipping down in the sky, but not so much that the shadows obscure the alley.
Apparently, Damian does not have to wait for Wallace any longer. The man is already here, bent over, pale, perspirating.
Damian cocks his head. “West?” He shuffles into the mouth of the alley. “I’ve been reliably informed that one has to announce they are playing ‘hide and seek’ before beginning.” He eyes the graffitied brick and cracked concrete. “You are not very adept at the game, if this is where you choose to hide.”
Wallace’s head hangs, hair in dire need of a cut shadowing his face. He folds forward from his crouch, knees thunking hard against the rough concrete. Any hope he had of stealth has been discarded. His left hand spasms. Once. Twice.
He clutches it to his chest. Air heaves out. He doesn’t breathe in.
Damian crosses his arms over his chest. Richard has much affection for Wallace. It won’t do for the man to die, he decides.
“Are you injured?” Damian asks, a bit of Robin-softness dipping into his tone. He dismisses it.
Wallace does not look up as he approaches. His brown canvas jacket is frayed at the cuffs and his sneakers are threadbare. There are tears streaking across his face and he isn’t moving. This, above all else, sets Damian on edge.
He slowly lowers himself in front of Wallace, the strange rippling in his new spine pinching where they connect to his ribs. He does not have his backpack, which contains an emergency medkit. Volunteering at the animal rescue is meant to be a reward for completing 75% of his assignments in the previous week. He would rather have acid dripped on his palms than carry his algebra homework across the city.
All he carries is a rebreather, a panic button, a comm unit, and a kris. Hardly a satisfactory arsenal to deal with whatever medical concern Wallace is experiencing. “I will check your airway,” Damian announces, skipping responsiveness altogether. If Wallace were responsive, Damian would know already. Not even his eyes dart around.
He feels around the throat and mouth. Nothing appears to be obstructing the airway. He pries his hands from his chest, resting his palm against Wallace’s lungs. A gasp of air in.
His left hand spasms again.
Damian flattens his mouth into a line. He feels for a heart rate. Rapid, although perhaps that is the baseline for a speedster.
He swipes his hands along Wallace’s extremities, but he doesn’t detect any blood.
There is no clear indicator of the source of Wallace’s condition. Perhaps a head injury?
He cards through his hair, but there is no contusion.
He glances around. “West,” Damian asserts, channeling the unwavering firmness of Batman’s voice. “Report.”
Another spasm.
Of course. Wallace is not nearly disciplined enough to push past discomfort to communicate properly.
Another spasm.
Ah, Damian thinks. He pokes the hand.
Wallace’s head snaps back, another gasping breath heaving through his lungs. His gaze is unfocused. He scrambles backward, clenching and unclenching his left fist.
“Slow down,” Wallace mumbles. “Let go.” Hardly articulate, but Damian is a detective. He’s trained to make rapid deductions with limited information.
He steps back and studies Wallace once more. He is not moving. His body is wound tight, every muscle locked. He curls protectively around the offending extremity. There is no outward explanation for his troubled breathing.
The lines with which Wallace’s body is cut are fearful. Panicked.
“Wallace,” Damian states lowly. “You are… safe.” He shuffles closer, lest a pedestrian take notice and intervene. Damian is fully capable of handling the situation.
Cautiously, but fearlessly, Damian rests a hand on Wallace’s right shoulder. He does not jerk away. “You have made an improper assessment of the situation. If you regain control of your breathing, you will understand this. There is no danger here.”
A bird lands on a cable line connecting to an Irish pub. It is not a covert drone. Damian has consented to minimal surveillance, as transmitted by his cell phone. Gordon has no need to betray his concessions. There is no danger here.
Damian slips into the small space between Wallace and the pungent dumpster. “You will breathe when I do,” he orders. And he begins, chiding Wallace until he manages a pitiful attempt at compliance.
“You are not moving,” Damian affirms.
Tension slowly leaks out of the man. He moves and it is not frantic. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I mean-” He coughs harshly, rubbing a hand against his chest. “Shit.” He looks around. “Shit, Damian?”
“Indeed.”
Wallace scrubs harshly at his face. The tears have long since dried. “You’re okay?” He manhandles Damian, performing a subpar injury check. He doesn’t even feel for a pulse. Damian endures. “We didn’t-” His brow creases. “There was an attack?”
“No.” Damian hesitates. “You were… compromised.” He presses two fingers against Wallace’s wrist. Demonstrably slower. He will access Flash III’s medical records on next patrol to ascertain his baseline heart rate. “You are unwell.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, sometimes.”
Damian frowns. And Richard accepts this man as his partner? Unacceptable. It is unwise to readily admit one’s weaknesses. Clearly, West is not as recovered as he acts.
He tugs at West’s wrist. “Come. You are to be examined at Dr. Thompkins’ medical clinic.”
Infuriatingly, West resists. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay now. Let’s just head home before Dick notices our trackers have been outside the shelter for however long and decides they were dumped by kidnappers.”
His resolve erodes ever so slightly. Perhaps if Wallace can prioritize Richard’s peace of mind, then he isn’t completely hopeless. “You will submit to a medical examination.”
“I’ll… schedule an appointment with my therapist?” he hedges. An abysmal negotiator, lacking all confidence. An altered mental state is not an acceptable excuse.
“Promptly,” Damian allows. He turns on his heel, trusting that Wallace will follow.
Perhaps after today Richard will see reason and Damian will no longer require an escort home.
He scripts out his argument as they walk, keeping an eye out for threats. Wallace clearly requires a level of protection greater than Damian anticipated.