Chapter Text
Everyone knew Talia was a shitty mom. But it was a whole new level of shitty when she set yet another bounty on her own son's head.
The family was gathered around the table, conversing loudly when Jason barged in. His eyes scanned the table before landing on Damian. Then he did the most Un-Jason thing ever, and sighed with relief. Everyone stopped mid conversation. Stephanie's arms were frozen in midair next to Dick's face, Tim was mid sip of his third cup of coffee, Cass's fingers stopped on the edge of Duke's plate, which she had been trying to steal. Bruce, however, had not stopped moving at Jason's dramatic entrance and was still actively regretting his life choice.
Jason slammed a paper down on the table. Everyone leaned in to see, Dick and Cass knocking their heads together.
"Uh, Jaybird? What're we looking at?" Dick asked, gently pushing Cass's head away from his. "Proof," Jason snarled, "that Talia wins the worst parent of the year award, dethroning Bruce." Bruce looked mildly offended. Damian narrowed his eyes. "Do not insult my mother, Todd." Jason gave Damian an exasperated look. "Kid, she put a price on your head again!" Damian blinked. He was displeased but not necessarily surprised.
Tim snatched the paper off the table, eyes scanning it. "Holy shit, she did!" Alfred clears his throat from across the room and raises an eyebrow. Tim sighs and drops a dollar in the swear jar. The jar had $53.87 cents. Jason was the main contributor and the sole reason why they even had one.
Steph plucked the paper from Tim's hand. She read it quickly, eyes widening. "20 million dollars! Holy-" she glances at Alfred, "shitake mushrooms!" Babs wheeled over for a closer look. She peered over Steph's shoulder and grimaces. "She's right." And then, as if Babs confirming it was the final straw, the batfamily fell into chaos.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Damian quickly scribbled his pet's feeding times and portions onto a notepad and slid it under Grayson's door. While everyone else had devolved into madness, Damian had slipped away unnoticed right as Todd began quoting Shakespeare. He had to keep his family safe.
Damian glanced down at his phone. Uber was here. He carefully climbed out his window, jumping and rolling onto the grass. The driver didn't even look up from his phone as Damian opened the door. "Where to?" The teenager asked, slowly tearing his eyes away from a YouTube tutorial on how to make toast. Damian sat in the back, looking out the window. "Downtown Gotham." He produced a twenty. "Make it fast." The teenager's beady eyes lit up at the cash. "Aye, aye, captain." And he stepped on the gas, speeding far away from Wayne manor and the chaos inside.
The Uber left Damian outside an old building. The child climbed out of the car, walking toward the run-down place. He tapped a four-digit pass code out on a disguised pin pad and a bush slid away from the building, revealing a hidden door. Look once and you could miss it completely. Damian tugged on the handle and it gave way, leading him deeper.
The oldness of the building faded away completely into a new, white hallway that was modern, cold, and formal. A league safehouse. His league safehouse, one of many. A knife was to his throat the moment he stepped into the foyer. He sighed. "It's me, Damian Al Guhl." He grimaced at the feeling of his mother's last name rolling off his tongue like he was back there. Like he had never left. But he had. Hadn't he?
At the identification, the automatic defense system retracted it's welcome, and a cool, female, robotic voice welcomed him. Damian stepped into the first room. The kitchen. It was full of fresh food. He went to the next room. The training gym. Damian made a mental note to come back later.
The next room was a study room, then a dining room, a spare bedroom and bathroom, then the room he slept in while he was here. Damian sat on the bed tensely, remembering the past times he had used this safe house. When he was five years old and needed a place to stitch up his slit wrists. When he had killed the last mission target and had some downtime before he went back to Arabia. That time, he trained until he blacked out and woke up in his own blood. At least he made his flight.
But this time was different. He wasn't hiding or tending to an injury. He was protecting people other than him. And that's what's so terrifying. He's not risking his own neck. He has other people, people who he begrudgingly cares about, to account for and keep safe. He couldn't predict what they would do. He now also has responsibilities. School, studying, patrol.
He has priorities he didn't have when he was a child assassin fending for himself. But why couldn't he do it all? Go to school, patrol alone, and lie low until this all blows over.
All he has to do is avoid his family.
Easy.