Work Text:
The teacher drones on about the geography of Asia, as if Damian didn’t live there for the first 10 years of his life, as the sky gradually darkens in the way it tends to do when as a forewarning to an oncoming storm. The day feels rainy in a way that Damain can’t explain, just feeling gloomy as if his mind could sense the rain that day. A student raises their hand, asking a question that Damian finds utterly idiotic and doesn’t bother processing, the words going in one ear and out the other. There’s a clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning, adding a bit of colour to the Gotham skyline.
Another sharp clap of thunder echoes throughout the room, but after a moment, Damian realizes that the sound isn’t thunder, as opposed to an explosion. The rest of the class seems to process this, right as a familiar voice rings out through the loud speaker, Damian freezing at the sound.
“What calls with a wail, and stares with glare, grows without sense, and learns like a snail?” The Riddler laughs, “children, of course!” He exclaims with a laugh, the sound crackly over the loud speakers. Damian jumps out of his seat, bracing to take charge, before remembering that he isn’t Robin right now, he’s merely the child of a billionaire. His classmates all shout in fear, running to stand against the wall in a dizzying panic the way they were always taught (not that the Riddler would fall for such meagre trickery, but the teachers like feeling like they are helping).
The sound of the Riddler's voice cuts out, but within seconds it grows louder, as if nearing the room. Damian’s breath feels like it’s taken out of his lungs, a wheeze building in his chest and the Riddler suddenly stops.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t social studies. You know, I always loved learning about places around the world, and how they came to be. It was one of my favorite classes when I was in grade school.” He pauses. “What do you say we take a peek inside? See if I still know all about the world?” Riddler bangs on the door, several kids letting out pathetic whimpers. Damian internally scoffs at the sound, knowing that it might give away their positions. The door bursts open and Riddler scans the room. One kid bursts into tears, letting out pleading sobs with desperation, but the Riddler ignores the boy, his eyes landing on Damian, who’s still standing beside his desk. The gaze lingers for a moment before moving away to read the whiteboard. “Oh! I remember learning this in school, I loved learning about all the cultures and environments that Asia holds, it was such a fun unit.” The Riddler sighs, seemingly giddy at the memory. “Unfortunately, most kids don’t retain that kind of knowledge,” he continues, distastefully. He moves his hand around the room, his pointer finger extended with malicious glee. “Say bye-bye, silly children!” He skips out of the room, leaving his goons in the dust.
The goons look at each other, confused, before one of them pulls out their gun. Damian doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t, but the sight does startle him, especially when the barrel of the weapon is turned towards him. Damian doesn’t process the noise, just the feeling of painful warmth erupting in his side and a shout coming from the other goon. His head feels fuzzy as he stumbles back into his desk, forcing himself to stay awake and alert, to not let the wound take him out, but it gets increasingly more difficult the more the sounds register, especially since he doesn’t have his normal kevlar armour providing a slight shield. One of the goons pulls the other out of the room, the one with the gun, and leaves the room in silence.
Damian’s teacher rushes to him, fretting over his wound, much to his annoyance.
“An ambulance should be close by, they should have been dispatched as soon as Ridder made an appearance, so let’s get you down for them to take care of your wound, yeah?” His teacher asks, voice strained from panic and worry. Damian clenches his jaw, trying to keep his Robin instincts at bay.
“I can walk on my own. I’ll be okay.” He grits out, supporting his eight on the desk beside him.
“Let somebody help, Damian. That has gotta hurt.” One of his classmates points out. Damian rolls his eyes.
“Really, I thought getting shot would be a painless experience,” He snarks back.
“Well, at least we know he’s well enough to continue being a brat.” Another classmate mumbles under their breath. Damian stays silent, ignoring the blatant offense to his dignity and instead putting one foot in front of the other slowly. His teacher continues to fret, his classmates joining in as he makes his way down the hallway, following him like a fleet of bodyguards. Damian continues to clench his jaw and keep his mouth shut, biting down the protests that build in his mouth.
The moment they step outside, a cacophony of ambulance and police sirens assault his ears, grating on his senses in a way that makes it hard to ignore, especially with his wound. A student runs over to the nearest paramedic and leads them over to Damian, explaining what happened. The paramedic merely joins in with the concerned group, asking obvious questions, like what his name is and how long ago he got shot, but everyone refuses to answer for him.
The paramedic lifts Damian up, ignoring the child’s thrashing and attempts to be put down, before setting him down in the ambulance, grabbing bandages to wrap around his side. Damian presses a hand against the wound to help it clot as he flinches away from the paramedic’s touch.
“I can wrap it myself.” He states, forgetting to remember that he’s Damian, not Robin. The paramedic’s concern grows at that. Damian scoffs. “I’ve been shot before, I know what to do.” He reaches out for the bandage, trying to swipe it out of the paramedic’s hand, but the latter doesn’t relent.
The bandage is wrapped too tight and, when Damian tells the man to wrap it looser, he explains that the bandage has to be wrapped tight in order for it to not bleed, which Damian knows, but he’s wrapped it far looser before and the wound healed fine. The paramedic leaves and the wrapping scratches against Damian’s skin, and no matter how hard he tries to make it sit comfortably, the bandage continues to rub against the skin around the wound. Damian tries to take a deep breath, a last-ditch attempt at making all the sounds and feelings and touches calm down, but his breathing turns erratic instead of calming dawn and his nails claw at the bandages and everything is just too much. The world blurs around him as he gets caught up in his own head, noticing every word, every sound, every texture that sticks to his skin in a way that he can’t get rid of.
He feels hands on his shoulders, but he can’t tell who it is and he shakes off the touch, grunting when the hand refuses to recede. The hand taps on his shoulder, keeping his body from moving too much as the hand continues to tap in a repetitive pattern. Morse code, Damian realizes, which means that the touch can only belong to his family, given that nobody else knows that he can read morse code. The touch is gentle, which means that it isn’t Jason, but firm enough to keep him in place, which eliminates Dick. That leaves either Bruce or Tim, but the shadow that falls over Damian is too big, which means that it’s Bruce. His father. Damian opens his eyes and looks up, tears wetting his cheeks as his father looks at him with worry and love.
Damian leans in to his father’s touch, letting his arms envelop Damian and keep him safe. Headphones are laid over his ears and a soft jacket in places in his lap. The headphones to block out the noise, and the jacket to redirect his senses, Damian realizes. His tired body goes slack and, with the warmth of his father and the knowledge that someone is there to protect him, he falls asleep.