Chapter Text
The Batmobile ground to a halt at the mouth of the alley, its headlights illuminating on the ambulances and detritus of gore.
To their credit, the paramedics did not so much as flinch or gawk, too exhausted or too caught up in their real work trying to ensure the three men in their care didn’t bleed to death. Two of the men slipped into unresponsiveness—shock, most likely—and the paramedics scrambled to stabilize them. The third looked faintly ridiculous wrapped in Damian’s weighted Robin cape, a large ashen-faced man sitting up in a stretcher clutching the bloodied nub of his forearm to his chest. He spoke steadily to the paramedic who had redressed his wound, but his gaze stuttered between Damian, the puddles of blood staining the asphalt, and the idling Batmobile.
Damian made sure each of the men’s severed limbs were accounted for and on ice, then gathered his pride and approached the alleyway.
The top of the Batmobile opened with a low hiss. Damian jumped inside. The Batmobile closed.
Batman said nothing. Damian didn’t either.
Together, they watched as the paramedics packed up the men into two separate ambulances. Always last on scene, a Gotham City police vehicle finally arrived, and a paramedic and the policeman stopped to talk. The paramedic gestured back at the Batmobile with two significant shakes of her thumb.
Batman turned off the headlights and pulled out of the alleyway.
They sped through the streets of Gotham in darkness, Batman’s knuckles huge and death-grip tight on the steering wheel.
At last, Damian said, “They’ll live.” When Batman didn’t respond, he went on, “EMT response time was commendable. Even if replantation is not possible, their injuries were not so extensive for toxinoses to be likely. Once they are stable, the wretches—t-the men should—will recover. They will live.”
Still, Batman said nothing, but the skin of his chin tightened and the corner of his mouth twitched into a deeper frown.
Damian mirrored the frown and glowered at the side of Batman’s head. “I fashioned field tourniquets and stopped the flow of blood as soon as I became aware of the extent of their injuries,” he snapped, “allowing their leader and our best lead to get away so I could save the lives of those ingrate arms dealers. Isn’t that protocol?”
“Protocol,” said Batman, “does not involve severing limbs.”
“I—” didn’t! But the word caught in his throat. Damian gritted his teeth and glared out the window. “You’ve made your conclusions.”
The remaining drive to the Batcave was spent in silence, a silence Damian dared Batman to break as Damian jumped out and immediately wretched his red gloves off. They were a different shade of red than usual, a spottled deep maroon that was already flaking into sooty dust where some of the earliest blood had dried. The sight of them and of the rest of his bloodied uniform in the harsh fluorescent lights of the Cave made Damian crave a shower somewhat desperately. He was halfway to the changing area, already half out of the top layer of his armor, when Batman spoke.
“You weren’t alone.”
Damian froze, then cursed himself for his reaction, as good as an admittance. He looked back and found Batman stood at the end of the garage ramp, meeting his gaze steadily.
“I was not.”
Batman did not ask the obvious question. Who? His eyes narrowed into slits, thinking through the possibilities, and Damian waited for the inevitable.
“Abuse.”
Damian said nothing.
“What happened?”
“Oh, now you want to know?”
“Damian.”
“Father.”
Batman sighed, and he moved to the Batcomputer terminal, the cowl slipping back. “Go get cleaned up,” he said. “Report in twenty.”
Damian indulged in a luxuriously long steaming shower and timed his return for a full twenty-seven minutes later, clean, damp, and dressed in loose sweats.
To his complete lack of surprise, several of the computer monitors were showing different views of the intersection in the warehouse district two hours before, footage frozen on Robin and Abuse and two dozen low-level arms dealers engaged in various stages of combat. In the largest screen, a video played, and eight assailants strained to hold down Abuse with chains. Half braced themselves and wrapped the chains in loops around their arms or legs. Abuse struggled, but the reinforcements were enough to subdue the giant hero. Abuse seemed to shrink on himself, shoulders sunken down. Then with a burst of exclamation Abuse expanded, power and strength and size, greater than ever before so he was broken free—broken but not through the chain; broken through—
The image froze, caught in the second before fragile human flesh burst between the chains.
At the time Damian had not taken Abuse’s capture seriously; he’d known his friend was more than strong enough to break his bonds. Instead, he had focused on taking down as many bodies as he could, evading and knocking away their stupidly tiny guns and their even tinier, not-as-stupid explosives. Without weapons, they were pathetic in a fight, knocked away with a blow or two, if they even dared to engage him at all. One man kept retreating, bodies stepping behind him to cover his way, and Damian set his sights on him, knowing that was the arms dealer who would be able to give him any kind of useful information. He had kicked and twisted and taunted his way to the man, getting close, when he heard Abuse roar. And then there was a lot of another type of screaming, anguished and horrified shrieks as many more bodies fled after their leader.
“So,” Damian drawled, “still need that report?”
The chair turned. Damian’s Father did not look pleased, but that was also not a surprise.
“You advised Abuse to evade the scene.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “I sent Colin to bed so he wouldn’t have a panic attack about effortlessly dismembering a few criminals who will, ultimately, live.” He didn’t know why his Father kept forgetting that important detail. He’d certainly stressed it more times in Damian’s life than he cared to count. “He was in no state to chase anyone down, and he has no real medical training. I ordered him to call emergency services and get out of the way. What? Did you want to subject him to a lecture, too?”
“And you did not notice Abuse was chained?”
“Of course I did. I knew he could escape.”
“Hm.”
“Without lethal force. You saw the footage, Father. If they hadn’t been idiots as well as evildoers, those men wouldn’t have lost limb, let alone life.”
Something light touched Bruce’s expression. “Evildoers?”
Damian carefully did not flush. “Criminals,” he snarled viciously instead. “Arms dealers and villains! Whatever you want to call them, you can't blame Colin for their idiocy.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?”
“You chose not to help your ally in the field—”
Damian reared back. “I was taking down their leader—!”
“—knowing that he may not have full control of his powers—”
“How dare you insinuate—”
“He wasn't ready.”
“—know how to manage a simple patrol—!”
“Now our lead is gone and three, possibly four, people are mutilated—”
“They'll live!”
“You don't know that, Damian.”
Damian snapped his jaw shut and gritted his teeth.
If they are strong enough, Damian did not shout. If they are worth anything they will live.
Father would not appreciate it.
“So it's my fault, is it?” he ground out. “If those men don't pull through, that's another notch in my ledger?”
“We won't know anything definitive for a few days.”
Damian took a step back like he’d been struck with a physical blow. His Father did not notice or maybe simply ignored him, already turning to fiddle with the terminal controls and raising a dismissive palm.
“I want you home every day after school this week,” he said. “You can use the time to plan through contingencies related to bringing Abuse back out in the field.”
Damian tried to control his breathing. “You're grounding me?”
“You shouldn't be patrolling on school nights, anyway, son. We've discussed this.”
“No, you've ordered it. And I've told you, so long as you are going out on work nights, your orders are hypocritical and illogical. I won’t comply.”
“We are not having this argument again. This week, you will not sneak out on your own—or with your friends—no matter Batman's schedule.”
“That's not fair!”
“Hn. You don't deny you’ve already snuck out?”
“I left a tracker on. Mostly. You knew where I was.”
“That's still sneaking out, Damian.”
“So what's different this week? I didn't do anything!”
“No,” Bruce said. He slanted a slow look at his son. “You didn't.”
Damian felt his heart rabbit in his chest, rush in his ears. He recognized that look, resigned and upset, damnably familiar—his Father’s disappointment, as subdued and cutting as ever.
It made him furious.
“Fuck this!” he screamed, stomping away. “You want to ground me in my room like some sniveling little boy for not babying my teammates? Fine. Try it!”
•
Damian had no intention of being confined against his will in his Father’s house. A week was not a long time, relatively speaking, not least of which because his Father’s version of confinement more or less amounted to a test of Damian’s endurance for boredom than the psychological and physical tests his Mother’s confinements had involved. But it was long enough. He had things to do, active cases that needed his attention. Like Batman, Damian’s work was never done and that meant he needed to be able to move freely, not give in to Batman’s ridiculous restrictions.
He could simply leave, escape to another city or halfway across the world and lose himself in the adventures of being Robin. It would be easy, and he knew after a few lectures and strained silences his Father would welcome him back. But it made little sense to leave the city now. Damian was not one to leave things half-completed. It felt too much like failure, like running away, and he wouldn’t be run out of Gotham. Not by something as trivial as a grounding. He refused. He had fought too hard for his place. Only he could decide when and how he operated as Robin and as Damian Wayne.
He formulated a plan.
When he had run through it thrice and talked through it with Alfred the cat and was reasonably sure it would actually work, he pushed Alfred off his pillow and went to sleep.
That was how late morning—much later than he usually ate breakfast—found Damian seated at the kitchen island, munching his way through a waffle and working through a school assignment as if nothing was wrong. He kept his expression carefully neutral when Bruce finally stumbled downstairs and paused at the threshold of the kitchen, eyes catching on his oft-temperamental and grudge-holding son, likely wondering if venturing into the kitchen was really worth a continuation of last night’s argument.
Damian decided to have pity on him. “Good morning, Father,” he greeted, nodding up at him. He took a bite of his waffle and marked a few more lines in his notebook.
“Hn,” Bruce grunted back. “G’morning, son.”
If he was surprised or suspicious he didn't show it. Bruce stepped into the kitchen and reached for the cupboard to pull down a mug. He filled his cup of coffee from the carafe Damian had prepared, first sip swallowed with an appreciative sigh, and set about scrounging for breakfast.
The tragic thing about it was that his Father was a terrible cook. Damian wasn’t much better, but his first year in Gotham had ingrained in him at least the basic intricacies of an American breakfast, a skill fine-tuned from mornings when Alfred Pennyworth wasn't around and Dick Grayson’s own culinary skills amounted to a bowlful of soggy cereal and plain eggs. The coffee was Pennyworth’s simple pour-over blend, and there were the ingredients for a parfait of fruits, nuts, and homemade granola spread on the counter. The waffles came prepackaged, golden brown and double toasted as Stephanie Brown had once shown him.
A trap perfectly laid.
Damian grabbed his textbook and highlighted two lines, deliberately avoiding looking at his Father as Bruce served himself some yoghurt. Bruce took a bite and added another spoonful to a powdery protein mixture he was concocting. The other breakfast ingredients were still laid out on the counter, haphazardly, as if Damian would clear them away as soon as he was done, and Bruce perused the fruit and granola as his protein shake blended.
Eyes still on his schoolwork, Damian finished the last bit of his waffle and grabbed another from a half-overflowing pile he’d prepared, bringing attention to it.
“Hungry?”
Damian looked up, between the pile of waffles and Bruce. He feigned bashfulness. “I was,” he admitted, and it had the benefit of being true. He was always hungry nowadays. “But I’ll likely feed Batcow the leftovers, once they go stale.”
Bruce huffed a breath, amused, and swiped a waffle from the pile.
Damian raised an eyebrow.
“Batcow’s share,” Bruce said and took a bite.
Damian scoffed, but he pushed the plate closer to his Father—an open invitation—and returned to his book.
The rest of breakfast passed pleasantly, Bruce eventually settling at Damian’s side with his mishmash breakfast and a WE tablet.
Damian set down his pen and wiped his hands.
“Father,” he said.
Bruce’s eyes flickered to his and lingered. “Damian.”
“I am—that is, my punishment has yet to begin. You said I am to be confined after school days.”
Bruce set down the tablet. “You are not being confined,” he said. “Or punished, necessarily speaking. Damian, you've worked on teams before. You know your actions—and inactions—affect more than just yourself. What happened last night—”
“I take full responsibility, Father, but I meant…” And here he hesitated, clenching his fists, gaze flickering from his hands to his books until finally settling on Bruce in a steady glare. It wouldn't do to give away the act by overplaying his hand, after all. He needed to be realistic. “You said nothing of today. I have plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
“A club commitment.”
“Oh? Your Detectives Club?”
“It's not—I mean, uh, yes. Something to do with the football team. I believe there is a game today.”
“Hm.” His Father studied him. Damian made sure to keep his expression fixed, holding his gaze. Finally Bruce asked, “Need a ride?”
Damian usually preferred to practice a stoic, calm indifference, but today he let every bit of his excitement and relief show. For some reason it softened him to his Father. And Damian needed him soft.
He smiled crookedly. “I can go?”
Bruce smiled back and nodded. “Yes, alright.”
With his Father’s own blessing, he was sent off to pack for his day trip into the city and tasked to meet back in the garage in a couple of hours. Bruce even offered to clean up the kitchen so he could have more time to prepare.
Left to his own devices, Damian gathered his materials. He could not take too much, not without drawing suspicion, but he reasoned at least he didn't have to worry about his school things just yet. His punishment began Monday. He would be back in the house before then.
He went down to the garage. He was too early, of course, but if he was lucky Bruce wouldn't think to check the security footage until at least Wednesday.
Damian wiggled beneath the town car that regularly chauffeured him to school until he found a small black device, no bigger than a marble, and yanked it off. He fished an identical black device from his pocket, held both in one hand, and opened a program on his phone to clone the tracker onto the blank device. When it was done, he placed the cloned tracker back in place of the original, went back up to his room, and placed the original tracker under his pillow.
A year ago he would’ve scoffed at leaving the tracker in such an obvious place; Alfred Pennyworth would have found it by morning. But Damian's Father was a man of integrity and honor and promised to trust Damian and no longer look under his bed (or pillow) for confiscated weapons. Or decoy trackers, in this case. It was a sign of trust between them, one Damian was more than willing to exploit.
He double- and triple checked his true weapons, and then at a quarter past four, Bruce and Damian jumped into Bruce’s latest favored sleek sportscar and sped out of the garage.
•
“Dave!?”
“Davey!”
“Bro!”
“You're back!”
“Man, I thought they killed you!”
“Damian,” chuckled Bradley Livingston, the loudest of the football players and Gotham Academy’s resident star quarterback, as he moved around his rowdy teammates to greet him. “Right before kickoff! Knew it, you're a lifesaver, dude!”
“Hardly,” Damian scoffed.
He eyed the group of overlarge boys as they fell over themselves jostling and welcoming back David McAnthor, their smallest compatriot and Gotham Academy’s resident mascot. Missing only the head of the school’s ceremonial black bird costume, the sandy-haired sophomore accepted his team’s cajoling with all the embarrassed but triumphant grace of a boy who'd just endured four hours breathing in dirty mop water as a small-time hostage.
“I found McAnthor locked in a supply closet,” explained Damian. “He was never in any real danger. The janitorial staff would have found him eventually.”
“Not before the varsity game. Everyone was so bummed, we’d have sucked ass and tanked our rating for sure,” said Livingston. “Now we got the Grack back,” he laughed, voice rising, and the nearest boys hushed, “we’re gonna kick Broadside’s ass!”
The rest of the team quickly took on Livingston’s cheer. They woo’d and roared, “Grrrrackles!” and chanted, “Grack back, Grack back!” as they finished gathering the last of their things and boastfully herded McAnthor out of the locker room.
Livingston was still laughing as the team exited, and he grabbed his gear from the bench, putting on his helmet so it rested mostly half off his head. “Y’sure you don’t accept money or something?”
“Are you trying to insult me, Livingston?”
“No!” Livingston laughed. “Like thanks!” He motioned to leave the locker room, and Damian followed at his side with the begrudging tilt of an eyebrow. “You've done me a solid twice now,” Livingston said. “First with Mandy and now you're helping out the whole team, I feel like I gotta repay you somehow.”
Earlier in the school year, Livingston’s girlfriend Mandy Patel had gone missing—or, really, she’d stopped showing up to school and answering her messages, worrying her friends and Livingston sick. Determined to solve his first case of the Detectives Club and lord his superior detective skills over Olive Silverlock and Maps Mizoguchi, Damian had agreed to help Livingston. Much to his chagrin, he soon found Patel safely stuck at home grounded without phone privileges. Still, never one to leave a job half done, he'd snuck Mandy out for a melodramatic rendezvous with Livingston, and ever since then Livingston and Patel had both gone out of their way to be unbearably friendly towards him.
Like now.
“Unnecessary,” dismissed Damian. “Though not in the traditional sense, Academy students were missing. I found them. It's simply what any good detective would do.”
“C’mon, it's different! Olive told me to get lost when Brentwood kidnapped the Grack last year, and she’s president of your club, right?”
“For now,” Damian replied automatically, then blinked. “Wait. You mean McAnthor was taken last year, too?”
“Nah, nah, last year Benny—he graduated—he was the Grack. We were playing Brentwood for a home game, and those bastards hid him in the girls locker room all day. Didn't find him until the third quarter, and by then we were down almost 50 points.”
“You’re saying the mascot is taken as a form of ransom every year?”
Livingston snorted. “Not every year. But if we’re playing Broadside or Brentwood or those Stillman assholes before Homecoming, then yeah. Probably. They’ll try to take him.”
“But why?”
“To throw us off our game! Next week’s Homecoming, and if we lose tonight it’s bad mojo guaranteed.”
Damian frowned.
More than once, he had been not-so-gently reminded that kidnapping and imprisoning others were not the actions of a true hero—though Damian still did not entirely believe that. Dick Grayson once kept Tommy Elliot locked up in their basement for over a year and his Father regularly arranged containment for threats beyond the scope of the law—most recently for Damian’s own Grandfather—and no one ever blamed them. Damian assumed the no kidnapping rule held when he played the helpless civilian but perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps a little non-violent kidnapping between school rivals was expected, maybe was even some kind of barbaric tradition, if McAnthor and Livingston’s unserious reactions were anything to go by.
“But no way we’re gonna lose, thanks to you, buddy,” Livingston said. He jossled Damian's shoulder and fished out his phone to type at the screen. “Here, how about this? Are you gonna watch the game? I'll get the team manager to save you some tickets.”
“Don't bother. I wasn't planning on staying.”
“Least I can do. There!” Livingston flashed Damian his phone screen triumphantly. “Three tickets, every game ‘til the end of the season.”
“Why three?”
“Y’know, so you can bring some friends or whatever. Or a hot date! You asked anyone to the dance yet?”
Dance? Rather than echo the question like an idiot and admit his ignorance, Damian stared at Livingston expectantly.
“No? Aw, c’mon, you gotta go to the Homecoming dance!”
Now that he mentioned it Damian did think he remembered seeing flyers for such a thing posted around the school hallways. They had been neon purple. “Why? Is it…compulsory?”
“Ehhh, nah. Not unless you're part of the Student Council or the Court, I guess, but even then it’s not compulsory.” Livingston’s voice pinched higher on the word, and Damian’s eyes narrowed, sure he was being made fun of, but Livingston went on without missing a beat as he explained the traditions of Homecoming. Apparently, the student body elected nobility from amongst their ranks—though the idea of electing a monarchy was absurd—and afterward the school hosted a football game that was absolutely integral to the soul of their school pride. Or something. Then there was a dance, wherein the royal court and triumphant football team got preferential treatment and first dibs on the bountiful buffet table and DJ set list.
Damian absorbed this information with a twisted expression on his face and barely managed to hold his tongue. It wasn’t Livingston's fault everything he was saying was bullshit. It was another strange custom of his adopted home, a somewhat familiar concept, like something from any one of the “classic” twentieth-century films Dick Grayson had once forced him to watch. But Damian hadn't thought any of that junk was really, well, real. Surely, he’d thought, it was dramatized, as realistic as bursting into song and dance to sing his feelings.
Apparently not.
Livingston was halfway through describing his plans for the days leading up to the Homecoming game before Damian realized he was now talking about themed school days. Pajama- and superhero-themed school days, to be exact, which had their own funny names, too, and that Livingston was looking forward to very much.
It was a whole organized week of nonsense. This was normal?
At last they reached the Broadside stadium and stood at the chainlink fence separating the field from the stands. More people were arriving, families and groups of students that spread from the ticket booth to the snack bar and beyond. On the field, Livingston’s teammates were lining up for a drill, and the scraggly black bird mascot that was McAnthor huddled close to a group of girls with pompoms.
“But the best part is the afterparty,” Livingston was saying wistfully. “Mikey Howard used to rent out a few floors in one of his dad’s hotels for us back in the day and you wouldn’t believe it. Ever play flag football in a waxxed-out ballroom? In dress shoes? Or socks! We were flyin’, man! Pfvoom! Next level... Too bad Mikey graduated. Hey! What about Wayne Manor?”
Damian tuned back in and glared reflexively. “What about Wayne Manor?”
“Bet it's a sick place to throw a party.”