Chapter Text
He frowned as he approached the woman, stalking forward with his suspicions raised. The air was crisp and autumnal, fitting for the situation at hand. He had managed to finally corner her in an alleyway after chasing her down a few streets.
She was clutching an old book to her chest, and her eyes were wide in an owlish manner with her hair more like a mane enveloping her face. She was rather gaunt, and he was mildly surprised she still managed to run so far in clearly poor physical condition. He raised an eyebrow at this but continued forward, annoyed for her to have dragged the process out for so long.
He’d been out patrolling when he’d seen her lurking in a side street. Usually, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop, but there was something off about her that he could not place. She had been swaying in place, looking around as if afraid someone would catch her. It was all rather unnerving. This feeling was intensified as he observed her leaf through her book, muttering to herself and then pointing her hand at a man passing by. He froze the very same second, one foot raised to take a step in a manner like a statue.
She seemed to light up at this and hurriedly snapped her tome shut to likely make her escape. The woman was clearly some sort of magic user and was decidedly not using her powers appropriately. He sighed to himself, knowing he’d need to report this immediately. Her appearance spelled trouble for the rest of Gotham.
He raised his hand to his comm as he began to walk along rooftops, trailing her silently.
“I believe I have found a magic user. She seems to be alone, and casting some sort of spell on others.”
There’s a crackle over the comm as his father replies.
“ Do not engage unless necessary, I am coming to your location now.”
Damian nodded, though the action he realized was not exactly an audible response. It was only he and his father on the comm that night. Tim was on a mission with the Titans, Cass was off-world, Dick was in Blüdhaven and while Jason was in the city he was not inclined to interact with the father-son duo. Even Barbara was not online as she and Steph were working on some sort of case together, which involved a lot of files and computer work.
He was grateful to have no part in any of that. But it was quieter than he’s used to, no one blabbering in his ear about some inane subject.
He quickly reached up to press his comm.
“Affirmative. I am following her currently, I will give updates if the situation changes.”
His father grunted a noise of assent, and Damian was left to continue keeping pace with the woman below. Her grip on the book was fierce, and she had placed it carefully in a leather bag she had secured around her upper body. She was covered in dust, in a manner suggesting she hadn’t been able to clean herself in quite some time. It was all rather curious, and he noted this as he continued forward.
He did not desire to break his father's orders, as the punishment would surely not be worth the risk. He didn’t particularly enjoy dealing with magic users as it was, so backup was not so terrible in his current situation. That did not mean he was entirely opposed to engaging, as the thought ran through his head as he observed the woman come to another stop before pulling out her book again. His eyes narrowed as she once more hastily looked behind her before peering around a corner.
There was a person in a hoodie hurriedly walking down the street, no doubt some civilian who had left a location a bit too late in the night for adequate safety. His frown deepened as the woman raised her hand, pointing it once more at this new person. There didn’t seem to be any motive, it was as if the woman was testing out her abilities. In that split second, as she opened her mouth to speak, he grappled forward, landing in front of her.
“What are you attempting?” He growled, glaring the women down in his most intimidating manner.
It appeared to work too well, as the woman stumbled back, shaking like a leaf as her eyes widened. She stuffed the book once more into her bag, her stare never leaving him.
“I asked you a question,” he continued. She didn’t bother to respond, and he scowled as she turned her head behind her, noticing the alley had multiple side streets connected. His hands twitched as she hurriedly turned her feet and sprinted.
He groaned, glaring at the woman as he picked up his own feet and made chase.
“I had to engage the magic user as she made an intent to curse another civilian. I am in pursuit.” He ran as he spoke, his speech not interrupted by any heavy breathing whatsoever.
It was silent over the comms, and he could almost physically feel the dissatisfaction of his father.
“ Be careful. Stay a safe distance.”
The woman hadn’t seemed in any shape or form to be athletic, but she was rather lanky and had a runner's build of sorts. He heard her muttering to herself before she picked up the pace once more, at a rate that was decidedly not humanly possible.
He cursed to himself before snatching his grappling hook from his belt and taking to the rooftops. He always loved the way he could fly through the air. Perhaps the freedom it gave was similar to the wings of a bird.
The chase turned in his favor then, as with his rooftop view and superior knowledge of the layout of Gotham, he was always one step ahead of the woman. She sprinted still, but seemed to be losing stamina as she slowed considerably over the next couple of minutes. The spell seemed not to have improved her lung capacity.
Luck seemed to continue to be on his side as she made the fatal mistake of darting down a street with a dead end. She was panting as she ran, not noticing him grapple back down to ground level as she nearly ran face-first into a wall. She stopped her momentum with her hands and turned to look wildly at him. She was hunched over, breathing heavily as she fumbled with the clasps of her bag.
He took a step forward as he tested the waters. She didn’t seem to react well to this as she ripped the book out once more. From closer up, it seemed to have a sort of detailed etching in the leather of its cover. There were thorny vines leading to imagery of skulls, and it seemed rather medieval with a griffin drawn in the middle.
The older the magic, the more powerful it tended to be. He never heard much of new curses causing havoc, but rather the ancient vexes that had been cast by sorcerers millennia ago. The book was a bad omen in his mind. He was put on edge but took another tentative step.
“You have nowhere left to run. Your spell did not work as you seemed to have intended; give up. It is clear you’re out of your depth.”
His words did not seem to have much of an effect on the woman as she continued her actions. The book was hurriedly opened, its yellowed pages flipped through as she seemed to be searching for a specific part.
The situation confused him. She was not knowledgeable of the spells in the book, yet still had the capacity to use them quickly. He figured it best not to prolong any longer and rushed her. She didn’t look up as he ran, her hands flying as they stopped at a page and raised in the air. He was almost to her when she uttered an unintelligible incantation, her eyes flashing wholly white as he felt a rush of something.
He shielded his eyes as a bright flash of light lit up the dark alley. His body felt strange, a sort of stinging that quickly subsided. He lowered his hands in annoyance as he suddenly stumbled backward, tripping over his feet. His legs felt strangely weak, and he glared as the woman stood up and approached him, a taut smile overcoming her face.
“Hm.” She peered at him like he was some sort of experiment she’d orchestrated. “Try and speak.”
He scowled, the ground decidedly too hard as he felt some soreness in his limbs.
“Shut–”
All at once, a sharp pain in his leg distracted him. It felt like he’d been hit. He looked around wildly for the culprit. The woman hadn’t moved, not even opened her mouth, and yet the pain was undeniable. His brows shot up as he came to a sickening realization.
The woman laughed, a little too maniacally to suggest mental stability.
“Wonderful! I didn’t really think–” She cleared her throat, letting her excitement abate somewhat. “I wouldn’t attempt to talk if I were you. This spell is a doozy, I wasn’t even sure I had enough energy left to cast it! I surprise myself like that, though. Really, they should’ve known this would happen at some point.”
Her smile was smug and wide as she babbled while tapping his knee with her foot.
“You try and mention it to anyone,” she smirked, her eyes flashing white once more, “to put it simply, you won’t be able to. Past that, any words for that matter will result in physical punishment. That will teach you to talk back so freely. We wouldn’t want you spreading any gossip around, now would we?”
He hissed at her, almost like a cat, and her smile only grew. She smoothed the cover of her tome carefully before placing it back in her bag, snapping the clutch closed. She hummed to herself as she brushed some dust off her clothing and looked down at him once more.
“Stay out of my way, Robin, and I’ll lift the spell eventually.” She paused and let out a laugh. “Once your words hold no power, of course. So you may be a mute for a bit. I truly apologize for the inconvenience, but perhaps the change will be good for you, and rid you of that nasty mouth of yours. Might help you make some friends, though that may be a bit far-fetched.”
She stepped around him, and her shoes clicked behind him as she walked off. It was a circumstance of utmost embarrassment for himself. The criminal had managed to saunter away from him, not even injuring him gravely in the process. He had merely felt weak from her spell, and apparently, that was all that was necessary for him to be taken down.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Robin. ”
As his strength returned, he heard a light noise that he registered as someone he’d been dreading.
His father stepped around him to come into view, and he quickly stood up, ignoring how light-headed he felt doing so. His father had a slight frown as he scanned Damian for injuries. After finding nothing obvious, he let out a quiet exhale.
“Robin, what happened?”
Damian merely shrugged, trying to make his displeasure evident to avoid further questioning. He guessed physical gestures not to activate the spell, perhaps because they were so ambiguous, not always having meaning behind them.
His father sighed, rubbing at the exposed part of his chin.
“I take it that the magic user escaped?” His voice was gruff, and Damian couldn't help but shrink back slightly as he nodded. “Will this be a recurring issue? Because I can’t have you patrolling if you’re attempting to engage magic users alone. There are too many variables; it’s dangerous not only for you but for everyone around. Spells often don’t hit their target. Understood?”
He answered quickly, instinctively.
“Yes, I–”
He struggled to continue as he felt a sharp pain in his side as if someone had struck him. There was a break in his voice, and his father’s eyes narrowed at this. He had to stop himself from hunching in surprise. He hadn’t expected the injury to be quite so painful, and he wondered if it would leave some sort of evidence. It had seemed improbable that a spell so ridiculous would manage to best him, yet the pain he felt now was clear as day.
Whatever he had been hexed with seemed to be powerful. More so than would be expected by any normal sorcerer. She either was highly experienced or possessed too much magic for her own good, and Damian was leaning toward the latter. The woman had fled long ago, taking with her that dreaded spellbook. How she had acquired it was a mystery in itself, and he wondered absentmindedly if she was associated with some sort of organization. He ignored the thought when he considered the behavior she had displayed. She was disheveled, and there was a tension to her frame that suggested she was ready to bolt at any given moment
Not the behavior of someone with others backing them up.
“We are done for tonight,” his father said, turning his back to Damian. He was to follow, and he did so, attempting to ignore the newly formed bruise on his side.
He considered his options as he grappled through the night. She had stated that the curse would not let him explain the situation that had befallen him, but he was still allowed to speak in a sense. However, this would have to be done sparingly as there were more painful punishments for him if he needed to voice anything. He was not certain if writing would yield similar results and decided that would be his next course of action. Testing the limits and loopholes would be necessary to rectify the situation at hand.
First off would be finding the woman; where to start, however, was an answer that evaded him. He had no way of knowing if she would stay in Gotham, but it seemed likely. If she had ended up there, there had to be some sort of reason. The spell would have just been to cover her trail in a roundabout way. But the magic would surely be noticeable to other users. Hypothetically, he could contact one himself without saying why. However, it was possible that attempting contact may signal the spell again. Magic was fickle in that regard, and one of the many reasons that he and so many others in his family detested it to different degrees.
That brought him to his second issue, which was alerting his family.
He wasn’t certain how to go about it. The wording of the spell seemed rather detailed, but he needed to figure out some sort of workaround. Because not talking would raise suspicions, and be unhelpful if he wasn’t able to inform them. He decided on a middle ground option: he would only speak when necessary, otherwise, he would become quieter and resort to physical gestures to indicate his response. He just had to hope someone was able to track down the witch and he’d be able to force her into reversing the spell.
Otherwise, he may very well go silent for a rather long time.
The cave was practically empty when they arrived, only Alfred waiting for them with a slight frown on his face.
“Master Bruce, Master Damian. I heard about the magic user; are you two alright?” He scanned them as he spoke, obviously inspecting for any injuries he might need to sew up.
“We’re fine, Alfred. Only Damian met her.” He glanced at Damian as he spoke, as if realizing something. “Which reminds me, you need to draft up a report. We need to catch her as soon as possible. I’m going to check the cameras right now, see if we can’t pinpoint her location.”
He stalked off, leaving Alfred with Damian.
The butler sighed, looking between the father and son with a tinge of annoyance. He smiled tightly at Damian before moving toward the medbay.
“It is very late, Master Damian. I request you wait until tomorrow to write anything or, at the very least, only create an outline.”
He nodded, rubbing at his bruising absentmindedly. For some reason, he was tired. They’d patrolled longer than usual, as it was a weekend, but normally the lack of sleep would not get to him so. Perhaps the spell had weakened him more than he had previously thought.
Damian quickly changed out of his uniform. He waved Alfred goodnight as he made his way to his room. The hallways were eerily silent, a fact that had at one point put him on edge, now giving a sort of comfort in the normalcy.
His door was half open, and Titus padded out, his tail wagging at an inconceivable rate. Damian let a small smile overtake his face as he reached down to pet his faithful companion. He opened his mouth to apologize for waking him at such an ungodly hour, but thought better of it. He still wasn’t certain if being alone would activate the spell.
He took a cursory glance around to make sure he was alone and opened his mouth.
“Titus,” he whispered, and a sudden burst of pain flared from his arm. He scowled at the confirmation: he truly would not be able to utter a single sound. He found himself wondering if anyone would notice before the spell was up. It seemed unlikely; there were often stretches where contact was limited between him and his family. Normally, it is not born from necessity but rather strife. And perhaps strife would bleed from this.
He hoped not.
Titus laid down on Damian’s bed, where he’d undoubtedly been sleeping before, as Damian stepped over to his desk. He grabbed a few pieces of paper and pulled out a pen from a drawer. He sat down and hovered the pen over the paper, deciding what was imperative. There was a rush of excitement as he realized what this could mean.
Perhaps, he could write what had occurred. And then show it to his father. It would be a tedious method, but better than the alternative of trying to communicate while being pummeled by an unseen force. He wasn’t certain if the pain would escalate and was not inclined to test it just yet. That would mean he planned for this to last a while. Longer than it needed to.
He put the ink on the paper and wrote down the word “witch” in shaky print. He winced as a new bruise began to form, right on his shoulder. Damian couldn’t help but deflate as the ache thrummed through his body.
How a spell had such control, he did not know. It seemed to actually be able to recognize when his communication went past a simple yes or no. He figured that sign language would probably set off the spell, as it was a more nuanced form of communication than a simple nod, but he attempted to sign his name all the same.
He got to the last letter before the pain began, and he sighed as he lay down on his bed. Titus burrowed into his side as Damian glanced over, his large eyes bearing into Damian’s own. He pulled Titus closer, permitting himself a bit of comfort as he attempted to fall asleep.
This would be more difficult than he’d first imagined.
Notes:
Me? Traumatizing Damian again? Always.
I have quite a few chapters pre-written, so hopefully (!!!) this stays mildly consistent upload-wise...
Let me know what you think :)
Chapter Text
Damian glared at his backpack as he heard Alfred call for him to have breakfast.
The room had a slight chill, evidence of his window having been cracked open the entire night. It made it more difficult than usual to get out of bed, but he, of course, prevailed. He sighed, pulled off his pajamas to change, and finally got a good look at himself.
Small and angry purple splotches were coloring portions of his skin. The bruising was dark and mottled, appearing much worse than the pain had been. He gingerly touched the one on his shoulder and was surprised at how much it ached. He looked as if he’d been in an altercation.
And surely that would raise questions he’d be unable to answer.
He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and pants, grateful for once that Gotham Academy required uniforms. At least he had an excuse for covering up so much. Hoodies may very well need to be added to his routine in the meantime at home.
Damian didn’t have much of a plan for school, and he’d realized that quickly when he had woken up. School required writing and speaking, two abilities that would prove difficult for him to use. He would have to figure something out because if his grades slipped, it was possible he’d be benched. And sneaking out to find the woman would likely cause an issue.
He made his way down to the dining table and was oddly grateful to find his father absent. Alfred placed a hearty breakfast of pancakes and fruit in front of him with a smile and returned to the kitchen. Damian ate carefully and gave a quick nod to Alfred as an inclination of gratitude before hurrying upstairs to finish getting ready.
The car ride was similarly silent, and he was thankful that he usually wasn’t very talkative in the mornings anyway. The car window was cold, and he rested his cheek on it, watching his breath fog up the glass. The drive was not so long and was a simple routine. They always arrive in a window of 7:55 to 8:05, never more or less. The car pulled up to the front, and Damian had to mentally prepare himself to exit. He slipped out of the car with an unspoken thank you and trudged up the steps to his school.
The day began without issue.
Math class was satisfactory. It seemed the numbers he wrote down didn’t register with the spell, but he guessed this was more likely to be that it could detect he was not transferring pertinent information. This was quickly proven as he attempted to use a number cipher, and was rewarded with a new bruise on his side. The spell confused him, the boundaries unexpected and catching him off guard.
Science was acceptable. PE was too, as they simply ran a mile, which Damian easily finished before the rest of his unathletic classmates. He leaned on the bleachers as he watched a girl fall over from the exertion, his teacher agape as his classmates crowded her panting form. It was an entertaining spectacle, and he caught himself planning to inform Alfred later in the day. He brushed the thought away quickly, but his mood was dampened at this.
Even history was fine, seeing as he just chose not to take any notes. He never used them anyway.
It was when he reached his English class that problems arose.
He bit his cheek as his teacher, Mrs. Briggs, placed a piece of paper and an essay prompt on his desk with a smile. His pencil was sharpened to a dangerous degree as he hovered it over the page. He stared at the sheet as if he could will it to write itself. The worst part was how stupidly easy it would be to write it if he could. Sixth grade was not exactly known for strenuous coursework, as exemplified by the prompt on the paper: Write an argumentative essay on your favorite animal.
It was almost insulting to be asked to complete such a task, and he wondered if his peers would truly struggle replying to such a question. He glanced back at the boy behind him and watched as he stuck his tongue out as he worked. Damian scoffed as he saw what appeared to be a bead of sweat roll down his forehead.
Perhaps he assumed too much of the Neanderthals he was forced to call classmates.
He stared at the clock for the entire test period, watching the hands move and tick. It was a painful experience as he listened to others finally set their pencils down, letting out breaths of relief at having finished. All the while, he glared at the floor as he knew what would come.
His teacher stepped down each row of seats, picking up the essays with a cheery affectation. Her stack was full, and she smiled as she finally reached Damian. She glanced down to see what he’d produced, and a slight frown appeared on her face.
He hadn't even written down his name.
He looked away as she gave him a pointed look, one eyebrow raised. She leaned over to his ear. “See me after class,” she said quietly, and she then stood up to continue plucking papers from desks. The boy behind him glanced over his shoulder, a confused expression on his face as he realized what must have occurred.
“Why’d you not write anything?” He asked, and Damian was pretty sure his name was Kody, as if Damian would ever have any urge to speak with him. “You’ll get a zero.”
He rolled his eyes. It was an irritating statement, less because of the truth in it and more so the indignity of assuming Damian was unaware of what would happen. He clicked his tongue as he turned his head, wishing to do nothing more than search the city.
The woman was no doubt gallivanting about, perhaps having cast a spell to conceal herself. She had no good reason to be in Gotham, and he found it difficult to relax as he wondered who she truly was. What she truly wanted. He reasoned to himself that surely one of the Justice League members would show up. She had seemingly escaped from somewhere, and with such power, there had to be at least someone who would come. He hoped they wouldn’t put it off, but knowing the work ethic of his father’s colleagues, he had his reservations.
The students around him picked up their bags, scurrying off with the approach of the bell. They were herded by the door, something he registered to surely being hazardous in an emergency. But they, as predicted, did not care, and when the bell rang, the usual shoving began as a sort of dam blockage occurred, twenty or so students all trying to leave at once.
He tapped his foot as he observed a shadow shrouding his desk. He looked up, finding himself face to face with Mrs. Briggs.
In his opinion, she wore too-vibrant clothing as it hurt his eyes to look at. She was a younger teacher than most at Gotham Academy, still bright and hopeful, truly of the mindset that she could morph the youth she worked with into respectable members of society. If she wanted to do that, he figured her odds were better in Arkham.
“Damian, is everything all right?” Her voice was careful and sweet, obviously trying to instill trust in him. “I noticed you didn’t finish your essay.”
He didn’t ‘ start’ would be more apt wording, he thought to himself, but he held his tongue. He resigned himself to glaring at her. Surprisingly, she held her ground, not even wavering at his attempts to make her back off. He was hoping to just be punished and allowed to move on with his day, but she wasn’t having any of it.
“You can always come to me. And I mean that. Do you understand?” Her tone was soft and assertive. It reminded him of his mother in some ways, a thought he quickly dismissed.
He nodded lamely and picked up his backpack. Her expression was still stiff, but she let him pack up his things. She finally sighed and looked down at him.
“I get it if you’re having a bad day. I’m going to let this go for now, but if there’s a next time, there will have to be a talk with the school counselor. I want to help you. That’s my job.”
He blanched at her words. This was a bad situation to be in so soon after the hex took effect.
With his teacher breathing down his neck, it was very possible that he’d be dragged to the counselor's office at some point. Even worse, a call home could be made. It would make things much more complicated if his family were hounding him. They could even fall under the misconception that he was on some sort of communication strike.
He threw his bag over his shoulder and walked out, hands shoved into his pockets as he gave no acknowledgment to his teacher, who still seemed to be fretting if her chewing at her lip didn’t give that away. He stomped down the empty hallways and pushed through the main doors. Children surrounded him, whining and laughing as they clambered into their cars. Alfred picked him up after school normally and was seldom late.
Damian searched the line of cars, looking for a familiar license plate. He couldn’t help but balk when he saw one that was decidedly not Alfred’s. He considered his options before begrudgingly deciding that choosing to walk home would cause unnecessary conflict. He’d rather be prepared to throw insults if it were required.
He pushed past one of his oblivious classmates, earning an undignified complaint, as he reached the car. He yanked on the vehicle’s door and glared when he found it locked.
The window rolled down slightly, and he leaned over to scowl at the driver.
Tim had an obnoxious grin on his face as he fiddled with the car mirror, blatantly ignoring Damian and making him appear a fool. Damian decided enough was enough, and reeled his foot back to unleash a kick on the door. It wasn’t enough to dent anything, but Tim jumped slightly and glared at Damian, rolling his eyes as he finally unlocked the door.
“Why’d you have to kick my car, brat? You hadn’t been waiting even ten seconds,” Tim huffed as Damian shut the door behind him. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t exactly volunteer to pick you up, but Alfred called a favor. So this is for him , not you. Don’t get it twisted.”
It sounded to Damian like he was more trying to convince himself than anything. But unfortunately, he had not much more to say than nothing at all. And so he simply sneered and narrowed his eyes while leaning against the car door as they pulled out of the school's lot. There’s a tension in the air that he would not and could not break.
Tim seemed to sense it too, as he whistled an off-tune beat as they waited at a red light. Damian could hear him shift in the driver's seat, tugging at his seat belt.
“… How was school?” Tim asked hesitantly, as if unsure if that was something he should ask. Uncertain if normal siblings had that sort of conversation. Damian was well aware that a thumbs-up would not keep any allusions of speech, perhaps irritating Tim even more, and he straightened up as he prepared himself to respond.
“Adequate,” is all he got out before he felt a large thrum of pain on his chest. There was a sharp burn that only bruises could deal, and he inhaled carefully as Tim nodded his head with an annoyed sigh, unaware of the slight tremor that Damian exhibited as he let his eyes remain looking toward the road.
“Yeah. My mission was, too. If you care.” Tim looked over his shoulder as he made a turn. “I saw Jon, actually. We had to crash at Kon’s, and he was there. He said to ask when you wanted to hang out.”
Damian tutted, shifting in his seat. Why wouldn’t Jon be at his own home? The clarification was unnecessary. Furthermore, he couldn’t exactly be good company currently. Jon could talk his ear off, but even he would get suspicious when Damian failed to make any sharp interjects as he spoke.
He hummed a response, and the rest of the car ride back was that same awkward silence. The air was thick and suffocating, and he felt like his hearing was sharpening as his ears desired stimulation, a break from the lack of sound. Tim whistled softly once more to each song that was played, and Damian felt himself growing annoyed. He hunched in his seat, staring ahead as the manor finally came into view.
He got out of the car quickly, waving to Tim briskly as he returned through the front doors. Normally, he would reside in one of the lounge rooms after school, completing homework out there, but he couldn’t risk interaction. He simply walked to his room, his neck prickling as he felt like the paintings were staring.
Observing.
Damian did not like that feeling. He hurried to his room, his backpack stuffed with homework he couldn’t do, clicking the door shut to hole himself up in his bed.
The dinner table was too large, in Damian’s opinion. It was never quite full enough to look anything more than depressing. A reminder of how empty the manor truly was, rooms upon rooms with no owner, no visitors. He suspected it was only kept for his father's hope of one day hosting a family dinner. With all of his brothers (specifically Jason, his father loved Jason in an almost idolized fashion) and Cass. With Steph and Barbara, perhaps Kate, or Selina, or even Lucius.
But that day had yet to pass, and so he sat at a twenty-seat table set for three.
He stared at his plate, wondering when a reasonable hour of exit would be. Not now, as it had only been five minutes and his food was still warm. But as he glanced up to see his father and Tim staring at computers, mumbling about something to do with Wayne Enterprises, he questioned if he would even be noticed.
“I don’t know why they’re selling,” Tim dragged a hand down his face, groaning in annoyance. “They have to know something we don’t.”
Bruce nodded, his hand to his chin as he stared intently at something on Tim’s screen.
“I’ll make a call to Sebastian, he’ll have his team looking into this.” Bruce sighed and took an absent-minded bite from his food as if he had just realized it was there. Which, in all honesty, was quite possible.
Damian recognized the name Sebastian. He was the head of one of the company's larger sectors, which he could not remember. Likely, finance it seemed. But without any context, he was unable to fully piece together what had occurred. Someone was trying to sell what was possibly stock, and that was deemed to be bad. He waited to be told as he looked between the two, for one of them to remember that he was at the table too. Realize they had company, and perhaps throw him a bone. Give him something, anything that resembles acknowledgment, and he would be content.
“Sea Bass? He’s not going to do anything.” Tim snickered at the suggestion. “Just go straight to Valerie, his secretary. She’ll actually make a call at least.”
Bruce’s lips twitched upwards, a small laugh let out that surprised Damian. He couldn’t remember the last time he had earned such a gesture, such an affirmation of the value his father placed in the one he spoke with.
“Sebastian is not that incompetent.”
“Yeah? He had me come down all the way from the office because he insisted we were going bankrupt. Turned out he opened the spreadsheet for our electricity bill.”
Damian watched the two go back and forth, bantering about people and things he did not know. It was isolating in a way, and he noted that Tim glanced at him. As if waiting for his inevitable interjection. He registered then that perhaps this was on purpose. To ice him out, make it clear he was not wanted. He had no place at such a large table, too small and unlike the men in suits before him. Brazen was a trait that was expected of him, and he had thought this to be an accepted reality of his.
And he wanted to speak up. To question their conversation, this inane man and why he was still working at Wayne Enterprises, why Valerie was not promoted, why Tim would be willing to come all the way down from his office to listen to an incapable man’s words, why Sea Bass would be an appropriate nickname for Sebastian, why they weren’t eating their food, why they had computers out when Alfred always chided them for it, why Damian could not be involved, why he couldn’t have a role to fill, why he was left alone and viewed to be happy with this, why he was even there.
But he could not ask. And so he stared at his food, drifting off into his head as he planned. The lights in the room dimmed for a second, just enough for Damian to glance upward. They came back almost immediately, and he assumed it was probably a generator surge.
“–he kicked my car when I picked him up! All because I didn’t unlock the door quickly enough for his highness ,” Tim sneered, and Damian understood this to be targeted at him. He did not know how the conversation had shifted so suddenly (and perhaps it was not sudden and he had just not been paying attention, but he would not think about that possibility), but it was clear who the culprit was. He lifted his head and raised his nose at Tim.
He wanted to rebuke the statement. Because he made it sound like Damian had actually dented the car when that was far from the case. Tim had locked the door as a slight, not by accident, made clear by the thrill he had taken from watching Damian struggle with the handle in front of his peers.
“Is that true, Damian?” His father questioned, an exasperated expression on his face. “I’d appreciate it if you were more patient. And don’t damage things when you're upset.”
“I swear, you better not try and fight with me at next week's gala. I’m not dealing with that again.”
Damian could only simmer as his father turned back to his computer, motioning a smug Tim to his screen. The two went back to their conversation, not even glancing up when Damian finally had enough and stood up, taking his plate to the kitchen.
“Were you not hungry, Master Damian?” Alfred took the dish from his hands, an inquiring expression plastered on his face. Damian shook his head, and Alfred turned and grabbed a plate, which he practically forced into Damian’s hands.
“I believe this should hold you over if you get peckish later,” Alfred said with a light smile before turning back to the dishes he had been scrubbing.
The plate had a few cookies on it and cut up slices of apples. His heart warmed a bit, realizing this meant Alfred had noticed how little he’d eaten. And, sure, that was his job at the manor. To ensure the well-being of all of Bruce Wayne’s many eccentric wards.
But it still felt good, and so he let it be.
It was three days before his next patrol—he’d been banned for a bit from weekday patrols after falling asleep during a math test a month ago—three days in which he did not speak. And it stung more than he’d like to admit to realize nobody took note. There was nothing to be said about the silence he inhabited. The long hours he spent without owning his own throat and mouth, the fleeting thoughts and ideas that left him at the same moment they were born, as they had no endpoint. They had the sole purpose of taunting him as they dissipated, and how he tried to hold on to them.
The silence of Damian Wayne was to be appreciated and desired. It made sense, of course. He usually traded verbal blows with Tim or even Jason when they saw each other, but that wasn’t very often as of late. His father worked long hours, and Alfred did not push him to speak. There was a rationale for it to be as long as it was. No prying questions just yet (if there ever would be any; he feared there would be none. Feared that his state was to be preferred).
But for no one to notice? Not even a wayward glance, no whispers around him when they think he’s not listening. No proposed intervention.
That was a harsh reminder of the weight of his words. Could they have any meaning if no one wanted to hear them, to be berated by such an irritating child as he was? He thought not. This hex, this curse that had befallen him, perhaps was an omen. A warning for who he’d become, of how unwanted he continued to be. He was forging himself into a reprehensible being, and perhaps this quiet was the punishment.
He did not know if he desired to embrace it. Not until he at the very least tried. To talk. Never did he realize how integral his ability to speak was to his person. This quiet was without comfort, without a break.
Dick hadn’t messaged him either, and he had no obligation to do so. He could be waiting for Damian to reach out. That wouldn’t be happening, and so he just accepted that it may be a few weeks before the man showed his face again. He’d gotten into another argument with Bruce (which Damian suspected to be about himself, as no one had told him the reason) and had left in a storm, furious with a threatening look on his face.
It was quiet, and he did not enjoy it.
His teacher was not helping matters; fawning over him and asking if he was alright periodically. He gritted his teeth as he steeled himself through her chatter. It was unusual how involved she insisted on being in his life (not hers ), and he found, embarrassingly, he grew to rather appreciate the attention to some degree when not receiving it elsewhere.
Concerningly, the bruises he’d garnered from the spell had remained on his body, not lightening in color or pain for that matter. It would be curious if it weren’t such an inconvenience. He had nearly winced when a peer bumped into him in his PE class, knocking into his bruised side with the bony floundering only a 12 year old could possess.
At least the week had finally come to a close. His father had mentioned offhandedly that the witch had yet to make a reappearance. She hadn’t shown up on any of the city’s cameras (he suspected a spell to be the culprit), and it didn’t sound like her finding was a high priority for Bruce. He’d been more focused on planning out a large drug bust.
That made sense. The drug bust had been in the works for a couple of months now, with even Jason lending aid through intel and henchmen. The witch hadn’t done anything with especially urgent effects (the people she had put under spells had all recovered in only a few hours), and they were working under the assumption she would show herself any day now. They kept a lookout for her, but she was of lesser priority, and Damian understood that well. It was just unfortunate he could not voice the real weight of her actions; she was not some weak mage but a rather powerful sorceress.
So as Damian pulled on his uniform, careful to avoid putting pressure on any injuries, he knew it would be up to him to keep an eye out. After all, it was on him to correct such an occurrence.
Notes:
I know Jon and Damian wouldn’t have met yet, but I like their dynamic sooooo…I love Tim and Damian; they feel the most like true siblings out of all of them, if that makes any sense.
Also, do we like Saturdays as update day? Just curious!
Chapter Text
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Jason taunted in a voice not quite hostile but certainly not amiable. “Thought the bait fell asleep on us.”
Tim laughed near him, to which Damian paid no mind as he held his head up in what he deemed to be a haughty manner as he walked over to his father.
Damian was surprised to see Jason had made an appearance, as without Dick dragging him over he was usually rather aggressive ( violent ) toward the idea of being in the cave. But with such a major case on the line, it did make sense that he would push emotions aside for once (it made sense but was unlike him) and go over the plan one final time in person. He still stood rather far away from Bruce, though, his shoulders pushed back and stance wide as if to make himself appear even bigger than he already was. His helmet was tucked to his side, indicating his readiness to hop on his bike and leave.
“There is no bait, Jason.” Bruce looked worn out, a heavy gaze in his eyes as he nodded to Damian. They were a small troupe to be taking on such a task, but Steph would be joining them tonight with Barbara ready on the lines. Damian was not so certain how much he would be able to respond to her, however. He decided he would keep replies to an absolute minimum on the field.
“Plan could always use some last-minute additions.” Jason fiddled with one of his guns, not bothered about the obvious tension growing in the air. “But whatever. We all know our roles?”
He gave a pointed look to Damian, who scoffed at him, turning his head to the ground. He did not understand why Jason insisted on making such snide remarks and gestures to him. Tim did not receive nearly the same treatment; the two even, at times, partnered up in their provocations. And like a simple-minded beast, Damian usually fell for it, much to the chagrin of his father.
“Warehouse, drugs, bust.” Tim exaggeratedly counted on his fingers, pausing as if he struggled to remember. “I think that’s all of them.”
Jason flipped him off before turning to his bike. He clambered on, his helm pulled over his head rather roughly. Damian raised an eyebrow when he did not leave immediately, instead addressing all those gathered in the cave.
“No one fuck this up,” was all Jason so eloquently declared before peeling out of the cave, the smell of gasoline attacking Damian’s senses. Damian huffed before snatching up his grappling hook and securing it to his belt. He trudged over to the Batmobile, choosing to sit in the back seat, knowing the argument that would surely occur if he chose the front was not worth it.
Tim followed, sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes glued to some sort of screen. He looked back at Damian, peering at him with a slightly confused expression before seemingly brushing off his thoughts as he turned his attention away once more.
Damian narrowed his eyes but stayed silent, crossing his arms as his father finally joined them.
This would be a particularly long patrol.
He shook out his hands as he knocked out another man, the slight sting to his knuckles grounding him in a way. Damian quietly grabbed a black rope and tied the small pile of men he had managed to take down together in a spacious storage closet. He expertly covered their mouths with white cloth and finally took a step back to admire his craftsmanship.
They had all split up after converging on a nearby rooftop, and it had been largely quiet as the group worked their way through the warehouse. It was sprawling, with many armed criminals patrolling the dark corridors. Damian had been tasked with helping to take down combatants around the perimeter. It had been around twenty minutes, and he thought himself largely successful with the role.
He closed the closet door with a quiet click. Damian crouched low to the ground as he crept through the empty hallway, pausing periodically to listen for footsteps. The lack of action had only fostered a growing sense of dread in him, crawling under his skin as he made his way through the warehouse. He had been instructed to focus on the ground floor, which he did begrudgingly, knowing the more dangerous portion of the criminals were higher up. Jason had made the plans, assigning Damian such a simple task, and he couldn’t help but feel slighted at the choice.
Like he was not perfectly capable of taking down a few armed men. As if he hadn’t been trained in the League of Assassins, born to Talia Al Ghul, and fathered by Batman himself. A Gotham drug deal was hardly a challenge.
He scowled as he carefully pushed open a large door. The room that he entered was filled to the brim with storage boxes, a warm hue from a dim and buzzing overhead fixture coloring the room slightly. It seemed like another dead end. He sighed, annoyed he was wasting his time to such a degree. He walked over to one of the cardboard boxes. It looked to be rather freshly packaged, with a rather pristine exterior, barring a slight film of dust.
Damian eyed it before deciding he had not much more to do than see what was inside. He unhooked a small knife from his side and carefully sliced through the clear tape holding the box closed. He ripped the box open, already of the opinion it was nothing important (perhaps provisions or office supplies), but was shocked to see a white powdery substance packed into large cubes. His eyes widened at the revelation.
Jason’s “vetted” information had said the drugs would all be held upstairs, with no exceptions. It seemed whoever had said that had either lied or been unaware of the stash tucked in a room in the corner of the warehouse. Damian smiled grimly: this was a task decidedly more consequential than he had previously thought.
Silver flashed in his line of sight, and he dropped at the same moment to the floor as a gunshot rang out inside the enclosed space. A box smoked slightly with a new hole in it, leaking out what was most likely cocaine. He rolled under one of the shelves as heavy footsteps ran to where he had stood.
“C’mon, kid, I just want to talk,” a gravely laugh echoed in the room as Damian held a hand over his mouth. “I don’t bite!”
Damian glared as large rubber boots came into his line of sight. This was bad. Entirely so. Matters were not helped as a new voice sounded in Damian's ear.
“Robin, was that a gunshot? Status,” Bruce commanded over the comm.
Damian cursed his luck, aware he may have thrown a wrench in the plans. He was unable to respond, as he could not give his position away to the man mere feet away, a lethal weapon in his careless hands. More than that, he did not desire to cause injury to himself and risk hindering movement. He prayed the man would not bend down to inspect below.
“Robin?” Bruce questioned once more, a tinge of worry in his tone. Damian gritted his teeth, carefully and silently shimmying out from under the shelf. He was on the opposite side of ‘Boots’ (the moniker seemed fitting), and kept low as he put distance between them.
There was no question of his next goal, that being subduing Boots and attempting to contact his family with the least amount of words possible. The issue arose from the fact that he was going to attempt this with the least amount of noise possible. If his father had heard the gunshot, then the criminals surely had too and were undoubtedly on high alert and searching for his location.
Hopefully, the others had already set the plan in motion, so it shouldn't change the outcome too much as long as they continue to focus on the main goal. Damian just had to accomplish his task, and all would be well.
Damian ducked behind a large shelf as Boots began to circle the premises. He kept his breathing shallow and rhythmic as Boots kicked at a few boxes as if Damian would pop out. He remained perfectly still as he stayed in position for a few minutes. He ran over his options in his mind, toying with a few as he lay in wait. His father hadn’t spoken again on the comms, though Barbara had taken it upon herself to attempt contact. There was no chance to give any semblance of a response as Boots would not leave, instead whistling and muttering to himself as he searched.
“Robin, do you copy? Robin,” she sounded concerned and static-y over the comms, and still, he made no move to respond. He kept his eyes trained on Boots.
“I’ll check for him,” Steph piped up, and he frowned at her words. She needed to stay in position, as surely that would be a better use of her time than looking fruitlessly for Damian. He did not need rescuing.
“Hey, kid, I’m not gonna hurt ya’. Let's make this easier for everyone.” Boots drew closer, and Damian was able to get a better look at the man. He had scraggly facial hair that suggested he lacked the capabilities of growing anything more. His boots were black, and his clothes dingy, all pointing to the fact that he was a mere henchman tasked with guarding the room. Nobody to write home about.
The man stood right in front of Damian’s hiding spot, scratching his head with a sigh. He turned his back to him, and Damian narrowed his eyes as he crept forward. He crouched, silently pulling out his knife as he got into position.
In a muffled cry, he lunged forward, pressing a knife to the man’s neck as he brought him down. The man’s limbs flew out wildly, but it was no use as Damian broke his grip on his gun, kicking it far away. He quickly knocked him out with a well-placed punch and tied him up. He raised his hand to his comm, ready to accept whatever bruising that would surely befall him when he heard loud talking approaching the room.
Thinking quickly, he stuffed Boots into where Damian had been previously hidden before darting deeper into the room. He scaled up a shelf, hiding between a few boxes as the door burst open.
Immediately, a small group of men entered, their guns raised as they carefully edged around the many rows of shelves, obviously searching for him. He hadn’t heard Boots contact anyone, so he guessed they had come after hearing the gunshot. He nestled further into his hiding spot, banking on them assuming he would not hide so far up.
As they made their way through the rows, taking their time to inspect the boxes and noting the damaged ones, a loud commotion from far above caused them to raise their heads.
“What the–” One man began, tightening his grip on his gun. Damian knew the noise meant his family had indeed gone ahead with their plan. The police had likely already surrounded the building, ready to arrest any stragglers who managed to escape. It was a success, no thanks to Damian. He stayed silent as the men abandoned their search, stampeding out of the room. Damian got up quickly, dropping to the ground to hurry to the door. He waited a few seconds before carefully pushing it open.
The sound of yelling and the smell of gunpowder were fresh in the air as he darted out. It was rather smoky, and an all-out battle scene was before him as he entered the center room of the warehouse, where a large staircase was located. He ducked behind an overturned table to find himself face to face with a surprised Steph.
“Robin!” She exclaimed, grabbing onto his arm, which he shook off quickly. “You’re okay! Is your comm working?”
All he could do was nod, to which Steph furrowed her brows as she lifted her hand to her comm, peeking over their hiding spot.
“Robin’s fine, I found him.” She glanced at him as she spoke. “Doesn’t seem injured. We’re gonna take down some of the guys down here.”
“Copy that , ” Tim answered with a slight strain to his voice, likely mid-fight. Steph let out a breath as she turned to Damian.
“Do you want the right or left side?”
He responded by nodding to his left, and she gave him a thumbs up as she shifted to her right. She counted off on her fingers, and at one, they both dove out from behind the table, the crackle of gunshots popping all around them. Shouts and curses sounded all around him as he began to methodically subdue henchmen who were escaping from upstairs. He kicked a gun out of another man’s grip as he glanced to where Steph was grappling with a man holding a knife. He looked up and noticed a man aiming a gun at her, his hand brushing over the trigger.
There was too little time to take him out before he took the shot.
“ Spoiler!” He shouted, panicked, and a harsh impact struck his back. He doubled over slightly as Steph lifted her head. She noticed the man as he pulled the trigger, leaping back at the last second. She cursed as it grazed her arm. Damian grimaced but turned his attention back to his opponent. While her injury would undoubtedly scar, he felt the outcome to be improved and worth the pain.
He was probably already on thin ice.
He took down a few more men before it seemed to quiet down, the rate of combatants dwindling until no more descended from the staircase and ladders. He stretched his shoulders. The soreness on his back was irritating, and he wondered absentmindedly if he’d have to sleep on his stomach that night. Or the rest of them, for that matter. He let out a sigh as he patted his belt to make sure everything was still secured. He heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and raised his arms, steeling himself for another battle.
“Robin,” Bruce sounded displeased, Tim trailing behind him, “Why didn’t you respond?”
Damian looked away, unsure of how to answer. This inability he possessed made things all the more difficult. There was no way of properly expressing the circumstances he’d been under, with the man in the room and the need to hide. He would need to shorten it.
“Couldn’t,” he got out, holding back a wince as pain bloomed on his forearm (an unfortunate location).
“What’s with the shortness?” Tim stopped at Steph’s side, noting the now covered wound she had. “We thought you got shot. Can’t even spare a moment to tell us you weren’t bleeding out?”
Damian glared at him, tutting as he bit back a retort. It was more difficult than he thought it would be to avoid insulting the stupid expression on Tim’s face. It was a waste of a bruise, and yet, oh so instinctual to him.
“Little shit just wanted to freak us out,” Jason called out from above, peering down at the group from the top of the staircase. “Everyone’s been taken down, drugs are secured. You all can deal with the cops, I’m done with this crap.”
With that, he raised his hand in a half-hearted salute as he stalked away, no doubt planning to leave by a second-story window. It was a rather typical method of exit for anyone Bat-associated (which Jason would of course vehemently deny).
Bruce let out a sigh as he glanced at Steph, who was holding gauze to her arm.
“Bullet grazed me,” she supplied as he raised an eyebrow. He nodded grimly and turned his head back to Damian. He looked around at the men the pair had managed to catch and frowned as if deciding on something.
“You two, take the Batmobile back to the cave. Red Robin and I will speak with the police and meet you there.”
Damian nodded, understanding that there was more to be discussed surrounding this conversation. He resigned to his fate as he stepped over a few men, and he heard Steph speak with his father and brother in a hushed tone. No doubt about him, and he did not know what, but it could hardly be good.
They got in the car, Steph sitting in the driver's seat with a slight smirk on her face. He huffed and looked away, aware she was showing off the trust she attained by being permitted to drive the car. Because he was apparently “too young”.
The rule seemed daft anyway.
He crossed his arms as he heard the car pull into the cave.
A self-driving ability had been installed, courtesy of Lucius’s team. After Damian and Steph had been dropped off, the car turned right around and returned to where Tim and Bruce were. In the meantime, Alfred had come downstairs, helping tend to Steph’s injury. She had whined when he’d put some disinfecting agent on it and pouted about her preferred arm being wounded (as if they weren’t all trained on both sides, he himself naturally being ambidextrous as he was born to be perfect in all physical aspects).
Steph had left shortly after, not wanting to stay the night. She had grabbed one of Alfred’s cookies and ruffled Damian’s hair while leaving, fast enough that he had no time to deflect. He leaned against the cave wall as he waited. He knew he couldn’t retire to bed, as it would only prolong whatever punishment was sure to come. Alfred had inquired if he had any injuries, and he had shaken his head.
He still mulled over the possibility, however. If he showed the bruises now, then if they were seen later, they’d be easily explained away as from patrol. However, the others would also be aware of them, and when they didn’t subside or change in color, suspicion could potentially be raised. He did not want to be held prisoner in his own home as they attempted to interrogate him on the matter. Conversely, he could also attempt to speak while showing the bruises. Perhaps they would be able to see one form in real time.
That seemed like an outlandish thought to him, however. With a spell as intricate as the one that had cursed him, it was very possible the bruises would only form in ways that would not reveal the nature of the spell. Even potentially risking internal bruising, which would be much more difficult to deal with.
He did not want to spend his days dealing with any bruised organs.
Bruce stepped out of the car, his mask still on. Damian raised his head as his father entered the room.
“Why did you not answer when I asked?” His voice was low as he stood over Damian, truly dwarfing him. “I thought we’d moved past that stage.”
He cringed at the words, aware of their weight. There had been a point in his much earlier time at his father’s, where he was particularly brash and perhaps one could argue combative. It had been his method of testing the rules and figuring out what was allowed. He knew he was considered ‘difficult’. He had been told that on many occasions. Usually, the sentiment did not bother him, simply rolling off his shoulder, like leaves in the wind.
But the implication stung a tad this time.
“When you don’t respond, I have to assume the worst. And when things aren’t the worst and you were entirely okay, do you understand why that would be upsetting?” Damian nodded as his father continued, pinching the skin between his eyebrows as he spoke. “You have to communicate with us. There’s no getting around that. I’m benching you for a week. I expect better from you.”
Damian widened his eyes, dread setting over him. Anger bubbled below the surface of his skin. Because it wasn’t his fault. If he’d been able to make some sort of contact, he would have. What could he possibly have to gain by attempting to remain silent? It took everything in him not to explode, to let out his frustrations.
It would be impossible for him to properly investigate the sorceress if he weren’t even allowed around Gotham. He feared then that she would fall to even lower priority and be brushed away as perhaps having left the city. He had no idea how long it would take before he would meet another magic user who would be able and willing to lift the curse.
If that was even possible. Because there was a chance that to lift the curse, one would need access to the tome it came from. And he would be right back at square one.
He bit his cheek, unable to do anything but accept. Normally, he would push back, calling out that it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t had the chance to inform them that he was alright. Surely they would prefer he’d not respond if it meant avoiding a bullet wound.
Surely.
Tim raised an eyebrow as Damian remained silent, only nodding slightly. It was rather strange on his part that he was not pushing back more, but he thought that maybe the oddness of his actions would draw scrutiny. If Damian couldn’t communicate what was happening, then Tim may finally utilize his prided detective skills and realize an issue was afoot.
“Tt,” was all he could utter (thankfully, the noise didn’t register as a form of communication) as he pushed off from the wall he had been leaning against. His father took a step back, eyeing him before moving to the computer. Damian took this as permission to leave and climbed up the stairs, ignoring the chatter of his father and brother behind him.
Notes:
I don't understand why anyone would live in Gotham. Like, that seems a bit insane to me but I guess that's everyone in the city.
I really didn't expect this much of a response for the fic, but it makes me very happy so thank y'all for that :D
Chapter Text
He had to breathe carefully, in and out, in and out, as he resisted the temptation to knock out the boy tapping on his back.
English class was the worst for this sort of behavior, as much as Mrs. Briggs tried to get a handle on his classmates. They were supposed to be silently reading. It seemed his peers found the idea of sitting still to be rather difficult, from the way they insisted on bothering him.
“Hey, Damian,” the boy behind him, Kody, whispered. “Did you take notes on the book? I forgot to read.”
Damian glared back, leaning away from the boy's hands. The tapping was more than obnoxious, as he kept touching Damian’s tender bruises. He had to stop himself from wincing as Kody kept the action up, unperturbed by Damian’s attempts to escape.
“C’mon, I know you did them. Just lemme see,” Kody whined as he pulled his hand back before delivering a particularly harsh jab to Damian’s shoulder, right where his bruise was. He hissed in pain, slapping the hand away as he balled his fists up.
Kody’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t look very remorseful.
“My bad, did you get hurt there? Sorry,” he took his hand away, staring at the redness that began to form where he’d been struck. “Still, you really didn’t do the notes?”
Damian rolled his eyes before holding up his empty notepages. Kody huffed, finally relenting. He turned his head and found a new victim, that being the girl on his right. Damian was just glad he no longer had to deal with the boy as he buried his head in his book, The Giver. He enjoyed a dystopian novel as much as anyone, but it was hard to focus with the light pain thrumming on his back.
He felt eyes on his back and turned around to spot Mrs. Briggs staring at him, her eyes narrowed slightly.
She really had to stop with that.
He frowned (not sulked ) as the school counselor, Dr. Dahlman, or something similar, sat in front of him, a neutral expression on his face. The room was covered in bright posters depicting smiling superheroes, even boasting one of Robin. There was a slight jasmine scent in the room, which was either from the candles being burned or the tea kettle he always had boiling.
Damian had been pulled into the room during his PE class, much to his annoyance. He was told to bring his bag, which made it clear this would be a lengthy visit. Some eighth grader had even walked him to the office, blabbering the whole time about how much they missed the sixth grade. He detested the notion that he needed some child to guide him to the office, and normally would have forced them to leave him alone. Unfortunately, that was not exactly an option for him, and so he was forced to hear more of the student’s pointless stories before finally being dropped off at the counselor’s door.
“Damian, how are you doing?” Dr. Dahlman began, and Damian raised an eyebrow as he understood this man surely did not pay enough attention in college with the way he acted. He had slightly thinning hair and sported a tattered leather jacket as if to appear more juvenile. Dr. Dahlman was known for letting kids pop in and hang out in his room to play his board games or chat. While it may have sounded like he was attempting to foster positive relations with students, Damian guessed the real reasoning to be that it was easier than actually confronting the children who likely needed to be spoken with.
He could probably list off a few of his more troubled classmates who would benefit more from a talk with the counselor than himself. He found Dr. Dahlman to be a tad bit performative, if well-intended.
When Damian did not respond, the counselor leaned back, glancing at his tea kettle.
“Would you like a cup?” He seemed to misinterpret the face Damian made as he added, “I wash the mugs every day, so don’t worry about that.”
Dr. Dahlman stood up and poured two cups, adding tea bags and a splash of honey in each. Damian tapped his foot on the ground, disgruntled that he was even in the situation. It seemed that Mrs. Briggs had grown worried by his lack of interaction, likely bolstered by the lack of response he’d given when his classmate had attempted to irritate him. It was a bit offensive that she assumed he wasn’t capable of holding himself back, but he reasoned that at least the sentiment was well-meaning if terribly off base.
The mug was slid in front of him as Dr. Dahlman sat down once more.
“I usually put too much honey in the tea.” He smiled slightly as he leaned back into his seat, holding the mug as he blew the steam off. “Actually the nurse came in one day and told me I need to rein it in with the sugar. I used to give out sugar cubes, but now I’m only allowed to supply honey, and I have to be the one who’s doling it out. Guess your peers can’t be trusted with sweets.”
Damian huffed as the man blabbered on, seemingly unbothered by Damian’s lack of response. He stared at the clock, wishing it would move faster. It was Monday, two days since his last patrol. Another few days without seeing his father or siblings. They were still clearing up the mess with the drug deal, and so were, of course, busy.
“… I heard you like to draw,” Dr. Dahlman said as he pulled open a drawer on his desk. Damian noted this fact; there had been communication about him. “I bought some markers the other day. I think it’s only fitting that a real artist breaks them in for me.”
He winked as he slid the paper and pens over to Damian. He even put one in front of himself and began doodling, as if this was a perfectly normal series of events to be occurring. Damian glanced at the clock again, before deciding at least he’d be doing something with his time.
He uncapped one of the red markers and hesitantly let it touch the paper. He made a line and waited for the inevitable. And yet, it did not come. His eyes widened slightly at the revelation, his breath hitching as he realized how momentous this was. A small pleasure he could still take.
And so he began to draw. The scene he created was reminiscent of a mountain that he used to be able to see when he looked out of his room at the League. Dr. Dahlman glanced up but said nothing, continuing his work on a poorly drawn pumpkin. They were silent, and Damian was surprised to find he was rather enjoying the moment.
The thought was shaken from his head as quickly as it had appeared. This was another waste of a day, and he tightened his grip on the pen. He flipped the page over and more aggressively began drawing a rough portrait of the witch. He gave her bristled hair, almost like a broom, and a more towering figure than she had truly possessed. Damian even decided to add a witch’s hat to finish off the look. She appeared downright demonic when he finished, which was fitting in his mind.
“Is that a witch?” Dr. Dahlman pointed at his work. “That’s very fitting, October is right around the corner. Only a few weeks really! Is she supposed to be someone you know?”
He was fishing, clearly, and Damian shook his head, which garnered a small smile from Dr. Dahlman as if it was some sort of accomplishment.
“Just a drawing, then. You’re very talented. Are you planning on submitting any pieces for the art show during open house?”
Damian frowned. He’d forgotten about the event, having pushed it to the back of his mind. He knew he had to come; judging from the treatment he was receiving at school, there would only be heightened scrutiny if he failed to show up. But dragging someone else there may prove more difficult. He supposed he could get Dick to come, but he’d need to be able to show him a pamphlet or something similar to communicate that. Even then he may have to actually ask (and who knows when he would next see Dick. He’d been gone for a while).
“Well, I think you should. Your art teacher mentioned to me you’re a regular Michelangelo.”
Ah. So there had been more extensive discussion surrounding him, or it had just come up in conversation. He couldn’t help the slight pride he took in being considered in such a manner, though the praise was unnecessary.
Damian simply tilted his head in response and took a sip from his tea.
It remained silent for the next ten minutes or so, Dr. Dahlman seemingly unruffled by the lack of conversation. He continued doodling, and Damian refined his previous drawing of the mountain as the time slipped away. Soon enough, the bell rang, signaling the end of the period and the beginning of his next class.
“Damian, before you leave, I just need to tell you that my door is always open. If you ever need to just sit and draw in my room, that’s totally okay.”
Dr. Dahlman had a casual demeanor but seemed serious in this instance. Damian bit at his cheek, knowing that the longer he was without a voice, the more suspicions would grow.
“Alright,” he let out, turning his head so the man wouldn’t see the slight twinge of pain on Damian’s face as he felt a new injury forming on his thigh. It didn’t really make sense to him, the inconsistency in pain and scope. Damian considered that perhaps the number of people listening had something to do with the administered punishment.
He had to hope that word of this meeting would not make its way back to his father. He couldn’t imagine the awkwardness that conversation would entail as Bruce tried to question why the counselor needed to talk with him.
Nor the potential shame if any of the others found out as well. He was certain Tim and Steph would make fun of him, and he’d be once again unable to defend himself.
His art class was perhaps his favorite part of the school and the sole reason he indulged his father by attending and didn't pull a Drake.
Since the school was private, the funding it possessed was rather ludicrous, meaning art supplies abounded. From high-end oil paints to fresh tins of gouache, the room had it all. Damian had created many different works of art in his short time there. They had already finished with their sculpture unit (he’d made a statue of Titus) and had moved on to watercolors.
He swirled his brush around in the paint as he gently applied streaks of light green to his work. It was of the manor's garden, with Alfred standing by his rose garden, a watering can in hand. It was a serene moment captured. He did not know if Alfred would want to see it, and like so many of his works, it would be finished and graded before living in the art classroom.
“Ah, lovely! Just lovely,” a voice exclaimed behind him. He looked up to see his teacher, Ms. Liesel, staring at his work with a bright expression on her face. She had a rather bohemian look to her, with long flowy skirts and so many earrings that he worried the weight would pull through her skin. The woman was always covered in something: paint, graphite, and even glue were all possibilities.
He liked the woman, even if she was a bit overzealous. She usually let him do as he pleased, not caring what he created as long as he utilized the materials she wanted the class to practice.
“Oh, I see what you did with the colors!” She pointed at his palette and smiled. “The light hues make this piece feel very soft. And the lack of outlines! Simply wonderful.”
He couldn’t help but preen at her compliments. They were hard to come by as of late. He nodded along as she spoke, her gestures frenzied and airy as she pointed out things he didn’t even intend to put in. She had a habit of overanalyzing artwork.
“Damian, I’ve been meaning to bring this up,” she paused her rambling, brushing some chalk dust off her apron. “As I’m sure you’re aware, open house is in two weeks. I know this is short notice, but I was wondering if I could showcase one of your works! Attendance is mandatory anyway, so you could drag your guardian over to show off.”
She winked at him and grinned as she grabbed a flyer from a nearby table. She slapped it down next to him with a flair to her wrist. It somehow had bits of paint on it already, but that was hardly a surprise when it came to her.
“Just think about it, okay? You don’t have to, but I would be very happy to hang a painting of yours up. They're all here anyway.”
And then she was gone, just like that, in a flurry of movement and chatter. He could hear her laughing with another student, making her rounds about the classroom. She could be a bit overwhelming at times for him. A little crazy in some ways. Not that the behavior was anything out of the norm for what he usually dealt with.
He let the idea play in his head as he continued to work on his piece. It didn’t seem terrible, and from the way Ms. Liesel was pushing it, even going so far as speaking with Dr. Dahlman of all people, maybe it would simply be easier to accept her offer and submit a work. He had seen his classmates' pieces. Damian hardly felt that the artistry of characters from Japanese animation shows would be representative of the hard work Ms. Liesel poured into her class.
By the two-week mark, his voice would have surely returned. Then he could invite either Dick or his father to attend. The entire family would be overboard for an event simply meant to acclimate him and his guardians to the school. It was his first year there, after all.
The flyer felt flimsy between his fingers as he read it over and over again.
Every student had to attend unless they had a valid excuse. He couldn’t exactly forge a doctor's note like he normally would, and found himself at a loss for how to get around this. It seemed like a hurdle for him to attack. Technically, he wasn’t required to have someone come with him. But it would definitely raise some eyebrows for the Wayne’s youngest to show up all alone.
He tutted absentmindedly, growing increasingly frustrated as he looked up. The table was empty, per usual, with Bruce and Tim still at the towering Wayne building in the heart of Gotham. Alfred had cooked him a meal that he usually quite enjoyed, and was the only one to, signaling that his father and brother would not be joining him.
His silverware threatened to slip from his hands, as clammy as they were. He didn’t feel very hungry. It was hard to eat as he considered what to do. His phone remained silent, and he periodically checked it for any message from Dick. It was a pointless effort, but one he clung to anyway.
No news had still been found of the witch. Not a single article had been written, nor offhand mentions from his father.
Nothing.
“Is this food not to your liking, Master Damian?” Alfred asked, popping in from the kitchen with a slight frown on his face. He quickly tightened his grasp on his fork and forced down another bite of his meal. It was good and home-cooked. Yet he still lacked the appetite to truly enjoy it.
Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly, but permitted him to continue as he returned to the kitchen. Damian ate around half of the food (an acceptable amount) and inclined his head as a show of gratitude before leaving.
His footsteps guided him to his father's office. His desk was covered in papers, indicating the workload he was currently dealing with. Damian crumpled the flyer just slightly before smoothing it out and placing it on his father's desk. It was in the center, on top of his father's computer. He was guaranteed to see it.
It would not be preferable if Damian went alone to his school's open house.
Ms. Liesel’s words still hung in his head, and he found himself tempted by the idea. He was never one to show off his art, only allowing his family to see gifted pieces instead of the ones he made for himself. They were personal and so they would not be fitting to show at his school, even if he is certain his teacher would permit it. Too much carnage and bloodshed. Likely not what middle schoolers tended to create.
His feet guided him to his room, where he glanced at his desk. It was clean and organized, with a small pile of neatly arranged sketchbooks off to the side.
He opened one of them, leafing through the pages for ideas. It couldn’t be representational so that axed out any imagery of Robins or Nanda Parbat. He turned page after page, shooting down each idea and doodling until pausing on one particular sketch.
It was a family portrait. Of his father, Dick, Jason, Tim and Cass. Even Steph and Alfred were included. They were all gathered at the very dinner table he sat at each night. It was a jubilant scene of laughter and cheer. He had drawn it a few months ago, forgetting about its existence in the time since.
He considered it for a long while, running the risks through his head. He, of course, would not be able to include Jason, as he wasn’t known to be alive to the general public. But the rest could stay.
They looked happy together, in a way he had never seen them be when all gathered. Perhaps it was his lack of presence in the portrait that had allowed him to draw their faces so at peace. A sight he may never have seen of them all together, but one that very possibly had existed. A world without his anger, his violence, and vitriol that seemed to permeate every room he stepped in like a thick fog, in every moment that he opened his mouth.
Yes. It could work.
He grabbed a canvas from his closet, a pencil set, and a kneaded eraser. If he was banned from patrol, he was still not going to sleep on a different schedule. For one thing, he’d gotten too used to staying up so late, too used to the adrenaline highs of nighttime crime.
His pencil seemed to move on its own as he sketched in an almost frenzied manner, adding small details and carefully drawn outlines of each part of the picture. His favorite part was drawing Dick’s smile. It was a pleasant curve with a slight upward swing to it. Almost effortless to create after having seen it so many times.
Many hours later, he sat back and appreciated his work.
It was better than the sketch he’d created earlier, refined and polished. Where Jason had sat was replaced with an empty chair with a jacket thrown over, the man’s favorite one. If he couldn’t add him, Damian felt it prudent to at least signal in his own way that he was there. He imagined him outside on a smoke break, or sneaking some of Alfred’s dessert before the rest could have a bite.
Dick had an arm thrown around Tim, who was laughing at something Steph was saying. Cass was smiling in the direction of where Jason was supposed to sit, almost like there was some sort of ghost in his place, and Alfred was standing to the side, a fond and exasperated expression on him.
His father stood at the head. He had a soft smile as he looked at all of his family, all those who mattered. It was a saccharine moment for such a broken group.
It stung to look at, but he felt the pain to be no different from the aches of his body.
He was done being silent, done being ignored. Sometimes he wondered if it would be different if one of the others suddenly did not speak. If Tim were without a voice, the others would catch on swiftly. All efforts would go to aiding him, to helping. Yet Damian would never receive the same reaction, the same concern, and the same care.
He supposed he had yet to earn it, yet to demonstrate that he would do the same for them. One had to prove oneself for such treatment, and it was naive to expect it from the get-go. He was wondering why it was taking so long for him, though. He would have thought that after two whole years, something would have changed.
Perhaps he needed to try harder.
Notes:
I wanted to give Damian good teachers because I feel like usually they’re written as middling, and honestly, where is all the money Bruce donates going if not hiring well-educated staff?
Also, the curses' seemingly vague requirements are such a mystery… Damian has some detective work to do on that front!
Chapter Text
The days dragged on in a decidedly detestable manner from Damian’s viewpoint.
They were broken up by sparse dinners and nights spent hunched over his painting. He’d turned his bedroom into an art studio of sorts, and as Alfred had not said anything yet, he continued to work there. He enjoyed the comfort it brought him. There was never a disappointment to find it empty, as that was its natural state without him inside.
The week was a haul till Friday, when the gala would be held. He hated attending such things, and usually, his father let him get out of it by claiming illness or prior plans. But he couldn’t always skip, and so this would be another occasion of indignities. He hated the way his cheeks would be pinched, the obtuse questions asked by socialites fishing for gossip (as if he would be immature enough to mention anything pertinent to them ), and, worst of all, the treatment he got from his father and brother as if he would simply massacre the whole room at a moments notice.
He found the portrait to be coming along quite well; the shading and colors were used appropriately, and all blended nicely. He was nearly done, in fact, but hadn’t mentioned it to Ms. Liesel. Damian planned to just leave it on her desk, and he knew she would understand it was from him.
Mrs. Briggs continued to be a thorn in his side, however, which made his school like a minefield to navigate. She kept on attempting to talk with him, growing more insistent as he routinely failed to submit any work. He knew some of his grades were slipping, but really, it was only in specific classes. Math and PE were normal as always, though his scores in Science and History had definitely seen better days.
His suggested visits with Mr. Dahlman were not helping this in his mind, as he was reminded by Mrs. Briggs that he could sit with the man at least every day, it seemed. His lack of communication was clearly a point of discussion for the teachers at his school, with even Ms. Liesel giving him extra attention.
And yet with all of this, he had to dodge at school, the switch when he got home was… stark.
Cass had finally returned (he had to hear it offhandedly from Tim at a rare night he sat at the table), but she was roped up with some case with Steph and so hadn’t come by. It did not seem as if anyone was picking up too much on his state. Alfred definitely had, with the odd looks he sent Damian’s way. But he clearly deemed it unimportant, as his father's behavior had yet to change, suggesting it had not been brought up to him.
And that was to be expected. Really, what more could he ask for than a seat at the table? It was his problem anyway. His mistake. His failure, decision, and choice. All of it.
And so he kept his head down, and perhaps that was why he missed the stray glances Tim shot his way, or the slight frown he received from his father as he silently gathered up his dishes and left after barely eating.
He did not listen as they spoke behind him, muffled by the walls.
“What’s up with him?”
“I… do not know.”
He eyed the painting carefully, taking a step back to fully view his work. Damian had worked on it for many hours now, toiling over it as he threw his all into this childish work. This dream, this fantasy that he did not have access to. Did not know. Would not.
But it felt real as he stared at the smiling version of his father before him. The gleam in his eyes was so bright and more similar to his public persona than anything. He felt this to be a positive thing. At least he was reinforcing the idea, aiding his family in some way. Even if it truly was not needed, it still at least was something he was doing as he bided his time, waiting for the witch to make a reappearance.
She plagued his every thought, taunting him in dreams and at the tip of his tongue. He still had no clue how she had managed to grab such a book. He knew she had to have been on the run, as her behavior was poor and the death grip she had held on that dreaded spellbook was nearly animalistic.
He shook his head, turning his focus back to the painting.
Truly, there was nothing more to add. They, his family members, were life-like, to where he almost felt like he was at the table with them. It was like a mirror in a sense, into a realm he wished to enter and reside in. He knew it would be perfect for the art show, as it promoted family values, something Gotham Academy loved to push. Rather surprising when considering so many of the students barely saw their parents, often gone on business trips, and the like.
The painting meant something to him. It was almost too realistic, making hi,m in a childish way dissatisfied with the real relationships he held with his family.
Tense as they were, he couldn't help the way he continued to wish for change.
“Damian, this is beautiful.”
He stared awkwardly off to the side as she marveled at his work, not knowing what to do. It hadn’t been on purpose that Ms. Liesel had seen him place the canvas, but now he realized it was probably for the best, as he was not getting out of her praises. It would be more embarrassing to receive them in full view of his peers if she approached him in class.
It had already been difficult enough to avoid Alfred seeing his pairing, having to carefully wrap it in loose white canvas. The butler had eyed it but said nothing to him, which he was quietly grateful for.
“Truly just… the emotions,” she gestured to the faces, “I feel like I’ve really joined your family for dinner!”
She paused, her energy diminishing slightly as she scanned the picture as if searching.
“Oh, but where are you? ” She glanced at him with a concerned expression. “Why haven’t you joined them? Are you in the room?”
“Somewhere,” he replied, and the bruise came quickly. His voice was slightly scratchy from disuse, and he wondered if he was imagining things or if the pain he felt was mounting each passing day.
His body was becoming increasingly battered, the aches in his gait incessant. Every day, he glanced in the mirror he spotted a new, dark bruise. He was on the very beginning bend of looking mildly sickly, as he had surely lost a bit of weight in the past days. Damian wondered if the bruises would even fade after the spell was undone. He feared he’d be left in his current state.
Ms. Liesel did not say anything to his response, but she narrowed her eyes slightly, her brows furrowed. Her gaze was hard on the painting, focused on the image of his father. He quirked a brow at her odd behavior but said nothing.
“It’s wondrous, Damian. Truly.” She carefully lifted the canvas, carrying it to place behind her desk. “I’ll hang it up the night of. You should be very proud of yourself.”
He didn’t feel very proud. Not when he’d been the cause of everything. But she did not need nor want to hear that, and he simply tilted his head before leaving for his class as he’d dropped it off in the morning, so fewer people would see him.
When he returned home that day, ready to begin his weekend, it felt more like the start of boredom and misery. This feeling was not helped as Alfred instructed him to pick out his best suit.
He had been aware that the gala was that day. He’d held on to the hope that he would miraculously be excused from attendance, but it was admittedly an unrealistic notion. Damian had already missed five or so that year, and he was due for an appearance in high society. He stared at the clothes in his closet, trying to decide which one was the plainest. He figured that a nice dark suit would help him blend in better with the crowd.
Normally, he would find himself an alcove to tuck into and bunker down for the night. At that moment, he was thankful for the habit as it would not be out of character for him to do it once more. Maybe he would grab some food from a passing waiter. Overall, his goal was to avoid unnecessary interactions.
Unfortunately, this was often rather difficult to achieve in Gotham’s upper crust.
He descended the staircase, tugging slightly at his tie. It always felt itchy, too stuffy. Truly, it would be a hazard if he had to engage in some sort of combat. He wondered absentmindedly that perhaps he could somehow hide some sort of weapon in it. But seeing as Alfred did the laundry, it was highly likely he’d be chastised for cutting a hole in it. Still, the reprimand was not too much of a turn-off, and he still considered the idea.
His father and brother were waiting, which was not surprising. Tim was adjusting his watch obnoxiously, and Bruce was staring at his phone, clearly preoccupied.
What was unusual, however, was the appearance of his sister.
Cass smiled at him, waving slightly. She sported a simple dark dress, and altogether they collectively looked rather vampiric in his mind. Steph was not there, but she was not one for the socialite lifestyle. He was jealous of her a bit, without obligation to engage in the general idiocracy that he was forced into. She always liked to brag to them all about what she did while they were at some boring gala or publicity event.
Commonly, it involved her going to some sort of fast food establishment and getting into general nonsense. She had a proclivity for the action.
It was hardly a shock to Damian when he noted that once more Dick was not there. He couldn’t blame the man. If there was anything he would choose to miss, it would be the galas. And it wasn’t as if he would be ending his feud with Bruce so soon, especially just for such an event.
He still felt like he was being left alone, however. Because he knew how this would turn out. Bruce would begin to chat with random men and women, pretending to get increasingly drunk as the night went on. Tim would use the opportunity to gather intel or promote Wayne Enterprises, and was even known to snag prosperous business deals on occasion. Cass was a bit more similar to himself, usually sticking to the sides of the party. But she also had a habit of sneaking out early, and no one gave her any trouble for it.
Damian did not have the same graces bestowed upon him.
He did not possess the same charms as many of those in his family. There have been many times when he caused an outburst after saying something considered too violent or slapping a hand away from his face. He did not understand why he was in trouble in such moments. His reactions were well deserved in his mind. He did not provoke anybody to justify their behavior, and yet they still continued to demean him and treat him as if he were a small child.
And he was just expected to go along with it. To permit such grievances. He hardly thought it fair. Why should he be treated in such a manner? The people attending galas were usually brought up with good manners, supposedly. Why they did not extend their learning to himself, he remained unaware.
“Hello, little brother.” Cass greeted him with an easy grin, reaching down to pat his head as he approached her. He brushed her hands off and turned to look at his father, who finally lifted his head up from his phone.
“If everyone’s ready, we can head out now.” He sighed as he said, “And let’s try to be civil. I don’t want any tabloids running anything too libelous this time.”
“He’s talking about you,” Tim remarked, obviously wanting to goad Damian. It would be tempting to take the bait and let out some frustration, but surely not worth the many different kinds of repercussions he’d face.
“Tim.” Bruce put a hand to his head as if it were ailing him. “Not tonight. Please.”
His father seemed to be in a particularly poor mood, and Damian knew to stay clear of him tonight. Not that he followed him around anyway, as he was usually brushed off and instructed to pass the time with the many young and oafish children dragged along by their parents. That never turned out well for him, as he had little in common with the children of the elite. Their interests and upbringing did not align with his own.
Still, on many occasions, he’d been accosted into spending time with an ill-behaved classmate of his. Normally, this was due to their parents wanting to be in good graces with the Wayne family, which he found to be an insulting concept.
Why would Damian have any sway in such relations? A ridiculous idea that nearly made him want to laugh. He was no representative. That required years of life that he had not yet attained. He did not hold respect in the household to any extent, as much as he had struggled for it in his first year.
Tim sidled up next to Cass, and the two began to discuss the mission she had been on. Something to do with an alien planet was all he managed to get, not that he was really listening in too closely. It seemed typical anyhow.
He did not think he would ever get used to the flashing cameras and jeers to turn his face as he kept his head down and followed his family down the red carpet. Gala events were often overly publicized, in his opinion. What was interesting about a gathering of Gotham's elite gossiping and attempting to one-up each other with loud boasts of their newest purchases was lost on him.
While attending such events helped save face, they also had some tangible benefits, admittedly. Mainly, the transfer of intel surrounding more illegal enterprises. His father was certain Damian would be able to learn more because, as the adults around him drank, they were supposedly much more likely to let slip anything more nefarious in his presence on the assumption he would not comprehend what they were discussing.
“Damian, over here!” One woman called out, her hair pulled back so tightly he was surprised she was even able to contort her face to spit out words. Her camera was flashing at a rapid rate. “Look over here!”
He felt like some sort of circus animal. He pulled his suit jacket more taut in a vain attempt to shield himself from the camera shutters.
Bruce, to the untrained eye, appeared to be eating up the attention. He waved with a disarming smile, flashing his teeth at the paparazzi. A flurry of cameras went off at the action, nearly blinding Damian. He wished he could wear sunglasses. One man walked up to his father and began attempting to sweet-talk him into signing a business contract. Damian’s father had already been pulled away before they had even entered the gala.
It was being held in the city’s capital, a stately building that had seen one too many villain attacks. Ivy crept up the white pillars, the doors dwarfing all who entered. He’s not certain why they even bother rebuilding at this point. Online government could reasonably work, and was less likely to attract certain villainous characters.
He sighed to himself as he walked inside, resigning himself to a night of ill-treatment.
This was proven true quite quickly as he was immediately barraged by a few older women who somehow already seemed tipsy.
“Oh, Eve, look! It’s Brucie’s youngest!” He shied away from a hand trying to clumsily pat his face. “You are just adorable, aren’t you! Spitting image, I say.”
One of the women was wearing a large and garish broach, with golden ornate detailing of what seemed to be some sort of animal, but she clasped her hand over it before he could get a better look.
“Very precious indeed. How is school?” She chuckled as she spoke. She reeked in a distinctive manner similar to Jason, cigarettes, or, for her, more likely cigars. The scent mixed with her overly floral perfume forced him to hold his breath as she spoke. “Does Bruce even send his kids to normal schools?”
“I bet they have private tutors,” the previous woman chimed in, her face rosy. “They’re all so smart! Damien, what is your favorite subject?”
He ignored the blatantly incorrect pronunciation of his name in favor of shrugging his shoulders. That would be the least suspicious answer, he decided. Silent acknowledgment.
“Recess, if I had to guess!” All of the women laughed, and he once more dodged a hand. “I’m certain you’re a little heartbreaker, all the girls must be smitten!”
Not his favorite comment to receive, but he took it in stride. He could appreciate being deemed similar to his father. Even if in reality, that was far from the truth.
The chandelier sputtered above them, flickering slightly.
The woman with the broach glared up at it. “Now, what is wrong with the electricity in this city? They can’t be bothered to fix it, I suppose.”
A boisterous laugh caught their attention, heads turning over to where his father was entertaining a small group of people. His drink was sloshing in his hands as he made dramatic gestures, no doubt telling some made-up story of a trip he never went on. The crowd seemed enthralled, one woman leaning on his arm with a captivated expression on her face.
“It’s your father! Well, girls, we must be saying hello!” Said the woman he believed to be Eve. “It was so nice seeing you! I must say, you are much more behaved than the rumors suggested!”
He slipped away as the group hurried over to his father's side. The gala seemed to already be in full swing, with most invitees already having arrived. He wasn’t certain who was hosting this time around. Not that it really mattered to him. Usually, they were held under the guise of charity, though more accurately, an excuse for the elites to party.
Damian bobbed and weaved under arms and through the throngs of people, making his way to one of the side staircases. He snagged a piece of bruschetta from a waiter's platter as he hurried up the steps.
From the second-story balconies, overlooking the entire party, the people below merely looked like glistening trinkets. The whirl of color popping out from more fashionably dressed socialites mixed in with the more subdued looks of most to make a vivid scene. He nearly had the urge to paint what he saw.
He flitted through the Gotham news on his phone, taking a bite of his bruschetta every few minutes or so. He hadn’t seen any mention or indication of the witch, and he was getting nervous. Maybe she really had fled. Though if he thought about it, it seemed likely she would’ve stayed. Why else would she cast such a spell? It seemed reasonable to assume that meant she had plans to hunker down.
His eyes flicked upwards again, glancing at the party. He spotted Tim, who had a wine glass in his hand (with a drink he definitely wasn’t legally allowed to have), schmoozing with some woman. Damian rolled his eyes at the scene before his breath caught as he took a closer look.
She looked tall (which perhaps was bolstered by Tim’s vertically challenged self), with auburn hair stuffed into a large bun that suggested she had quite a lot of it. When she smiled, it was off-putting, not real or convincing. And what truly sealed the deal for him was when he swore her eyes turned white for just a second, when Tim had turned away to hand his empty glass to a waiter.
He inhaled sharply at what he was seeing.
Tim was fraternizing with the enemy. Even if he did not know she was an enemy, it was still offensive in his mind. And clearly it was up to Damian to correct such a mistake.
He stuffed the rest of his snack into his mouth and quickly darted down the steps. He spotted Cass making her way towards the bathroom, where there was a very nicely placed window just waiting for someone to sneak out of. It was tempting to join her, but he had a duty.
Tim was smiling awkwardly at the woman as she laughed a bit too hard at something clearly not very amusing.
“A car! I can just imagine the look on your father's face!” She held her side as if she feared it would split open. “You are just hilarious, Wayne. Simply!”
Damian glared as he approached the two until he was right by them. Tim noticed him first and raised his eyebrows a bit as his shoulders relaxed slightly. He knew that look; Tim planned to use him as a way to get out of the conversation.
“Ah, Damian! Just who I wanted to see!” His voice didn’t inflect enough for Damian to believe him. Tim stepped aside to force Damian in closer. “He’s my little brother, Miss…?”
“Melina.” Her voice was suddenly flat, as if her fun had been spoiled. She hadn’t spared a glance at Damian, instead staring off with glazed-over eyes. “You know, I think I’ll go grab a drink—”
She turned to walk past Damian, but quickly halted in her tracks. Her eyes widened as she looked down at him. A cruel smile flashed on her face, then gone as quickly as it had appeared, to be replaced with a new, serene expression.
“It is so nice to meet you, Damian. I feel like we’ve met before. Perhaps in Paris?” She hummed to herself. “Or Rome? Surely not Stockholm. Maybe it was here, in Gotham.”
His blood boiled as she spoke, her voice listless as if what she was saying truly did not matter to her. And it didn’t. She was taunting him, as she had obviously recognized the spell on him. He wasn’t certain how that worked, but magic was not exactly his forte. Out of all of them, he’d argue Jason had the most experience. But he wasn’t exactly much help in general.
“I never pegged you as being shy, but we all have our quirks,” she inspected her nails as she spoke, as if it was all beneath her. Tim glared at her, stepping slightly in front of Damian as if he were enacting some sort of defense.
Damian had nothing to do. He couldn’t apprehend her or even alert the others to her presence at the moment. She was in an open room full of people; there was no telling what havoc she could create. She had no good reason to make an appearance, and had a similar lack of purpose to be speaking with Tim of all people.
Her smile grew as she watched him, calculating. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You Wayne boys, have fun, I hope to speak with you all again soon.”
Tim stared after her, a crease on his forehead as he finally turned back to Damian. The hum of a string quartet was distant, mixing with the mindless chatter of the people surrounding them.
“Wow. She’s… weird.” He fiddled with his lapel as Damian crossed his arms. “Sorry to drag you in there, but thanks for saving me. She would not let up. I don’t even know what she wanted! She just kept talking.”
Damian huffed, watching the woman, ‘Melina’ (because surely that was not her real name), weave effortlessly through the groups of people to slip away deep into the crowd. She had been turning her head from side to side as if following something imperceptible.
Tim sighed.
“Look, I don’t know what I did, but you can’t just go silent on me.” He brushed his fingers through his hair, messing up the gel he had no doubt painstakingly administered only a few hours earlier. “Kind of immature. Just tell me the problem and I’ll… I don’t know, apologize? Unless it’s a dumb reason, I guess.”
He seemed to be floundering, which was hardly surprising given his knack for poorly executed ploys against Damian. Tim did not truly care, his issue was that Damian’s attitude was causing larger issues for the overall sanctity of the family. And of course, he, in all his hubris, had noticed the silence but assumed it was only directed at him. Tim truly could not get creative with his brainstorming when it came to Damian.
When Damian did not respond again, Tim groaned and proceeded to clap a hand on Damian’s back.
“Hey,” He began, and was promptly taken aback as Damian couldn’t help but wince. He’d hit him right on one of his bruises, a particularly angry one from when he’d alerted Steph to the gunman. Damian whipped his head around to glare at Tim, who had his hands raised in a defensive position.
“Chill out, I didn’t even know you were hurt there,” he narrowed his eyes at Damian as if piecing something together. “… Did you get injured on that patrol? I thought you had said you were fine.”
Damian pushed him away, shouldering past to search for the witch. Tim let out a loud complaint behind him, but he paid it no mind, as he often did.
It shouldn’t have stung as much as it did to hear such a statement come out of Tim’s mouth. He
had
noticed. He had noticed the change. But he would rather assume the worst of Damian’s behavior, the worst of his intent. It shouldn’t hurt this much to be ignored. It shouldn’t feel like confirmation.
He felt his eyes sting, and he quickly wiped them, ashamed. It wasn’t the curse and the bruises that had pained him the most. It was the dawning realization that maybe, deep down, they never wanted to hear him.
Notes:
I’m trying to write Damian as an unreliable narrator, so hopefully that’s getting across and explains why some people (*cough* Tim) seem perhaps mean sometimes! Hopefully no one comes across as too OOC, but that’s sometimes how it goes admittedly.
Not sorry for that last line; the angst-potential was too good!
Chapter Text
The last thing on his mind as he sat in his bed, once more scrolling mindlessly through the news (in which nothing notable popped up besides the usual high levels of crime) was his eldest brother. It was a Saturday, and he was cooling off from the gala the day before. He needed to lie low and avoid any further interaction with Tim for the time being.
He seemed to be annoyed with Damian. It was a self-centered viewpoint, as if Tim's existence would be nearly enough for Damian to change his whole demeanor. Truly ludicrous. Insulting, really. Damian was above such petty tactics as the utilization of ‘the silent treatment’. Revenge was best served in a dish formed from more long-term tactics, in his opinion.
He mulled over his plans while he scoured the internet for anything of substance. He couldn’t exactly search up things, on account of the curse, of course, but it wasn’t hard to jump around links to get where he wanted. There were articles about the gala, with such journalistic titles as “Bruce Wayne’s kick-boxing ventures break down doors”. He hardly thought his father’s supposed hobbies were worthy of the front page.
It was while he was scrolling that a notification rang on his phone. That was odd on its own; he didn’t get very many messages. Most members of his family didn’t bother contacting him personally, but rather went through his father or eldest brother. Jon was not allowed a device, which was likely for the best when Damian considered the times Jon “borrowed” his mother's or father’s phone to bombard Damian with truly unimportant messages.
He knew who it must be (as there was no one else who it could be), and still he felt a slight flash of what he must be mistaking for nerves course through his body. He swiped up on the notification, and his breath caught as he read the name.
Richard (11:16)
Hey Dami, just wanted to ask how you’ve been and let you know that I’ll swing by Gotham in a week or two :)
He didn’t dare open the message, knowing he had his read-receipts on and that was something Dick paid attention to. There had been quite a few times Dick had lamented to him that it was “so cruel” of his youngest brother to not respond to his texts. Not that he was the only one to do it; he’s pretty sure all of them have ignored one another online before. Dick was just the usual target seeing as he sent the most messages.
Damian took his time to reflect on his possible choices. He couldn’t just not respond, Dick would get too suspicious, but he surely couldn’t answer in explicit detail.
Damian (11:23)
Good.
He had learned to brace for the hit, but it was a difficult thing to do when he had no idea where it might come from. This time it was on his calf, and he pulled up his pant leg to inspect. A new purple spot was blooming. Truly irritating.
It might have been a clipped response but it could be taken as an answer for both of Dick’s statements. ‘Good’ in reference to his current state and ‘good’ as in Dick’s planned appearance. It felt like enough was said in his mind. There was not much else to comment on, and he hoped it was the end of that. Of course, that was a tall order to be making.
Richard (11:24)
Good? Is that all? What’s up
He cursed Dick and his uncanny ability to detect when something was off. Damian did not know how to answer. He couldn’t deflect Dick’s prodding so easily, but it would be hard to get him off his trail in a one word format. His fingers hovered above the small keyboard, at a standstill.
Damian (11:31)
Nothing .
The pain splintered up his side, and he cringed at the placement. The bruises were not particularly large, usually around the size of a small Post-it note, though some were beginning to clump together in a way that would potentially one day be large enough to resemble fists. Surely Dick was not worth such a fate, and yet he couldn’t let himself leave it be. While yes, he would have raised concerns with the man if he’d failed to give any reply, it had more to do with the fact he on some level would have pitied Dick. It wouldn’t be that unusual for Damian to ignore the man. Damian was just simply being rational; he didn’t want his eldest brother to have any ongoing concerns about him.
Richard (11:32)
Alright… I’m working on a case in Blüdhaven, so I might be out of reach for a bit. If you need to contact me, call the burner number I gave you a while back. I’ll pick up!
Damian knew very well he had no intentions of ever calling the phone, but still proceeded to like the message in the chat anyway (an action that elicited no repercussions, which he filed away in his mind). He was not pleased with Dick’s potential reappearance, a thought that hurt to acknowledge. Because while he was able to brush off his father and Tim, a constant presence of Dick’s pushy self would be a struggle to navigate.
Cass had indeed disappeared just in the way he had suspected she would, as Tim had grumbled, she was out with Steph on the drive back to the manor. Bruce had merely stated she had worked a deal out with him. This particular factoid was startling. His father knew how much he detested social events, and yet he did not get to leave early. He caught himself fuming as a child might, wondering why Cass, who went to many fewer galas than him, was given such an arrangement.
Perhaps he simply did not push back with enough force, he supposed. There would be time for that one day. And reasonably, Cass wasn’t home as much anyway. Why would there be any expectation for her to be around for galas?
He had wondered offhandedly if his mother would have anything helpful in removing the curse. She likely would have more resources, but contacting her was another matter. He did not want to overly concern her by leaving a one-word message, and he did not know what he would do with himself if she were without answers. If his mother could not fix things, then he was surely without hope. And he could not so soon succumb to such a level.
His stomach growled, causing him to be pulled from his spiraling. It had been a bit since he’d eaten, the last thing being the bruschetta from yesterday, he realized. That was teetering on much too long. He finally got up, pushing his door open to scrounge for a meal. He felt like some sort of vermin in his own home, keeping himself unseen and unheard.
This feeling isn’t helped as he snuck into the large and overflowing pantry carefully. There were many unopened bags of ingredients and as well as more importantly, snackable items. He plucked a small bag of chips stuffed into the corner (either Dick or Steph’s handy work). They were already opened but had been clamped shut, so he wasn’t too worried about them being stale.
It was at the kitchen counter, hunched over a bag of chips, that his father found him. Damian looked up, surprised to see his father in the room. On weekends, he was usually still busy, working on cases or all of the dealings that came with being the owner of such a large company. His father raised an eyebrow but did not question his meal choices.
“I’ll be gone for a few days next week. The Justice League has the annual conference, so I need to be there for that.”
Damian nodded along as he spoke, and watched as he picked up a loose file he had left there, which was surely the reason he had come into the room (not for Damian. Never). His father left as assertively as he had entered, not even sparing a glance behind him as he opened the file. Damian kept an ambivalent demeanor, but internally, his fears rose to unforeseen heights. Because what was he supposed to do now? His open house was that week. A mere few days away, a Wednesday. He would hazard a guess that his father's trip would overlap with that particular event. It wasn’t that he necessarily cared if his father showed up or not, but it would be shameful to be alone.
He knew Alfred would go, if need be. But he didn’t want to bother the man. And having to explain who the butler was to his school wouldn’t be possible. Alfred wasn’t one for the limelight, having managed to stay largely out of the prying eyes of the public. Damian didn’t want to disrupt that for something so insignificant. Dick wasn’t around, Cass was busy, Jason was still technically dead, and Tim… he wouldn’t want to go anyway. All logical.
What really did sting, however, was that his father hadn’t even mentioned the issue of the open house. The flyer had been on top of his computer. There was no way it could’ve gone unseen, unnoticed. And perhaps that was the cruelest joke.
He hated the woman. The witch. Sorceress. Whatever she was, it didn’t matter because he hated her and everything she stood for. She’d shown her face at such a high-security event, had spoken with Red Robin, and had gone unnoticed. Why she was there was another question that would likely remain unanswered, at least for a while. She had to have been looking for something, as she had no reason to be meandering through such an event when the risks were so high.
It was also notable that she was having such odd conversations with Tim. It had been obvious that she hadn’t realized Damian was Robin until she sensed her own spell, so she wouldn’t have that as a reason to speak with Tim. She’d been laughing and seemingly had gained some confidence since he’d last seen her. He wondered bitterly if having succeeded in thwarting him to such a degree had given her a sense of pride. An egoism that he did not think suited her.
She had to have been scoping something out, but he wasn’t certain what it could be. He reasoned that from her actions, when she’d been looking around, she must have been searching. He couldn’t imagine what that could be, however. Nothing had seemed off at the gala, no odd feeling in the depths of his stomach or electric feeling in the air (all things he’d come to associate with unease).
It bothered him. But he didn’t have much else to do but wait for things to escalate. She wasn’t exactly going to walk into his life so easily again.
Monday had long ago become Damian’s least favorite day. It started the week of work and school, marketed as some sort of fresh start. As if the week before was suddenly inconsequential.
He glared at Dr. Dahlman as the man placed a deck of cards in front of them. His tattered jacket was off for once, thrown over his chair to reveal a hideous graphic t-shirt of some old rock band. September was giving her last kick of sweltering heat, a rarity in Gotham and decidedly miserable. He’d grown up in a place with many differing temperature extremes, but somehow, Gotham was worse. Because Gotham heat made people furious, creating a rancid scent of grime and sweat that polluted the city’s air as the day dragged on.
The fan was blasting in the counselor's office, the window slightly ajar for hopes of a wayward breeze spilling in. One of the posters on the wall was peeling slightly from the broiling temperature; it was one of Robin, and surely that was not auspicious. He shifted in his chair, wishing to remove his school jacket but acutely aware that it was a horrid idea, if terribly tempting.
“I bought a new game,” Dr. Dahlman supplied as he shuffled the card deck, fumbling slightly with the motion. “I thought you could help me decide if I could leave it out for the rascals who come in here!”
The man was useless. Not even able to discern the appropriateness of a simple card game without an outside opinion. Damian nearly gaped when he took a closer look at the cards and noted they were from what appeared to be a Superman-themed Uno deck. Surely the man was not serious. Damian did not particularly enjoy such pursuits, but even he knew what Uno was.
“I looked up the rules. Do you know them already?” He asked this without glancing up, carefully counting out the proper amount of cards for them to start. “They’re pretty easy once you get the swing of things. I practiced on my own!”
And wasn’t that an image? The idea of the counselor hunched over a deck of childish cards instead of working was amusing to some degree. He could just imagine some blubbering child having to wait outside the room as Dr. Dahlman figured out how a ‘skip’ card functioned. Damian snatched up his deck and sent a withering gaze over his cards to Dr. Dahlman, who remained aloof, a smile on his face as he sipped at his tea.
At this point, Damian had gotten pretty familiar with the room. Not that he visited very often (only twice now), but he prided himself on his observational abilities. He knew where the cleaning supplies were when the counselor had spilled a bit of coffee on the table while they had been drawing. He knew the grooves of the slightly lopsided chair he was instructed to sit in each time he came in, knew the markers and posters to the point he could confidently navigate the room without sight if need be. He knew this was a place to be on edge, and that observation was key to survival (what that looked like exactly, he remained uncertain).
He was surprised no calls home had been made. Not yet, anyway. His behavior could reasonably be marked as concerning; he knew that. There wasn’t much correction he could do, however. Maybe there was a reason for the lack of contact with his father from the school, but one he could not place.
“Alright, let’s see how this goes!” Dr. Dahlman chuckled good-naturedly and picked a card up to flip over and begin the game.
It was almost too easy for Damian, as he placed skip cards and handily won the first round. He didn’t say Uno, as the game required, but the counselor didn’t point it out, and so neither did he. He found himself staring off as the game progressed. Dr. Dahlman took card after card from the deck, which was an arduous process.
He couldn’t help but think about Dick. His brother and his text messages were able to curb the frigidity of his days with his warm manner of speaking. Admittedly, and only to himself was this ever to be acknowledged, he missed him. When he’d disappear to Blüdhaven or somewhere far and distant, only leaving pleasant memories for Damian to grasp onto as he left. He had a life, and that was all well and good. It would be selfish to expect him to be around all the time.
He’d been called self-centered more times than he could count and perhaps he wanted to believe that, to convince himself to be thinking only of himself and not care about how Dick would feel trapped in Gotham with him.
“…Damian? Are you there?”
A concerned voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and it was then he realized he must have been daydreaming once again. He glanced at the deck and slapped his card down, a Wild. He pointed at the green part to indicate his choice. Dr. Dahlman frowned softly, a twitch so minuscule that anyone else wouldn’t have noticed. But Damian was trained to perceive such things and knew it couldn’t be a good sign.
“You’re good at this.” The man said offhandedly, indicating it was just small talk. “Do you play with anyone in your family?”
He shook his head before he could stop himself. Game nights usually didn’t end well at the manor, with a board being tipped over on many occasions (by a more immature version of himself, oftentimes). They’d tapered off in commonality, and he couldn’t remember the last time one had occurred.
Dr. Dahlman nodded along and placed another card down.
“Are they around a lot?” He fiddled with his cards, head down so Damian couldn’t see his expression. Again, such an asinine question, and surely he knew the answer as Damian hesitantly shook his head, wondering what the man could possibly be getting at. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for someone like him. His father had a company to run, and so did his brother. The public knew Dick lived in a different city and that Cass was usually gone anyhow. Most of his classmates probably saw their parents on an inconsistent basis.
The counselor hummed, plucking up a card from his oversized deck and placing it down. After that, there were no more questions, and it befuddled Damian why this man so greatly insisted on meeting with him, and wasted his time. There were more troubled children.
He kicked his feet under him absentmindedly, the chair too high in his opinion. He was stiff as he placed cards down, the aches in his body loud as he shifted. The heat was still suffocating, a slight humidity in the air that was heavy to inhale. They played one more round after this, and finally, he was released as that glorious school bell echoed through the halls.
“Damian, I have some homework for you.”
He was stopped in place at the door frame, one strap of his backpack thrown carelessly over his shoulder, threatening to fall off if he wasn’t paying attention. He looked back at Dr. Dahlman, who had his elbows on his desk in a boorish way that wouldn’t fly at any high-end events.
“Print out a photo of something you like at home. Doesn’t matter what, just as long as it makes you happy. Got it? Have it in your backpack when I call you next time.”
Damian waved a hand as assent and hurried out the door, not wanting to be late for his next class.
He sat at his desk, staring at the pen and paper before him.
There was a dryness in his throat as he swallowed, picking up the drawing utensil gingerly. This could be his breakthrough, his method of communication. And the idea was so powerful in his mind, consuming him as he considered what to create.
He planned to draw the witch, then a picture of himself, perhaps crossing out his throat or drawing an empty speech bubble. There was no need for metaphorical imagery; the more straightforward the better in his eyes. He let out a breath, unsure why his heart was pounding so erratically in his chest.
His pen swooped timidly across the page, a circle to begin plotting out the shape of her skull. It had to be perfect. His entire focus was on putting down what he remembered about her, a rather easy feat, admittedly, from the way she plagued his dreams at night.
For this reason, it did not occur to him to brace himself in any way. Because he’d been able to create before, why would that suddenly change?
A thrum of pain bloomed on his hip, and he couldn’t help the noise that slipped out in his surprise. He dropped the pen, staring at it as if it had burned him. His hands shakily fumbled towards his waistband as he tugged it down slightly to reveal a dark bruise.
It didn’t make sense. Why was he able to draw before, and yet now, things differed? He grabbed another piece of paper, quickly striking a large line across it. He waited for the pain, and yet it failed to pass. Confused, he snatched up his previous page and tried to draw the woman’s jaw.
He got no further than a line before another ache seared across his body. His hands tightened around the paper, the edges crumpling as he stared at it.
This did not make sense. He’d been able to draw previously: a mountain, his family, and even a small sketch of the woman. So what was different this time?
Damian tapped his hand on the paper as he stared at the drawing. He bit his lip as he thought, his eyes glancing toward the pile of homework that would never be done sitting on his desk. It was in this state that he realized something, his brows lifting slightly and his eyes narrowing.
There seemed to be an issue of intent that changed the outcome. Or purpose; the details were surely up for change in his mind. He considered that perhaps if he was overtly meaning to communicate something, that would trigger the spell. Which explained why he could still make noises, yet sign language and even some forms of art would not be accepted. But it was inconsistent, with head nods and body language not setting things off.
And wasn’t that entirely frustrating? How was he supposed to even subconsciously try and communicate (and wouldn’t that also count too, hypothetically)? It truly did seem hopeless on some level. He was stuck doing the reconnaissance alone until someone looked deeper into his actions. And there was no telling how long that would take, never mind if it would ever happen. He wondered why the witch would choose such a strong spell. It was logical, and yet so utterly and undeniably cruel.
He ripped open his bag, searching for the drawing he had made of the witch in an unthinking state. And yet, it was not there. He had emptied the bag earlier, and surely he must have placed it somewhere on his desk. He distinctly remembered doing so.
But it was nowhere to be found.
He slumped in his chair finally, throwing his head back in exasperation, furious at his luck. Of course, he had lost the drawing. So typical. His head thrummed dully, and he groaned as he felt the onset of a headache. Odd, but he could easily chalk it up to sleep deprivation.
A bird squawked outside his window, and he glanced to see a solitary black crow sitting on a branch. He sighed and stood up, throwing himself onto his bed. He lay there on his back, staring up at his ceiling. There was a spider web-shaped crack in the corner, from a time he had tried to practice with a sword while on bed rest, and the hilt had gone shooting skywards. Besides that, it was dark and boring, and yet an old friend at this junction.
His body ached. Not more than it ever had, but in a way that was notable to some degree. He held his arm up and pushed down his sleeve to stare at it. The bruises were the same as when he’d gotten them, and as suspected, still hurt the same as he tested one with a light tap. It was interesting in a morbid way. Bruises were spots where blood vessels had broken. The ones he had weren’t growing but merely staying stagnant. He almost worried that the spell had somehow messed with his body’s anatomy in some way, but quickly shook the thought away.
If the witch could detect her spell on him, it had to be continuous, which was obvious, but specifically it was constantly active, likely to ensure his bruises stayed. It was a nasty curse. He wondered if the woman had even known the true side effects and been aware of what it all entailed for him.
He had doubts whether any of it would bother her. More likely, she’d find it fascinating and note it down, and of course taunt him more. Damian knew that he needed to find a magic user to help him, but there weren’t any he knew well enough. None of them would drop what they’re doing and visit without proper reasoning, reasoning he undoubtedly could not supply.
The point of the spell had indeed been isolation.
He just hadn’t thought it would affect him so much.
Notes:
Okay, so I’m loving all of these theories people have about the spell; I know the parameters seem confusing right now, and the witch’s motives as well, but there is a reasoning behind it all!! Also, I know it’s upsetting no one has noticed, but trust they care!
Sorry for the break, exam season hit me like a truck and some other things, so I took a break from, well, online stuff. But I have up to chapter 9 pre-written, so updates should go back to being consistent!
I will be replying to all comments (especially those left on the chapter before!), don’t worry (not that you were, but I was)!! Sorry again!
Thank you for reading!
Chapter Text
“Why’re you so quiet?” Kody tapped on his desk as he leaned in his chair, a frown on his face. Mrs. Briggs had forced them to collaborate for the day, working on a project that would represent some piece of Gotham history. They had gotten the short end of the stick, shafted with retelling what was there before Gotham, which had a limited knowledge base. Since he couldn’t write, he’d made things clear by snatching the paper from Kody and drawing on it, outlining where words would go as he worked.
Kody huffed, “You used to be really mean. Now you’re like a mute or something.”
It was an offensive statement on so many levels, none of which Damian could or would acknowledge as he worked on coloring in a dreary little village. Apparently, a town named Greyvale had resided there once, though it had burned down at some point, nearly every villager dying in the fire. Mildly interesting but not important in the slightest. There were just thirty more minutes on the clock. It was a last-minute project because his teacher had decided there were too many empty spaces on her walls, and thought that this would suffice in depicting what usually goes on during her classes.
He didn’t have a plan for that night. Technically, Alfred wouldn’t be picking him up that day. It was supposed to be Tim. He usually went home early on Wednesdays, and “helped out” Alfred by picking up Damian. Of course, the schedule was inconsistent at best, as Tim was usually god knows where with god knows who. It was irritating, but there wasn’t much he could truly do.
Today, it would work to his advantage. Normally, if Damian didn’t vacate his school on time, his brother had a hard cutoff and would ditch him. Something he had found out after trying to help Ms. Liesel after school. In such situations, he normally ended up taking the dreaded bus system, a good motivation to not be late.
So the solution for the issue of this open house was simple. He’d let Tim leave, and then loiter around the nearby park until 6:30, when it was supposed to begin. He could attend for thirty minutes or so, make his presence obvious, and vacate. Then he’d take the bus home. It was logical in his mind. Dinners were always rather late in the day, and it was entirely possible his absence would go unnoticed.
“Man, I hate this class,” Kody muttered as he began to methodically bend pencils until they snapped in half. There was a growing pile of splinters on his desk as many more shot across the classroom. “Why don’t they just let me drop out. I don’t need school, my mom said I’ll get to be the boss of her company anyway.”
Damian tutted as he finished off his drawings, not bothering himself to answer, nodding as he approved of his handiwork. The drawings he had made had all been highly obvious nods to old history, such as a courthouse to represent the witch trials that had occurred at one point there. Damian thought it wouldn’t be the worst thing to revisit at that moment. He hoped that somewhere in Kody’s minuscule mind, he would recognize them. He slid the page over to Kody, who groaned as he stared at it.
The boy looked up, a wide and conniving grin plastered on his face. “Hey, you know, since you’re so smart, I figure that you probably don’t want me messing all your stuff up. Why don’t you just write what you want to—”
He cut himself off as Damian sent him his most scornful look. Kody sighed, grumbling to himself as he began to work. It would surely not earn Damian any higher than a B, but he figured that would be an improvement when compared to his previous performance. He’d dropped to a C and was counting down the days when his report card would grace his father's desk.
That would not end well for him. His father was rather insistent on the merits of the American education system, as non-exhaustive as it was. One of the rules for being Robin was maintaining proper grades. Which was not currently occurring, and would be difficult to rectify even once the spell disappeared.
“How is the project coming along, boys?” Mrs. Briggs asked in a sing-song voice, leaning over the two to stare at the paper in Kody's hands.
“Uh, it’s going, I guess,” he answered, glancing at Damian pointedly as if he would save him from something. Damian raised his eyebrows, knowing what was about to go down.
“Really? Because I’ve been seeing things fly through the air over here.” She looked down at the pile of broken pencils on Kody’s desk. “Are those mine?”
Damian stared at the clock as his teacher proceeded to chastise Kody for his ill-mannered behavior. There was a swell in his chest as he listened to her assign him lunch detention. It was a pleasant interruption to his nominally monotonous days.
They’d begun to blend together as of late.
He let out a quiet breath as the bell finally rang to end the day.
His school functioned on a rotating schedule, meaning the class he ended with changed each day. On Wednesdays, his last class was PE. That was lucky for him at this particular moment, as he had to change out of his gym uniform (which thankfully had an option of sweatpants and a hoodie that he’d chosen at the beginning of the year) back into his usual outfit. Of course, he did so in a locked bathroom stall, on account of the admittedly concerning-on-anyone-else number of scars littering his body. They differed in size and shape, and the simple excuse of a car crash would not account for all of them.
There was a point of using serious car crashes as an excuse at which the questioner begins to wonder why ever one would continue to get into vehicles. It was around the point of four that this reaction tended to occur, a shockingly small number in Damian’s opinion.
Surely some more leeway could be given.
His classmates hollered around him, pushing each other into lockers and laughing as they tumbled to the floor. He ignored them in favor of making his way to the outside bathroom, placing his phone on silent as he did so. Tim would surely be waiting, and all Damian had to do was take his sweet time. Seeing as both his father and brother had been ornery of late, and from their sporadic talks at the dinner table, Damian garnered that there were some internal issues ongoing at the business. His father liked to promote people he thought were engaging in illegal activities to make his investigations easier. That, of course, had the offset of making his company run less smoothly, and always ended up blowing up to a more serious degree when the embezzlement or other form of fraud occurred.
Damian sighed as he locked himself in a bathroom stall. He unzipped his bag and changed into his school uniform at a decidedly meandering pace. He glanced at his arm, noting the rough bruising on his wrist. It was beginning to be more pronounced slowly but surely. He studied it for just a second more before pulling on his shirt.
The halls were quiet for once as he slipped out of the bathroom. Tim should have left by then, but he’s not inclined to risk a sighting. The school had a side exit, and he made his way there, dodging the janitor by hiding behind a corner.
There was a breeze as he pushed open the large metal door, carrying a distinct scent of burning tires in the air. He scrunched his nose as he checked his surroundings, making sure nobody was lurking as he hurriedly walked down the street, in the opposite direction from the front doors. There was always a slight thrill he felt at managing to irritate Tim in some way, as simple as it was.
The park was a mere few blocks away, which he navigated easily as he kept to the sides of buildings to avoid being spotted. His phone already had about five notifications, which were probably Tim airing his grievances at having to go out of his way to pick Damian up, and him not even being there. Perhaps he had a reason to be upset, but that was not to be acknowledged by him on that particular occasion. Instead, he continued on and was finally greeted by the sight of the Victorian-style fences that guarded Gotham's largest park.
It was heavily funded by his father, supporting the development of a lush landscape of stately trees and winding paths. Ivy was known to care for the area, and anyone who tampered with it had her to answer to. Damian was not inclined to face her wrath on that particular day, and instead took one of the branching walkways to enter deeper into the park.
What surprised him was to see small patches here and there of browning shrubbery, as if they were wilting. He wondered if someone had dumped some sort of chemicals in the forest in an attempt to get rid of them.
The foliage above him had begun to change color, a picturesque mix of orange and red soon to overtake the entire city. Such autumnal hues were pleasing to the eye, and he silently hoped they’d speed up the process just for him to enjoy the sight sooner.
One could likely spend hours in the small woods, with ever-growing shrubbery and numerous deer trails. It was a tempting thought to lose himself in the shaded forest. But he had no time for frivolous whims such as that, and instead followed an only slightly worn path down to the man-made center lake. There was an old bench, the dark iron dedication sign rubbed off from the many decades it had been left forgotten.
Dick had shown it to him during a reconnaissance mission, as they waited for their targets to show up. It had been during the time when it was just them. Just Dick and Damian.
He found himself missing it sometimes, a thought he always quickly shook away.
There were a few hours till the open house began. He hadn’t much more on him than what was in his bag. Thankfully, as he rummaged through his backpack, he found a book he’d borrowed from the school’s library buried under a few folders. Hopefully, it would manage to tide him over until then.
As he sat, he periodically glanced at his phone. He wasn’t quite sure what he was waiting for. Perhaps, a call. He flicked through the messages that Tim had sent and wasn’t surprised by what he read.
Drake (3:12)
You have three minutes before im leaving
Drake (3:13)
I have a lot of stuff to get done
Drake (3:15)
Seriously. Idek why you’re upset at me
Drake (3:16)
Alright the next bus is at 4
Drake (3:16)
Have fun on that
He couldn’t help but scoff at Tim’s rambling. Never mind the inconsistent punctuation and use of abbreviations; he was much too stuck on this inane idea that Damian was upset with him. Really, he gave himself too much credit. Tim did not pass through Damian’s head nearly enough to warrant such a reaction at this junction.
He sighed, leaning his head back against the cool bench. A crow cawed overhead. The water lapped lazily on the rocky shore. He glanced at it, staring at his rippling reflection. Damian would be shocked to find real life enduring in the lake, on account of how many toxins had surely been dumped in during periods when Ivy was locked up. Perhaps mutant life could survive, but still improbable.
It was an interesting thought to play with, but not enough to stave off the boredom he faced.
Small crowds shuffled inside the school, jewelry glistening and haughty laughs echoing from the open doors. He tugged at the collar of his uniform, thoroughly regretting his decision. He had dumped his bag in a well-groomed bush by the building, aware it would be very obvious he hadn’t been home yet if he carried it inside.
His uniform was largely clean with a slight coating of dust on the bottom hemming from where a dog had jumped on him as he walked toward the school. Damian had found it hard to truly mind, but it was a bit of an irritant. He did not enjoy appearing ill-prepared; that suggested a sort of weakness that he did not pertain to.
“Damian Wayne, so glad you made it!” A smooth, almost robotic-sounding voice rang out through the crowd. “And who will be joining you tonight?”
Damian glared as a man in a sharp suit sauntered up to him, a practiced smile on his face. He recognized him to be his principal, Mr. Acharya. The man enjoyed calling out students by name, as if it were a party trick. He had pronounced Damian like he was sounding it out for the first time, the vowels heavy on his tongue. He’d left out the Al Ghul part of Damian’s name that his father had insisted on including in formal documents, however, so he thought it to be a surface-level attempt at best.
“Is your father already here?” Mr. Acharya asked as he swiveled his head around, his eyes squinted slightly from strain (if he had to guess, from the blinding white smiles being flashed all around them).
Damian merely stared back. There wasn’t much of an answer to give. By the school's own rules, only he had to attend. It was supposed to be some sort of “fun” event that would mean parents would want to go if their kids were there too. There was the implication that parents would attend with their children lest they desire to seem uncaring. And it seemed to function aptly from the many adults milling about. It appeared that every child had a guardian of sorts present.
Mr. Acharya clasped his hands together, his posturing faltering slightly as he pursed his lips before schooling his expression once more.
“Well, that’s alright. Let’s make sure you have a ride home.” He motioned Damian toward the doors, and he obliged begrudgingly, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a scowl. He just had to be seen at the event, and issues would hopefully resolve themselves. It had been tempting to skip it, but he couldn’t handle any more discussions with Dr. Dahlman.
Or for the school to actually make a proper attempt to call his father. It was a bit odd that it had taken so long.
The school was difficult to navigate even for him at that moment, with families halting in their tracks to observe shoddy artwork pasted onto lockers and walls. They gathered around display cases, admiring plastic trophies with the same wonder as if they were shining jewels. He shimmied by a burly man laughing heartily with his snotty children by his side, and finally made it to Ms. Liesel’s room.
He knew she would want him there and thought he could grant her wish at that moment. He prepared himself for the usual flashiness that accompanied her very existence. And yet, it was still startling to enter the room.
She had decorated every part of the classroom with streamers and origami hanging from ceiling tiles. Portraits and drawings were displayed on the walls, with carefully written-out signage indicating the artists beneath. She’d even cleaned the floors for perhaps the first time ever, and he was surprised to see they were actually a uniform beige tone.
What was most striking was the painting hung on the center wall, much larger than the rest of the minuscule pieces. He took a shallow breath in as he walked closer, looking upwards.
It was his piece, clearly now varnished. She’d mentioned planning to do that, which was appreciated as the task was tedious with the fumes and general mess it came with. Still, he was mildly surprised by the lambency the piece now attained. The colors were vivid, painted blue eyes shining in much the same way as gemstones.
He could admit it was one of his better pieces. Acceptable for display at such an event, at the very least. He stood by it, glancing at the white plaque to the left of it. His name was there as well as grade level, notably without a title as he hadn’t produced one. He was not certain he would have had any ideas even if he had been able to share them with ease.
“The Wayne Family” felt dishonest, as did “Belonging”. He considered “At The Table”, which felt appropriate, but still lacked something that he could not quite place. Damian mulled these thoughts over as he stared at the painting. Parents and children ambled by, murmuring appreciatively as they glanced at his work. A girl from his art class gave a timid greeting, which he responded to with a slight nod.
She looked back at her family, who must be her parents smiling at her. Even her brother and sister were there, who appeared to actually be enjoying themselves as they looked at her fondly and admired the art pieces arranged so neatly on the walls, even while clearly much older than their younger sister. There was a thrum in his chest as he observed this, which he pushed down quickly.
“This is yours?”
He turned to his right to find someone he surely did not want to and did not ever want to see: Dr. Dahlman. The man had ditched his usual garb for marginally more professional clothing of a wrinkled collared shirt and long khakis. It was more adjacent to an office worker than a school counselor, but it was surely an improvement.
“It’s very beautiful. I’m glad you submitted a piece.” He stared at the painting, not looking down at Damian as he spoke. “I actually have a question about it.”
Damian glanced over, his brows furrowed as he wondered what the man could possibly have questions about. It was a dinner scene, nothing more, nothing less.
“This has to be your father,” he gestured to the figure, “and these are your brothers and sisters. And I’m guessing this one is your butler?”
Damian nodded tentatively, unsure of where this was going.
“But there’s an empty chair. Is that supposed to be yours?”
He couldn’t exactly explain that his formerly-dead brother was the owner of the seat, even without a curse. So he made a noncommittal shrug, letting the man make the assumption.
The man’s face was unreadable, serene as if he were making small talk. And perhaps he was, but Damian had suspicions there were ulterior motives at play.
“Did you leave early? Or…” the man placed a hand on his chin as if he was truly analyzing some underlying messages in the painting. Which was a stretch in Damian’s opinion. “Maybe you didn’t come? Why do you think you’re missing?”
Damian huffed, annoyed by the pestering. There was no answer to give. He wasn’t there because it would not fit with the painting, nor would it make sense in the scene he attempted to capture. There was nothing to be explained.
Dr. Dahlman rocked on the balls of his feet, letting them stand in silence. It was like his questions were rhetorical; he didn’t expect any answers. This was all routine for him, seemingly.
Clacking footsteps grabbed Damian’s attention, and he turned to see who the originator was.
“Ah, Damian! You made it!” Ms. Liesel appeared by the pair, a glowing smile on her face. She placed a hand on Dr. Dahlman's shoulder, and he turned around with his eyes slightly widened. “I see you and Mark are appreciating your piece! Isn’t it marvelous? I’ve had a lot of people ask me about it. They say the resemblances are uncanny .”
“Juliette, ah, hello,” Dr. Dahlman muttered out, a dusting of red drawing to his cheeks quickly, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah, it’s very lifelike.”
“Oh, just call me Julie! You’re so formal all the time!”
Damian took a step back and let Ms. Liesel sweep forward, her hands going every which way as she excitedly jabbered to Dr. Dahlman about how excited she was to be there and why don’t they hold more events like this in an upbeat voice. She could be a lot to handle for him at times, admittedly, but in that moment, Damian appreciated her ability to take over the room. Dr. Dahlman was nodding along politely as she began pointing out portions of the pairing.
With the counselor distracted, he managed to get some respite as he inched toward the door, finally slipping out when Ms. Liesel accidentally dropped her phone while she was describing the process of decorating the classroom with dramatic movements. The echoing noise made it easy for him to finally get away. She gave a small wink to him, and he wondered if she’d meant to give him an escape all along, before brushing the thought away.
Really, he could very well leave at this point. He’d been seen by a multitude of staff. There’d be no claims to be made that he hadn’t at least come to the event. It did not matter that no one had shown; it did not matter that his father hadn’t bothered to inform Tim or Alfred, or even Cass or Jason. Damian did not need anyone by his side. And leaving really was just that easy.
This idea was pleasing, and so he decided to follow it. He hurried down the halls, dashing down empty staircases to reach the ground floor. His side thrummed as he walked, an irritating ache that had been there for days at that point. There were still individuals around, but they were generally making their way towards their gymnasium, where a school play was being held. He had his doubts about the enjoyment one could find in watching children bumble and butcher through Shakespearean language. Never mind the state of the prop selection; Ms. Liesel kept attempting to get him to agree to paint set pieces.
The front doors pushed open with a satisfying click, cool air rushing forward as he stepped out. His clothes still itched, and he glanced toward the bush where his backpack hopefully still was.
It was to his surprise that a dark car pulled up into the fire lane, the driver shoving open the door with great force.
Tim did not exactly look pleased, if his creased brows and taut mouth were any indication. His clothing was crinkled and thrown together, his tie loose and hanging limply from his neck.
Damian was not certain what the issue was, but he had an inkling it had something to do with himself.
Tim perked up as his eyes reached Damian, his shoulders slumping and breath leaving him. “Nice of you to mention this. You can’t show up alone to a school event like this, what the he—”
He cut himself off sharply as he stood by Damian’s side, an artificial smile plastered on his face as the front doors pushed open behind them. Damian looked back to see Mr. Acharya, the man’s eyes widening slightly as he took in the scene before him.
“Mr. Drake, I’m so glad you made it! We were starting to worry something had happened.” He adjusted his jacket as if he had been hurrying. “Couldn’t have him taking the bus home, I mean, some of the recent scare gas attacks have definitely shaken our little community. Not to mention he is a bit…” he cut himself off with a knowing smile, making a downward motion with his hand to indicate height. Damian glared but said nothing.
It was odd to consider a school a community, but he concurred with the rest of the principal's statement that there was reason to be wary of the transportation system as of late. Some canisters of fear toxin had exploded in the buses in the last months, which was not optimal for usage. Of course, Damian would likely be able to dive out of the bus through the emergency windows before getting hit with the full effect, so the worry was a moot point.
“Yeah, we can't have that.” Tim’s smile appeared strained even for his standards. “It’s nice to meet you, you must be Damian’s principal, Mr…?
“Acharya. Could I escort you two toward the auditorium? A play is being held by the drama class. I'm really excited to see it. They’ve worked so hard, well, everyone has.” He clasped his hands together. “You must know all about that, of course. Damian’s painting is really something! That’s a talent that should be supported!”
“Painting?” Tim quirked a brow, and Mr. Acharya frowned for some reason. Damian glared as his brother continued. “I’d love to stay, really, but we gotta get home. Big dinner and all that.”
It was a shoddy answer by all accounts, and Mr. Acharya seemed to accept it, if unwillingly.
“… That’s a shame.” His smile came back quickly, as if he’d forgotten it had left him. “Well, I hope to meet you again. Damian, have a wonderful evening. Goodnight!”
Tim waited until Mr. Acharya shut the doors behind him before turning to Damian.
“Why’d you not say anything about this? Now your principal probably thinks I’m an asshole,” he groaned, frowning at Damian. “Someone has to go to these things with you, or at least make an excuse to not come. Throw up in class next time or something.”
It was brash and accusatory wording. He wasn’t even sure why it mattered so much. At least he’d come; who cared if no one had joined him? It was his ridiculous event anyway.
“Ttt.”
Damian turned his back, marching off towards the bush and away from dealing with his brother. That really seemed to set Tim off, as he narrowed his eyes, reaching for Damian.
“What the hell! Don’t walk away from me!” Tim pulled at Damian’s arm as he turned to walk, digging harshly into his bruises. Usually, physicality did not truly bother Damian as it gave him an excuse to reciprocate the motion (and it truly was typical for their dynamic), but tonight it just hurt . He had to stop himself from hissing. “I had to hear about this from a memo while I was clearing out my inbox. What’s wrong with you?”
Damian stared at the ground, as if it would perhaps oblige him and swallow him whole. He hadn’t considered the optics of the situation, of why it would seem odd for Damian Wayne to be alone. Of course, saving face should be the top priority when leading a double life. It was unreasonable of Tim to be so angry, in his opinion; however, he needed to de-escalate this somehow.
He tightened his expression, preparing to spit out the word as if it pained him to do so, which it would in a second.
“Sorry.”
The small of his back thrummed in a burning hurt, but he didn’t let his demeanor falter, his eyes still latched to the concrete of the ground.
Tim sighed, letting go as his hands fell limply to his sides. “No, look... It’s not the end of the world. But you should’ve, like, mentioned it to somebody, because you can’t be going to events like this alone. It doesn’t… people are gonna make some assumptions about Bruce and everything. Or me, Alfred, heck even Cass.”
They occupied a silent space, the only noise the occasional car horn echoing through the streets.
“… Is something wrong?” Tim asked suddenly, his voice much softer than it had been before. Damian didn’t reply, letting seconds drag out until his brother finally relented with a frown.
“Let’s just go.” Tim turned his back and stepped forward.
And the night should’ve ended there, really. A silent car ride home to an equally quiet manor. A noiseless entrance to his room and a soundless inhabitance he’d have in his bed.
But things didn't work out so easily for Damian, and that was an unchanging reality.
Two vans pulled up beside their car, effectively boxing the vehicle in. Damian took an instinctual step backward. Men poured out, large guns in their hands and serious expressions on their faces.
“Put your hands up,” one growled, and Tim stiffened by his side as the men pointed their weapons at them.
This was decidedly not good.
Notes:
Ooooh cliff hanger why would I do that… so evil. Tim you need to push it bud you’re so cryptic (my fault but still)!
I may or may not have given myself sun poisoning and now my feet are purple for some reason… guys don’t forget to wear sunscreen, that’s my message of the week. Or more specifically: don’t fall asleep at the beach when the UV is 10…
But the tan is looking good ngl so that’s a plus
Chapter Text
If he really thought about it, a relatively long time had passed since he’d been kidnapped in his civilian form. More than two years had gone by since he’d been chloroformed at a park while spending time with Dick. That had been during his time as the man’s Robin, and he’d been particularly upset at losing Damian so easily. It was a bit of a touchy time for them all.
This time around, it wasn’t just him tied in the back of a van. Tim was right beside him, a frown on his face, and a resigned look in his eyes. The men had quickly wrapped rope around their wrists and thrown them in the back of one of the cars, no care for their physical state. They had gruff temperaments and military-esque dress and movements. The two were in the very farthest corner, their backs to where the driver's seat was. It seemed to be a repurposed moving van.
“Didn’t think we’d get this lucky,” a man with a shaved hand smirked, his grip tight on his gun. “You two are worth a pretty penny. How much do you think your daddy will shell out?”
“Why’re you doing this?” Tim cut in, glaring at the man. He flexed his wrists in their bindings, likely as tempted to escape as Damian himself. “The cops are gonna find out really quickly. You did it in a public space; was there any planning involved?”
The man just blinked, his face contorting as if he himself was confused at his own actions before going back to a smug persona. The break had been notable, though. Damian considered if somehow the witch had something to do with the kidnapping, but brushed the idea to the side for now.
“You know, you’re kind of an ass. Anyone ever told you that?”
Neither of them responded, Tim merely flicking his eyes to Damian. It hadn’t been a totally targeted kidnapping and was only a simple matter of ransom. That was good for them, as they would likely not be roughed up too much. But security would be as high as the group could make it, which could mean many things depending on how effective these particular criminals were. Either way, he wasn’t very concerned, but feigned some trepidation for the sake of his cover, letting his lip tremble slightly and his hands twitch.
“Aw, look, he’s gonna cry. You’re the baby in your family, aren't you?” The same man laughed, as if his words had any comedic tinge to them. “Don’t worry, kiddo, you and your big brother are gonna be just fine. Won’t even hurt you.”
“Don’t talk to him,” Tim snapped, playing the protective older sibling rather convincingly.
The men just chuckled at this. They were sitting leaning on the sides of the van, long limbs splayed out in front of them. It was difficult to tell which way the van was heading, as it kept turning suddenly, indicating the driver wasn’t a total moron. The metal of the van was cold, even through his clothes. The back of his neck kept brushing against the walls, and the chill was unpleasant.
He truly hated being kidnapped, not that many people especially enjoyed it, but it happened more often to him than most, so he felt he could say that. There was a certain level of annoyance he felt for the men who sat in the van with them, akin to what one would associate with insects.
It was likely their absence would be noted quickly, as Alfred would undoubtedly grow suspicious when they failed to return before dinner. With his father not around, that left Cass, Jason, and Steph as options for saving the two of them. Damian would prefer it to be Cass as she engaged in less teasing, but he knew he couldn’t be too picky. She was likely still busy with Steph, anyway. Either way, they’d come soon when they realized Tim was missing.
The truck was stuffy, and he scrunched his nose in annoyance as the van continued onwards for another twenty or so minutes. Tim’s elbows kept knocking into his side with turns, aggravating his bruising each time. He couldn’t lean away properly and so was left to endure, trying his hardest not to let Tim notice his aches (and this was easy, as he’d learned a long time ago how to hide injuries). Not that it seemed Tim was truly paying attention, as he had his head leaned against the wall of the van. Likely because he was trying to diminish the irritation on his face, which Damian could note from the slight twitch of his brow that occurred each time one of their kidnappers spoke.
Finally, they slowed to a stop, and the doors to the van were quickly opened, a draft entering as the men clambered out. Damian tugged at the ropes at his wrists, wondering if perhaps risking his identity was worth not dealing with any of this.
A sharp look from Tim squashed the thought, not that it had festered for too long.
“Not yet,” he whispered through his teeth. “Someone’ll come soon. I told Alfred we’d be back early.”
Damian ignored him, staring instead at the two men climbing into the back of the van. One had a large tattoo on his arm of a skull, which Damian did not find ominous at all, thank you. They sneered as they grabbed Tim and Damian by the arms, the one with the tattoo holding a firm grip around Damian’s wrist. He winced slightly at the pain, but found himself hoping it would bruise. At least he’d have an excuse for his injuries if he were forced to be checked on in the medbay.
They were shoved unceremoniously out of the van, his feet stumbling momentarily on the concrete that greeted him. It seemed they had arrived at some abandoned building, which was a rather common sight in Gotham. He was yanked forward by the tattooed man and hissed at the manner in which the rope around his wrists chafed his skin.
Night had swallowed the sky whole, the sun having set a long time ago. In Gotham, it was almost impossible to see the stars, long ago having been hidden from view by smog. Still, he sometimes liked to imagine they were there, as bright and amiable as they had been as he’d gazed up from the window in his room in the League. He missed it sometimes; the way he would tiptoe out of his bed, leaning out as far as he could, reaching a hand up as if he’d be able to brush against the stars he saw each night, his most faithful and endearing friends.
This was one of those more fluffy ideals he kept to himself; his friendship was not one that had to be shared with others. It was his secret with the sky itself and would stay that way long after he would finally be killed (because there was no reality in which he passed of any natural sort of causes).
“How much do you think we can get for these two? I reckon at least ten million a pop,” a man laughed, stepping forward. “Might get myself a nice ol’ watch after this. That’s a rich person thing, I think. I guess you two would know.”
As he spoke, the man by Tim flips his wrist over, showing a shiny metal watch. Damian was pretty sure Tim had about ten of those at home, on account of Bruce insisting backups were necessary. Mainly because there was a tracker in it, which would surely be used in their eventual rescue. He wasn’t certain of the brand, but he knew there was a Vacheron in there. Hopefully not the one Tim had on, as that would likely anger their captors on account of how ridiculously frivolous a purchase that was.
“Huh, or I could just take yours. Looks pretty nice, don’t you think?”
Tim glared at the man, biting his lip in a manner surely supposed to be indicating distress, but to Damian seemed more oafish than anything. The tattooed man’s grip tightened further, and he couldn’t help the slight wince he made at the pain. It was a most frustrating feeling to know he could easily escape, but that doing so would ultimately be harmful. He wished he could just join some sort of mixed martial arts tournament and spread the story that he was just a very talented fighter (in a decidedly not vigilante manner). It would be so easy, and yet the idea had been shot down rather quickly by his father.
“The little dude can go in the back, and Greasy will be with us,” a gravelly voice interrupted his train of admittedly unimportant thoughts, taking him back to reality. “He’s been in the family longer, and he’s the co-CEO; his ransom value is definitely higher. I say keep the real money more secure.”
It was reasonable logic, and still it stung.
“Hey,” Tim glared at the men around him, a tinge of anger in his voice as he spoke. “Everyone in our family has the same worth. There’s no reason to separate us.”
“Sure, sure. I get it, I really do.” The other man began again, whom Damian guessed to be in charge of the operation. “Don’t want to hurt the brat’s feelings. But let’s be honest with ourselves, your dad can always bang a new chick. Can’t really get a new business partner that easily. Apparently, you’re pretty smart.”
Crass, and yet surely had some truth to it. He was pulled once more, the small crowd parting for them as he marched forward. He heard Tim voicing more complaints behind him, which he preferred to tune out rather than listen to.
The building he was brought inside of seemed to have been a bookstore at one point, with cleared out shelves still bolted down to the floor. It seemed the location had been chosen hastily, as evidenced by the slight pause the tattooed man took as he glanced around the doors, obviously searching for a specific place. An overhead light was the only thing keeping the room illuminated, the bulb being a mild orange hue. He frowned as he was shoved into what seemed to be a small storage closet, the man bending down in front of him with a slight bit of wariness on his face.
“You know, you remind me of my little brother.” He spoke with what Damian must be mistaking for an inflection of fondness, an uncanny grin on his face. “Hope this isn’t too traumatic, but I need the cash.”
The door was shut in his face, and he was stuck in the darkness. There was a vent by his side, which periodically blew cold air with a loud thrum that suggested the ventilation system had seen better days. He sighed, pulling slightly at the rope once more. It was done tightly, and he’d have to put more effort than he was willing to give into escaping. He figured that if anyone were to come check on him, it might look suspicious that he’d been able to remove the rope himself.
The closet was silent, the metal door blocking any and all sound from being emitted. It was nothing he hadn’t experienced before. He’d been taught from a young age the importance of patience, though in an admittedly more unconventional manner, which involved being told to sit in empty rooms until he thought enough hours had passed. From this, he’d gained a skill in time estimation. He slumped against the wall facing the door, ready to lunge at whomever next opened it. He enjoyed irritating and harming his kidnappers for not only the slight thrill it granted him but the fact that word often got around in criminal circles that he was a rather unwilling victim.
It was unlucky that they had been the ones chosen out of all the possible students and families. It seemed likely the group had been merely circling the block until an unwitting victim meandered out of the Academy’s doors. With such a high-profile enrollment base, such events were not too uncommon, especially because they were in Gotham, after all (and that again made it all the more suspicious. Why would random men bother with kidnapping them when they would surely fail). Still, it was undoubtedly an issue, and he was mildly concerned someone would care to watch the security camera footage at a later time. Normally, in kidnappings, it was preferable to just skip to the saving instead of bothering with reporting a member missing, especially if they were captured in their vigilante form.
He was curious what their captors might do to Tim in the meantime. It didn’t seem they had much intent on harming them, though his arm still twinged slightly from earlier. Very likely, they had him sit in a chair to call Bruce and manipulate him into sending more money. Which may prove difficult as he wasn’t even on the planet.
The idea of Tim tied up and surrounded by such pathetic criminals amused Damian, and he found a sort of solace in it. It was more dignified to be shoved in a closet, surely. He didn’t know what their plan for him would be. Maybe he was just an add-on they could throw in to raise his brother’s ransom worth.
He could approximate that around an hour or so had gone by before he heard a large slam knocking on the outside of the door. It reverberated in the way metal tends to do, an irritant as he scooted backwards. A loud bang and shout sounded in the small space. He heard the pop of gunfire echoing through the walls, a bullet even shooting through the wall to form a smoking hole above him. He made sure to angle himself better behind the metal, as he was well aware he would not do well to have a bullet wound of his own going through him.
It was clear that someone had arrived to save them, and as the shots finally began to taper off, he knew exactly who would have such a dramatic and violent entrance.
This assumption was proven quite quickly as he heard muffled arguing pouring through the vents, increasing in volume as the speakers approached.
“– They said he was still here, that doesn’t mean I know where,” Tim snapped, somehow still loud even through the wall.
“What else did they say? That you’re supposed to be the smart one. So use that stupid brain of yours and guess.” Jason sounded just as annoyed as Tim did, and Damian wondered what could possibly have them so on edge.
“That doesn’t even make sense, how can I have a ‘stupid’ brain and still–”
“Shut up,” Jason interrupted, his volume increasing and what seemed to be the sound of footsteps approaching. “What about here? Looks about right for stuffing a kid into.”
“Why would you know that?”
There was the noise of metal clanking that sounded suspiciously like a lock being fiddled with before another gunshot rang out as something dropped heavily to the ground. The door opened quickly, and his brothers stuck their heads in, eyes dropping down to where Damian sat. Both of their postures relaxed inexplicably.
“See, not even missing a limb,” Jason yanked the door open fully, preventing it from closing by sticking his foot next to it. “Why’d you not start yelling? Would’ve saved us some time.”
Tim rolled his eyes, very obviously purposely knocking into Jason (which garnered a decidedly explicit insult) as he stepped in to crouch in front of Damian. He glared at Tim while he reached around and quickly undid the knot. As soon as the rope dropped, Damian stood up, pushing past the two. They stumbled backwards, making way for him.
“How about a thank you?” Jason called out, but he paid no mind as he inspected the carnage they had left.
It seemed that Jason had taken a more direct method of rescuing them, as evidenced by the sheer number of shelves that were now broken. He would have thought that the man would have more respect for bookstores, even abandoned ones, but he supposed the lack of actual books allowed him to desecrate with such fervor. The light had been shot out, which seemed purposeful, with shattered glass littering the floor. He stepped over it carefully as he turned around to see his brothers following after him. He held his wrist subconsciously, the slight burn from the ropes and the pain from the man’s grip mixing to form a most unpleasant sensation.
Jason gave him an odd look before stepping closer. Damian pulled back, unsure of what was happening, before Jason roughly grabbed his arm, yanking up his sleeve to the top of his forearm.
“ Stop–” He spat out instantly, and was rewarded with a sharp ache to his ribs. He hissed in pain as Jason rotated his arm to get a better look at his dark bruising.
“The hell did they do to you?” He narrowed his eyes at the handprint, his eyes flicking up to where Damian’s sleeve covered more incriminating bruising. He quickly snatched his arm away, cradling it to his torso as he stepped backwards.
“Was that all from that tattooed guy? I thought they said they weren’t gonna hurt you.” There was a frown on Tim’s face as he spoke, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Damian was unsure of why they were so displeased with the state of his arm. Really, it was nothing compared to other injuries he had sustained. They could not blame him for the bruises, as he was not supposed to fight back while a civilian. Yet they still were upset, and he knew this to be his fault.
At least there was an excuse for his injuries this time. He felt no qualms in blaming the man who had so forcefully shoved him into the storage closet. Though it was curious that he had bruised so easily. Usually, it would take more than that to cause such damage. Still, he wasn’t about to admit it looked worse than the damage had actually been.
There was no good explanation for the other bruises he’d gathered, however. Next time, it was unlikely he would be so lucky.
Jason eyed him suspiciously. “Why aren’t you insulting us yet? Can’t even bother to call us idiots or something?”
Tim scrunched his nose as he stared at Damian as if he was appraising. Jason shrugged his shoulders, sighing loudly.
“I picked up your car on the way over,” Jason said while glancing at Tim, talking over Damian as if he wasn’t even there. “Make sure the brat gets his arm wrapped. That looks pretty nasty.”
Jason walked them out, his head swiveling from side to side, clearly still on high alert. Damian guessed that Alfred had likely contacted him, given his willingness to be of aid. He glanced to the side and saw that the vans were still there. He had a feeling the police had been alerted, and Jason was aiming to get the two of them out before they would have to deal with that.
“Alright, see you guys. I guess. I’m gonna clear all of this up.” Jason said, throwing Tim’s keys at him. From the look on Tim’s face, Damian guessed that he’d lost them earlier (or more likely had them taken from him). Tim grumbled something unintelligible as he unlocked the car, throwing the door open to climb inside. Damian followed suit, clambering in and shutting the door quickly.
It was a mild surprise that Jason hadn’t purposely had the vehicle damaged in some way in a meager attempt to spite Tim, but he supposed even thugs had their moments. Mainly inspired by the threat of Alfred’s disappointment, in this case.
“So…” Tim began, and Damian knew he was about to say something absurd. “Wanna, I don’t know, pick up Batburger…? Alfred said it might be a good idea.”
Damian wondered absentmindedly when Tim had managed to get his phone back. Likely, it was Jason’s handiwork this time. It was also odd that Alfred would suggest such a meal, but perhaps he figured they would simply be hungry. Which wasn’t the case for Damian, but he supposed Tim must be.
Tim glanced at Jason’s retreating form, his brow creasing slightly as he pursed his lips.
They pulled out of the drive, turning onto the main road. Tim drove to the restaurant in a manner decidedly more dangerous than usual, a bit similar to Dick’s reckless behavior, but it did make sense for him to do so, at the very least. With such a nice vehicle, a hold-up was not out of the question. Such occurrences were more of an annoyance than anything, and not exactly welcome, especially in that instance.
The building was one of the few that seemed never to be destroyed in Gotham. Whatever made it so indestructible was a mystery to Damian, but he wasn’t ever going to complain about its continued existence. He had spent many a late night at the establishment, feasting on vegetarian burgers and chemical-imbued French fries.
Tim didn’t bother parking; instead, pulling up to the drive-thru speaker. He leaned out the window, an arm thrown over the side as he waited for the telltale crackle that would indicate someone was on the other side. Damian let out a huff, his mind wandering to his backpack. He’d left it in the bushes by his school. It would no doubt be odd for him to rummage through them tomorrow, but he didn’t have much of a choice.
He vaguely heard Tim ordering, not paying attention as his brother flawlessly remembered Damian’s usual order. The car lurched and began to creep forward, wrapping around the drive's bend as they slowly approached the window. Tim sighed as he glanced at his watch (it had seemingly not been taken from him, or at least had been returned).
“Kind of late, isn’t it?” Tim prompted, glancing at Damian. “Do you have, like, homework to do or something?”
He had a large and growing pile of papers stored in his desk, which he wouldn’t and couldn’t bring up. Damian gave a noncommittal hum, letting Tim interpret it as he wished.
This non-answer did not function as seamlessly as it had in the past week. Tim glanced at him, down to his wrists. Damian held them closer to his body on instinct, glaring at Tim. He didn’t want to be accosted again, for his state to be questioned. He knew he should be grateful on some level that Tim was even bothering to notice at all. But it was hard to feel any such emotions when it was such an irritant.
“You should get Alfred to look at your wrist. That looks bad,” Tim continued, wincing slightly as if bracing for something. Damian just ignored him, staring ahead. Jason had already said the same thing. Repetition seemed unnecessary. Perhaps Tim’s memory was fading.
He stared through the windshield, glancing up at the night sky. There was a lone bird up above, flying around in a wide arc as if circling the premises. It looked oddly familiar, if that were possible. He squinted, attempting to figure out what kind it may be. He heard Tim’s voice once more and turned his head away, trying to listen in again properly.
“Yep, that’s everything, thank you.”
Tim stuck a greasy paper bag in Damian’s lap as he placed their drinks in the car's cup holders. He pulled the car out of the way of the restaurant’s drive-thru, parking in an empty spot. A broken beer bottle shone in the dim lighting of the parking lot, reflecting an amber glare off the car's hubcaps.
He held the bag off his lap with two fingers, mildly disgusted by the substances leaking from it. Tim rolled his eyes as he snatched it back, taking out his order before handing the bag once more to Damian.
He scowled as he pulled out what appeared to be a children’s toy version of Black Bat that had been included with his meal. He shot a glare at Tim, who nearly choked on his burger as he cackled.
“Oh my god— I didn’t even ask for that! They must have seen you somehow,” he continued to laugh, knocking into Damian—somehow missing any bruises. “I can take it if you really don’t want it, can’t go wrong with some Cass merch.”
Damian held it tightly, daring Tim to take it from him. It wasn’t that he wanted such an insignificant trinket. It’s just he didn’t want Tim to have it. Tim continued to snicker at something not funny at all. Damian sighed at the ill behavior being displayed before glancing upwards once more.
A vibrant billboard loomed over the parking lot. It was an advertisement for Mendos soap, an image of a woman smiling in a sudsy bath with a backdrop of bright orange and yellow. He noticed a crow landing on the top of the sign. It had to have been the bird he’d seen prior. Damian watched it intently, Tim distracted by some notification dinging on his phone.
The bird preened its feathers, staying completely silent. Damian’s grip tightened on the toy, holding it as if it were some sort of talisman.
And he could swear on everything he ever had and ever will love that the bird stared back at him. Its eyes were wholly white, eerily reminiscent of Melina’s. It could very well have been blind or harmed in some way. A trick of the light. But he was quite certain something was off about this crow (and he was certain as well that it was no raven, as its tail was in a fan shape and throat feathers smooth. Besides, if there was any thought it could possibly be a raven, then that meant it surely was a raven. They were hard to mistake).
A bright flash and loud crack startled him, and he watched in astonishment as the billboard sparked. Tim swore beside him as the sign glowed to a blinding degree, before suddenly the sound of shattering glass reverberated through the lot. The shadow of wings flitted over the car quickly, disappearing in an instant. Darkness blanketed over the entire area, and Damian couldn’t help but tense in the near pitch black of the night.
“What the hell was that?” Tim exclaimed and turned on the car's overhead light. “Did that billboard seriously just… explode?”
He looked incredulously at Damian, as if he would have any answers. Though he may have had some educated guesses, he didn’t have anything solid to work off of. He knew the billboard was old, and a wire fritzing out surely was nothing. He was just being paranoid, that was all.
Damian had more vital things to focus on than strange birds and power issues.
“You know what, I’m done with this. Let’s eat at home.”
Tim peeled out of the parking lot, an expression on his face that he really only got when he was thinking too hard. Damian had no real idea of what could have possibly caught Tim’s attention to such a degree, but the set in Tim’s gaze made it clear: something was wrong.
Damian sighed, leaning back against the window once more. He had a feeling that something was festering somewhere. And he feared all the ways in which this could be made more difficult with the current situation he faced.
“I hate school events. Always have, always will. Just gotta say it,” Tim muttered as he sped up, barely making the light.
Damian figured he could have stopped at ‘school’, but nodded along anyway.
He just wanted to go to bed.
Notes:
I may have gotten a bit flowery at points, but I couldn’t help it! And I’m not certain if anyone noticed, but I did include a teensy little extremely obscure Arkham Knight reference!
Also, also, everything happens for a reason, that is all I’m gonna say… and that I may be giving away many a thing in comment replies is what I’m realizing LMAO– I can’t help myself…
I’m super curious; who do you think is actually going to discover the bruises first? I have a set idea, but I'm super curious if anyone can guess! Also, I saw my fic being mentioned online; hello?? That’s crazy to me. I'm genuinely surprised!! But I appreciate the sharing nonetheless! Spreading of the Damian angst and all that.
Chapter Text
It was a surprise as he walked into the dining room for breakfast that morning to see not only Tim at the table but his father as well.
He was nursing a coffee cup in his hand, the other tight on a copy of the newspaper. October 1st was bold on the top, smudged slightly. The headline was something about Two-Face, while a smaller one he could barely make out spoke of blackouts occurring.
There was a slight shadow curving along Bruce’s jaw, indicating he hadn’t been able to take care of himself much during the Justice League meeting. Damian wondered whether Dick had attended as well. It was highly likely, as he was a prominent member in his own right. He had many different obligations due to the expectations often placed upon himself. Still, Damian wanted to know when his brother would finally visit, not simply a loose time frame.
He was likely Damian’s best shot at this point at getting someone to truly notice something was off. While Cass would be apt at the role as well (she was talented in the art of body language after all), she had been distracted the last time he had seen her, and he was not certain when he’d come into contact with her next. He hoped it would be soon, but Dick was more reliable in the sense that he had a more set-in-stone point of meeting. Selective mutism wasn’t a helpful diagnosis to be shackled with by a large part of his family. He needed someone who’d actually link it to magic and not jump to foregone conclusions that would hinder any casework he was working on.
And it would be marginally less shameful if Dick were the one to realize he’d been cursed. Not that Cass wouldn’t be graceful about the whole thing, but she didn’t share the same touch that Dick did.
Damian sat down at his usual place at the table when Tim and Bruce were there, one seat away from being directly across from Tim, who sat at his father’s side. He nodded in gratitude as Alfred placed a bowl of oatmeal before him (a surely healthful dish). He sprinkled a dash of cinnamon in and a drop of milk, mixing it all up. While he may not have been hungry, he’d put on a show of preparing to not draw attention to himself.
Tim glanced at him, his fork swaying in his hand as he stared. Damian tried to ignore him, as catching Tim’s attention never ended well for him, and he was in no mood to encourage it.
“What did you two get up to while I was gone?” Bruce finally asked, his voice even lower than usual from having undoubtedly gone without much sleep.
“Not much. I went to Damian’s open house late, because someone didn’t tell me about it.” He glared at Bruce, who looked more confused than anything.
Bruce frowned.
“I didn’t hear about that.” He looked over at Damian, a slight downward curve to his mouth. “Why didn’t you mention it? I would’ve made sure someone could’ve gone.”
Damian tightened his grip on his silverware. He seethed, glaring at his oatmeal. The gritty texture looked more and more unappetizing.
He had left an entire gaudy pamphlet on his father’s computer. What more could be given? He would've done the same even with a voice, as it wasn’t so easy to catch his father for such trivial matters. He frowned and made sure not to raise his head up.
Bruce finally turned his attention back to Tim, seemingly giving up after his youngest’s lack of response.
“Is that all?” He asked, like he knew it was not all—an uncanny ability on his part.
Tim sighed.
“We may or may not have been kidnapped in front of Damian’s school.” He raised a hand before Bruce could even speak. “ But, I don’t think anyone noticed, and besides giving Damian a few bruises, we’re all good. I think, anyway.”
“What’s a few to you?”
Tim glanced at Damian’s wrapped arm appraisingly. Alfred had done it the night before, and he had made sure to only showcase his forearm, which Jason and Tim had already seen. Alfred had stared at the bruising up his arm with more scrutiny than Damian was comfortable with, but had finally let him go when he noticed how late it was.
“Like a handprint and four or so bruises?”
Bruce glowered at this, staring at Damian’s arm with enough intensity that he thought the man had somehow developed the same laser beam eyes as Superman. He had to stop himself from squirming under his father's gaze.
“Who kidnapped you two?”
“Cass looked into it, and she said it was a random thing. Like, they were going to kidnap someone, and we just got unlucky. They’re locked up, anyway. Gordon’s taking care of it. Jason talked to him, ‘said they don’t need a statement from Damian, but I’m going in this afternoon to clear things up. Press didn’t get a word . ”
Bruce hummed, his hand rubbing on his chin. Tim leaned back in his chair.
“That seems almost too poorly thought out. Why would anyone waste so many resources on a doomed kidnapping? It was never going to work. It didn’t matter who they ended up picking.” Bruce mused to himself, staring intently at Damian’s arm. “There had to be an ulterior motive. Could there have been someone backing them behind the scenes? A diversion, maybe.”
“I was suspicious of that, too. You can come to the station with me today if you want,” Tim offered. “What happened at the meeting anyway? Sorry I couldn’t go, but the company needed me around for some stuff.”
Damian squared his jaw at Tim’s apology. Because it clearly meant he had been invited to attend, an offer that had surely never been bestowed on Damian before. And he’d have been more than capable of attending. It hardly looked suspicious for a rich child to go on a spontaneous vacation; there was no good reason for his exclusion. Besides that he was simply not wanted there.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, a slight frown on his face as he replied.
“Nothing too unusual. I saw Dick there; he came by yesterday. He mentioned he was planning on visiting this weekend.”
Damian perked up. That implied that his father had been unaware of Dick’s impending arrival, and he, in a childish manner, was pleased by this, as it meant only Damian had been told. A small victory, somehow.
“Is that really it? Something interesting had to have gone down,” Tim pointed his fork uncouthly at Bruce as he spoke. “Anyone skip out?”
Bruce’s expression clouded, a real sign of irritation appearing on his face as he stared off as if remembering something unpleasant.
“Constantine didn’t show up at all. He’d even said a few weeks before to me offhandedly that he had something important to mention at the upcoming meeting.” Bruce raised a hand to his jaw. “He’s off the grid at the very least. Diana and even Zantanna didn’t know anything about it, so I don’t suspect it’s anything too serious with the magic world. Still, we’re monitoring the situation.”
Tim laughed, “It’s Constantine, though. God only knows what he’s up to now. Probably some new demon thing, knowing him.”
Damian pushed his meal around as he listened in, uninterested in their conversation. Constantine’s escapades hardly concerned him. There were other magic-related issues at the forefront of his mind, and had been for a while now.
“It’s likely,” Bruce crossed his arms in front of him. “But we’ll see.”
Damian frowned as he sat on the gym bleachers, his head resting on his palms as his arms balanced on his knees. His backpack had indeed been where he’d left it the day before, if marginally dirtier, and for this he was thankful. Explaining how and why he had lost it would not prove easy. It had been difficult enough not to be caught rifling through a bush that morning, right after being dropped off for class.
A dodgeball soared through the air in an impressive arc, hitting its target with a resounding thud.
“Hey! ” A brunette girl shrieked, her hand on her forehead where the projectile had hit her. “That doesn’t count! It was above my neck! You’re out!”
“I didn’t aim for your head! It just got in the way!”
Kody had his fingers tightly gripped around another dodgeball. The sports equipment needed to be updated, in Damian’s opinion. It was obvious from the way cheap colored plastic flaked from the dodgeballs to reveal an off white foam underneath, similar to curdled milk in color. They made for poor ammunition, either way, as even Damian could sometimes struggle getting them to go in an intended direction with their misshapen forms.
“Well, maybe don’t throw the ball so high up!”
“Well, maybe you don’t be so—so annoying!” Kody sputtered out, clearly not one for quippy comebacks. Damian rolled his eyes as the girl (Bella? He wasn’t quite sure) marched up to Kody, her fists curled up stiffly.
“You’re such a jerk, you stupid—”
And then, just before it was about to get good, their PE teacher, Mr. Baker, stepped in between them.
“Whoa, guys, let’s settle down,” he drawled, his clipboard raised above their heads as he lifted his hands up. “This ain’t something to lose our heads about! Let’s just start a new round, everyone’s been out for long enough.”
Damian sighed, grumbling to himself as he stood, his body hunched as he stepped over to the gym's center. He stretched out his arms, ready to dive for the first ball that came sailing over from the other half of the gym. He hated dodgeball for a variety of reasons. It was a brutish and imbecilic game that only encouraged his classmates to take advantage of the opportunity and throw as many dodgeballs as they could at anyone they took issue with that day. While they were all rather easy to dodge (his peers were not very strong), he’d realized early on that it was simpler just to get out quickly and save the fanfare.
“Hey Damian, lock in for this one,” Kody sidled up next to him, a metallic grin beaming confidently (Damian had yet to call him the obvious metal mouth insult, but it was always on the tip of his tongue when they spoke. That particular comment would surely be worth any sort of pain). “We gotta show Annabelle who’s boss.”
It didn’t exactly sound like his problem, seeing as he had zero issues with Annabelle—he had been close in his guess at her name—and he refrained from acknowledging Kody’s comments. The boy hardly seemed perturbed by this reaction, almost seemingly having expected it. He gave Damian a thumbs-up before hurrying off to his posse of friends, all huddled together, no doubt planning out some pointless tactic to cinch the win.
Mr. Baker, during all of this, had been creating a careful line of dodgeballs on the dividing line of the gym's floor. They sat perfectly still, ready to be thrown at middle schoolers as an outlet. He stood back to admire his work before returning to the side of the court. He stuck his whistle in his mouth and counted down on his fingers. Annabelle had a hard glare aimed right behind Damian, where he figured Kody must have been.
A sharp whistle cut through the burbling chatter of the room, and the thunder of footsteps hurtled toward the dodgeballs in the center. Damian took a step backward, letting his classmates surge forth in his stead. The class would soon be over, and he eyed the clock over the bleachers, so very close to 12:00. Dodgeballs flew overhead, and the teams began to slowly dwindle in numbers as more kids got out.
Kody stood nearby, winding up his arm to throw a dodgeball at a boy on the other team, nailing him in the side. Kody whooped, pumping his fist upwards as if he’d won a gold medal, while the other boy trudged off to the side where his teammates had gathered after getting out. Damian tutted and inched closer to the middle of the court.
He’d yet to be hit, and it almost seemed like his classmates were avoiding throwing anything at him. He glanced up at the clock overhead once more. Perhaps his glare would cause time itself to quicken.
As he was distracted, Annabelle had managed to snag another dodgeball. Kody stood behind Damian once more, poking his head out and making a taunting face at her. She was an aspiring softball pitcher, as she so often bragged about. Her parents had sent her to all of the best teachers and camps, attempting to secure her future in the sport. This did not bode well for Damian as she got into the proper position, her eyes locked onto Kody. In the same moment as she released the ball with a swing that nearly made her stumble, Kody ducked behind Damian.
Any other time, he’d be able to easily dodge the throw.
But the dodgeball, in a glorious arc, sailed across the room, heading at breakneck speed right to where Kody had stood, now occupied by Damian, who had moved over absentmindedly, focus still trained on the clock. It reached terminal velocity as Damian finally noted it was in his peripheral, too late to do much more than take the blow.
It connected with much more force than a foam ball should ever be capable of doing. He felt a burst of pain as it knocked into his nose, his head jolting backwards. The ball fell lamely to the floor, its immortal triumph finished, rolling off to the side.
The room was silent. All were at a standstill as they observed with bated breaths in those few seconds what Damian’s next move would be. He raised a hand to the bridge of his nose before feeling something trickle down his face. Yelling and shouting thundered through the room as he lightly touched the blood on his nose.
“Annabelle is out! She’s out, she’s totally out! That was so above the neck!” Kody hollered from somewhere behind Damian, entirely gleeful. “Mr. Baker, Annabelle is out!”
“Shut up!”
Annabelle appeared to be close to tears, her lip quivering and face flushed. Damian paid her no attention as he pinched his nose, making a beeline for the bathroom. His classmates parted for him, all watching as if he were some sort of spectacle. He hardly felt a bloody nose to be the most exciting thing in the world. It was, however, an entirely embarrassing incident to have occurred to him. He’d need to make sure none of the others caught wind of this. He could only imagine Steph’s comments.
The bathroom door creaked open, and he hurried to the cracked and graffiti-covered mirror. He snagged a few paper towels to clean his face off, but paused as he took a closer look at the mess.
It seemed to him—and surely this was impossible, but more unlikely things had happened before—that what leaked from his nose was much darker than regular blood was. And he was quite knowledgeable about blood. He could list off the many compounds that made it up, the general texture it had, and knew by heart its distinct scent. For this, he was very confident in deciding that whatever was gushing down his face was not right.
He frowned as he pinched his nose once more, leaning on the sink for support. The not-blood was nearly like oil, with a faint reddish hue that signaled it was not entirely removed from being like regular blood. It didn’t have much scent. It was a bit syrupy in texture, dribbling down in lazy streams. He licked a bit up out of curiosity, and cringed at the taste. It was acrid and bitter. Not salty in the way blood was.
Clearly, this had something to do with the curse.
And perhaps this could be a lead in his investigations.
He hadn’t considered it earlier, but the Wayne library surely had a few books on magic that his father had collected over his many adventures. There was no guarantee of anything, but it was a start. He cursed himself for his foolishness. It was an obvious next step, and yet he’d very easily failed.
He tested his paper towel again, pulling in carefully from his nose, and was surprised to see that a bright red now dotted the paper, mixed with the black from before. He guessed whatever had been happening inside of him had finally ceased, and for this he was grateful. He doubted black blood was a good sign.
Lightly, he returned the paper to his nose. Damian rolled up his sleeve as he waited, examining his wrapped wrist gingerly. It didn’t sting much more than the rest of his body; there was a certain numbness that he’d begun to form for the aches in his body. The bruising on his arm was no different from the rest. The sole difference was that, as he nudged the bandage up to peek, the bruises had actually changed, not stayed in a sort of stagnant state. It seemed ludicrous that his brothers and father would have such strong feelings toward it.
The door crashed open with a violent swing, Kody barging in with an uncaring gait.
“Mr. Baker said to check on you, is your nose still bleeding ‘cause Annabelle’s still crying—you should see her, she’s all gross about it and—”
He cut himself off as his eyes dropped to Damian’s arm, who hurriedly rolled up the sleeve. He shot a glare at Kody as he shouldered past him, his nose having finally stopped bleeding. Kody hurried to catch up with him. He stared at Damian’s wrist with wide, nearly bulging eyes.
“Did you fight someone?”
Damian stared ahead, trying his absolute hardest not to be bothered by the ignoramus beside him. Not the easiest task, as it turned out.
“C’mon, you can totally tell me. I won’t snitch to anyone, swear.”
That was hardly convincing. He continued forward, Kody peppering him with whiny questions. Mr. Baker had a hand on his head, standing by Annabelle, who was currently bawling her eyes out. Damian sighed internally as she lifted her head and saw him approaching.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you! I was aiming for stupid Kody and accidentally got you!” She blubbered, tears streaming down his face. “Please, please don’t be mad! I didn’t mean to do it!”
It certainly sounded like she at least meant for harm to befall someone. Seeing as it was Kody, he found it hard to care. Still, he shrugged, letting her believe he cared enough in the first place to have the capacity to forgive her.
“Why don’t you all just… let’s end early. I have to make a report to the nurse about this anyway,” Mr. Baker sighed, shaking his head at the scene before him. “Damian, Dr. Dahlman wanted to see you, and wrote you a pass too. Why don’t you head over there now?”
Damian groaned internally as he nodded. He trudged off, Kody still tailing him.
“Dude, we’re friends, right? Just tell me!”
“Are these your pets?” Dr. Dahlman asked, a fond smile on his face as he observed the image. Damian couldn’t help but sneer. Whose else might they be, if not his? The counselor had asked for a photo of something he liked at his home. Therefore, he obliged, having printed the picture many days ago so as not to forget.
“They seem well-behaved. I don’t know any other cats or dogs who would sit next to each other so nicely. Some of your classmates can’t even manage that!”
The man cracked a grin at his own comment. While Damian agreed with the sentiment (Alfred the Cat and Titus were very well-mannered), he did not want to encourage this conversation. Though he had considered that not answering had potentially worsened his circumstances. Maybe Dr. Dahlman was just having fun with him, wanting to break through his rigid walls and get any sort of information.
“You like animals a lot, don’t you?” Dr. Dahlman tapped his pen on the desk. “I’ve been training my dog to be a service animal. I was planning on having him come into the office next week.”
Damian raised his head up from where it had been locked onto a slight stain on the carpeted floor, the counselor’s mouth twitching upwards once more.
“I’ll call you in when I bring him. I’m sure he’d appreciate your company.”
A small bright spot to look forward to when he was next ordered into the room. He wondered when his teachers would finally give up. They had been hounding him as of late, asking him about his day and giving thinly laced looks of concern. All of them had to be conversing, though he noted Ms. Liesel had yet to do anything too overt. Or at least be quite as obvious as such characters as Mrs. Briggs.
Damian nodded, as that was seemingly the polite response. Dr. Dahlman handed him a paper once more, sliding a few pencils over like it was routine. He picked up a green pencil carefully, hovering it over the page. As the pencil hit the page and he made his first line, he braced. But his hypothesis seemed to be proved as no pain came. He let his shoulders drop as he let himself mindlessly draw.
An image began to form before him without any mental effort. His favorite brother’s face was easy to create. It was second nature at this point to add the glint in his eye and the sharp lines of his jaw. A simple portrait of him was child’s play.
“That’s your brother, right? I’ve seen him on the news.” Dr. Dahlman had his head down as he fiddled with the tea kettle that seemed to be on its last legs. He glanced up to Damian as he asked, “Are you close?”
Damian started to nod, but it was a hesitant movement. He’d thought they were, at one point. Dick had been his Batman, Damian his Robin. But time passed at an alarming rate, and he had suddenly found himself uncertain of where they stood. A ridiculous thought to ever have about Dick of all people, and yet that was where he was at.
“He’s not at home, right? I’m guessing it’s just you, your father, and your other brother. Tim, right? They must work a lot.”
He shrugged absentmindedly as Dr. Dahlman spoke, not quite paying attention to the potential hidden weight of his words.
“Is someone taking care of you right now?”
His pencil lead snapped as he glanced upwards with a quizzical expression. He frowned, slightly insulted by the implication that he even needed someone to care for him. Care meant providing what was needed to live. Alfred likely fit the role, but care was a word that Damian found much too soft for his liking. Yet he nodded all the same, knowing truthful answers would be much more helpful in slowing the pace of questioning.
Dr. Dahlman leaned back in his chair, a softer expression spilling onto his face.
“I’ve heard from a couple of teachers that you haven’t been saying much lately. I just wanted to check in—are you doing okay?”
His eyes narrowed, but the counselor didn’t even flinch, a serene look on his face. He had his hands clasped casually on the desk. His faded jacket had fallen on the ground at some point, no doubt slipping from his chair. Damian gave an awkward thumbs up, not lifting up from the drawing. It was so nice to be able to create without injury. And therefore, he did not pay attention as Dr. Dahlman jotted something down in his notebook, a crease in his brow ever so slight but pointed all the same.
There was more silence as the scritching of pen to paper was the only noise audible in the room. Damian wasn’t sure what to do with the drawing he had created, and simply tucked it into his bag for safekeeping. Dr. Dahlman was still writing something, and so Damian stared out the window. His eyes caught a small dark shadow dart out of view just as they reached the top of the tree. He squinted at it but was distracted as Dr. Dahlman cleared his throat loudly.
“Sorry, I’ve got a cold,” he smiled sheepishly. “This is unrelated, but the school was wondering if your father has another number. They wanted to contact him for events, but it seems the calls aren’t going through.”
That was odd. He’d have thought that his father would be more eager to hear about whatever new mistake Damian made at school. He supposed his father was busy, however, and surely had other things to do than respond to robocalls about school bake sales and dances. Damian shrugged, not certain of the answer. Or if there even was one. He’d spent a good portion of his time trying to give whatever the new desired response was to every single action, and yet, he didn’t think he had improved much at all.
“I like your drawing. You seem to draw your family a lot.”
He glanced at the door. It was always slightly open during their meetings, enough that someone could easily see inside. Helpful in case he had to flee the room urgently. Danger wasn’t much of a concern to him as the counselor’s office was located in the school's main office, in the line of sight of the secretary's desk. Somehow, this was slightly reassuring. That was likely the point, but he appreciated it nonetheless.
The bell rang loudly, cutting through the steady noise of writing. Damian threw his bag over his shoulder, used to the routine.
“Have a good day, Damian,” Dr. Dahlman called out behind with a friendly wave, and he obliged him with a half one himself. There wasn’t much else he could respond with.
He let out a sigh as he trudged into the manor’s library. Damian was in his night clothes, as it was late and dinner had long since passed. It had been a surprise when he came down to find Tim at the table. Usually, if Bruce wasn’t there, he wouldn’t bother coming down for dinner at the same hour as Damian. He had filed the information away, suspicious of whatever Tim surely must be plotting. It had to be something, as Tim kept glancing at him periodically as if Damian were some creature on display.
The library’s shelves were well-maintained, orderly, with a slight film of dust in more obscure corners from where Alfred had yet to clean. Damian could clearly remember the first time he’d laid eyes on the room. He’d had to stop himself from spending all his time there, scouring each title and filing away the locations of every bit of important information. In the time he’d been at the manor, he had managed to secure that particular knowledge (in a less timely fashion than he might have originally hoped).
This would serve him well as he set off toward the back corner of the room, where the more mystical books were kept. A window was open, which he shut quietly to not let a draft in. Alfred must have forgotten to shut it earlier in the day.
He brushed his fingers across the leathery bindings before coming to a stop at the section where the more magic-centric books were held. The air almost felt heavier the closer he got. Most who saw such literature in the manor would assume it to be just another forgotten fixation of his father. Damian knew better and plucked out a few titles of interest. He flipped through them right there, not bothering to cozy up on a couch.
Most of the books were old and faded, ink rubbing off slightly on his palms. He made sure to treat them delicately as he turned the pages. While his father surely had photocopies made, he wasn’t inclined to ruin any artifacts, such as the books.
He found one on magical creatures, which he made a mental note of to read at a more leisurely pace in the future, as the content was highly interesting. Another listed plants, another detailed rare magical items. They were interesting to look through: a sparkling cape, a pair of clog-like shoes, and a golden brooch were just some of the many items shown. But they hardly had much to do with what he was after. He placed the book back and moved on to the next, which was sticking out slightly from the shelf.
It was a large black book with no detailing on the cover that he brushed carefully with the back of his hand. He worried he might damage it somehow with how old it undoubtedly was. He opened it gingerly and couldn’t help the way his eyes widened as he read the title.
Magical Ailments and Curses
He quickly leafed through the pages, the smell of old paper pungent as he carefully sat down, leaning against one of the shelves. His attention was caught by one page, where a wound appeared to be leaking black. His eyes darted across the description next to the image.
Nocentra is a physical response in non-magic users experiencing prolonged or high-volume exposure to magical energy. Whether triggered by proximity to magical artifacts, ambient energy, or affliction by a curse, the non-magical human body is fundamentally unequipped to process and regulate this energy.
When magical absorption exceeds the body’s tolerable threshold, it initiates a rejection mechanism that is similar to a natural human sickness. Early symptoms include: persistent headaches, fatigue, predisposition to bruising, suppressed appetite, and, in some cases, emesis. As the condition progresses, excess energy may localize and be expelled through minor injuries, sweat glands, nostrils, or other orifices. The expelled substance, Nocentra, is identifiable by its viscous, black appearance, absence of odor, and slow-moving, syrup-like consistency.
Treatment involves immediate cessation of exposure to any and all magical energy. Magic-users may also absorb the excess energy, though this will only reduce the effects on the victim. Once the absorption halts, the body will gradually return to equilibrium. However, in cases of sustained magical intake—particularly via curses—Nocentra buildup may reach toxic levels, leading to neurological damage, systemic collapse, or death.
Recovery time is proportional to both the volume and intensity of magic absorbed. Some mild cases may resolve in hours, while heavier exposures can take days or weeks to stabilize .
Damian grimaced as he finished the paragraph. His fingers tightened on the book as he stared at the words, as if they would suddenly shift to spell a much less gruesome fate.
He hadn’t realized the curse would only be part of the issues he was having. Of course, it would have more troublesome effects than just simply robbing him of communication. This ‘Nocentra’, as it were, surely held similar symptoms to the ones he was currently displaying. Lack of appetite, bruising more easily, headaches, and, of course, a black substance all added up.
He let out a sigh as he turned the pages, flitting toward the section on curses. They detailed many gruesome afflictions that he was grateful Melina had seemingly no knowledge of, as he couldn’t imagine the havoc she’d cause with the details laid out.
The book didn’t give instructions on how to cast any magic, but the level of detail on the effects of curses was nothing to balk at. It described lacerations and boils to such a degree it was almost fantastical. While it wouldn’t be able to tell him the specifics of whatever curse had befallen him, it surely would have some advice to give on going about removing or even slowing down said curse. He hurried through the many pages, his throat tightening as he reached a section labeled “Sense-based curses”.
His fingers flicked past a page about a curse that took one’s sense of smell, to be met with a most abhorrent sight.
The paper had been ripped, with two whole pages torn roughly from the book. Whoever had done it clearly had been in a rush. He hunched over the pages, trying to calm the fury rising in his stomach as he stared at the torn book. The very page he needed, and of course, it was gone. He bit at his lip, frowning at his luck. He knew that his father had taken photos of all the pages, but it seemed fruitless. No one had access to the library but his family. A person couldn’t go undetected. Therefore, the book must have come in the very same condition.
His fingers scraped against the cover as he curled into himself. Damian, to his own surprise, had to fight back a sob threatening to wrench through his throat. Because he’d been close. To finally get somewhere in his efforts, to be a step closer to success. It was a mounting weight on his shoulders as he waited for change. For a breakthrough of any kind, to aid him in his quest for sound.
A muffled footstep drew nearer. He raised his head, holding his breath as he looked toward the direction of the door.
“Damian?” A familiar voice called out, echoing through the library.
He raised his head, eyes widening as his breath caught. He shoved the book clumsily back where it had been, scrambling upwards and ignoring his aching frame. Damian dashed around the corner, almost tripping over his feet.
Dick’s smile was similar to the one he’d painted, but entirely different in the amount of emotion it made Damian feel just by looking at it. He had a wrinkled hoodie and sweats on like he’d left in a hurry, and a tightness to his expression with dark circles carved into his under eyes. But Damian didn’t care much as he stepped forward, his gaze never leaving his brother’s face.
“Hey. I missed you,” he said easily, as if such an admission was a natural thing to say about Damian. As if it were normal to feel that way about him.
He gave a stiff nod, as that was all he could do to reply
Notes:
My poor son…
… but yay plot! I’ve been trying to use foreshadowing/hinting in general a lot, it’s super fun to see what people notice, and even more what y’all don’t. Just gonna say sometimes even the seemingly throwaway details are important ;)
I was giggling while writing the dodgeball scene, I can’t lie. I live for Damian in civilian situations like that!
I also wanted to give a huge thank you to everyone reading so far! It truly means the world to me that people are enjoying my silly little story. And a big internet hug to everyone who’s commented—you guys are so encouraging! Thank you again!
J—not sure if you’ll ever read this, but thank you for listening to my plot rants! More to come, so be warned…
And since you got to end here's a tidbit--there will be a short POV change next chapter, how exciting (hopefully I don't butcher someone's character)
Chapter 10: Interlude: The Book
Notes:
TW for the crassness that can generally be associated with John Constantine
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The bar stool was uncomfortable but familiar as he sat, hunched over, loosely holding a beer in one hand. Constantine let out a row of deep coughs, careful not to slosh his drink with his sudden movements. He wiped a hand on his forehead, sweat pooling at his hairline.
All he wanted was to lie down in bed and sleep for a year. He’d been convinced into helping raid some magic-obsessed murder-happy man’s home, even taking the trip to Boston of all places just to do so. Constantine was promised a few rewards of his own, mainly whatever items he’d wanted from the home. The whole thing hadn’t gone very well, which he would prefer not to mull over, and so the only item he had on him was an old spellbook he’d managed to snag before an explosion had ripped through the building, destroying everything else.
He rubbed at his eyes, glancing at the satchel on his side where he’d placed the book. He wondered how much it might sell for. Probably a decent amount, as it seemed pretty old, but he had an inkling that it wasn’t the sort of book one should just let out into the world. He’d glanced at the pages earlier and found them to be written in old-fashioned Gaelic, if the few words he’d known had actually in fact been in the language. He’d rather figure out what the spells actually meant before selling the book.
The bartender shot a pointed look at him as he shone a glass with a dishrag. It was late, and the bar would close in around half an hour. Constantine knew he should just look for a hotel room or find a way back to the House of Mystery. But it was tempting to simply put his head down and fall asleep right there.
Just as his eyes began to flutter shut, the bar’s door behind him opened with a harsh slam. He looked over, annoyed, to be greeted with a most unexpected sight.
A woman stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with one arm. She seemed nearly as tired as he felt, her under eyes darkened against her pale skin. She looked frantically around the bar before her gaze passed over Constantine, and her shoulders slumped slightly. He watched as she walked over to the bar, sliding into a seat one away from his own. She raised her hand to order a drink, sipping on it forgetfully as she swirled it around the glass.
“Long night?” He asked, raising a disarming brow as she lifted her head. She seemed surprised he was even talking to her, and maybe she really was more tired than even himself from the way she stared blankly at him. Her gaze flashed down to his satchel before a new harshness appeared in her eyes.
“Could say that,” she finally huffed, a small smile breaking onto her face. She bore a striking resemblance to the one actress from Luther , her hair a tad lighter and brows softer in shape. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“I’m here for work. I live in Liverpool.” He cracked a grin. “What gave me away? I’m too charming for Boston?” He leaned against the counter, turning his body toward her.
“Just a bit. Accent didn’t help either.” She glanced at him before taking another sip, her lips curving just slightly around the rim of her glass. “You look like Hell.”
“Not a fan, personally. Didn’t like what they’d done with the place last time I visited.” He coughed again, a gritty texture in his throat. She hummed, swirling her drink again.
“Rough night?” She asked, parroting his earlier question.
“Definitely up there. Bit more fiery than usual.”
She laughed in an almost grim manner, a surprising sound, as if she didn’t make it very often. It seemed to have shocked her, too, as her smile only grew. “I'm not much of a fan of fire myself. You don’t seem too bothered. Is this sort of thing usual for you?”
“I’m full of surprises, love.”
She trailed a finger around the edge of her glass. The low hum of a jazzy tune played in the background, being broadcast by a glitchy speaker. “Do tell.”
He paused, looking at her with a new sort of attention. There was an edge in her voice that was hardly subtle. Her eyes held a ferocious sort of glint, not desperate, but resolute. It was an intriguing kind of stare that had led him astray many times. But it never became easier to deny.
“You make passes at strangers in dive bars often?”
“Only when they’re half as interesting as you.”
He snorted. “I’m about a pack of cigarettes away from death. You sure I’m your type?”
“Guess we’ll see.” She slid her glass away from her, finally finished. “I’ve got a room, if you’re curious…” she paused, obviously waiting for him to say his name.
“Constantine. And you are…?”
“Me—Melina.” She said, and he ignored her stutter in favor of finishing off his drink.
“Well, Melina, lead the way.”
Her smile deepened as she got out of her chair. She had a tall and slender build, almost model-esque in some ways. Attractive, of course, and who was he to ignore a woman like herself? Perhaps his luck had finally improved. Maybe she was the universe’s idea of an apology. If so, she was a suspiciously good-looking one.
“Want a light?” He asked, cigarette already in hand as he lay back against the headboard. The sheets were scratchy against his chest. Melina had taken him to a nearby hotel that seemed to be one of the lower-end ones in the city, not that he was complaining, of course. Free board and a beautiful woman were two things he could never take issue with.
“I’m alright,” she replied, a nervous edge to her voice as she eyed his lighter. He wasn’t sure if the hotel allowed smoking, but he found it hard for him to care much.
“Fire really isn’t your thing, is it?” He took a drag, watching her expression shift to something more rueful. He let out a bitter laugh. “I can relate to that at least.”
“We have a history, you could say.” Constantine waited for her to continue, staring at her bare back. She had well-placed moles dotting across her skin, in an almost constellation-like arrangement. “… There was… a fire. So my sister tried to play hero. And you can guess how that turned out.”
He grimaced. His hand hovered for a second, then landed between her shoulder blades, steady, and useless. Like all things he offered. He was probably the last person anyone should ever have to comfort them, but she was out of luck if she wanted anyone else to do it. It had been his fault for her mood either way. He knew it would be a bad idea to ask, but he’d done it all the same, curiosity getting the better of him. A hand was the least he could give.
She turned her head, a conflicted expression on her face as she looked at him. “Sorry.”
“No, I shouldn’t have asked. That wasn’t…”
“It’s fine. Really.”
He coughed awkwardly, cigarette still in his mouth, and he took a drag as he waited for her to say something. She was staring off, eyes trained on a lampshade with too many frills for his liking.
There was something unusual about her. A certain air to her that nearly suggested magical ability, if that were even possible. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to feel out what it was that he was sensing. Her fingers twitched by her side as he felt a slight twang in his soul. It was notable in the way it always was, an unpleasant scent that was almost coppery in the air that he’d long associated with magic.
“What kind of business did you say you were here for?” She asked suddenly, Constantine’s hand dropping as she stood up, throwing her jacket over herself.
“Classified.”
“Hah. How coy of you,” she muttered, her tone flat. “I was just curious. What about the bag? Or is that classified too?”
He weighed his options as he glanced toward his satchel, balanced carefully on the dark dresser. It was late, and he’d really rather be able to sleep than be thrown out of the room.
“It’s just an old book I picked up at a garage sale.”
“Can I see? I’m actually a bit of a collector myself.”
“I mean, it’s not much to look at. A bit musty if I’m being honest.”
She frowned slightly, as if she were actually getting upset at the notion she wouldn’t be able to see the book herself. He sighed, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and finally standing. There wasn’t any real harm in letting her take a look. Perhaps she’d have a better idea of what the book may be than himself.
He unclipped the worn metal clasp, carefully extracting the book. Melina watched him carefully, her eyes blown wide as she stared at the cover.
“I think… the leather binding, it looks familiar. Would it be too much trouble for me to take a closer look?”
“Go ahead,” he replied as he handed her the book. Maybe she’d be interested enough to give an offer for it. He was a bit short on money at the moment.
She took it gingerly from his hands, drifting a finger down the spine as she stared at the cover. He raised a brow as she opened the cover and let out a shaky breath.
“This—I can’t tell you how long I’ve been looking for—” Her voice cracked as she flipped through the pages, stopping to glance at certain passages. She looked about ready to marry the thing as she gushed over its contents. “Incredible. Really, truly, just spectacular. What sort of garage sale would sell a book of this kind?”
“Bloody hell, I’ve seen people less moved at their mum’s funeral.” He huffed as he crossed his arms. “The owner was in a hurry to get rid of some things,” Constantine answered slowly. He was curious why she was so emotional over an old tome. There had to be something more to it than her simply collecting old books.
“Yes, sure. But—do you understand what this is?” She raised her head, her eyes wide and bright. It took him aback a bit. She had seemed to have been carrying a heavy weight on her shoulders even when he had first seen her. And yet suddenly, she was exuberant in a most unexpected way.
“Not exactly. Care to explain?”
“Oh, please. We both know you’re a bit more aware than that. You’re a warlock, or something like that. I can’t keep up with all the new terms. Witch used to be a blanket term, actually.”
He took a step back as she spoke. Obviously, whatever he had detected in the air had indeed been her. And she seemed to be much more aware than she’d led him to believe earlier. Her mask had fallen to reveal a face he wasn’t sure he enjoyed much. An air of confidence had emerged that surely was new.
“… I think we have an equal amount of surprises, don’t we, love?” He remarked, and she laughed, a smile playing on her lips.
“Maybe. I’ll tell you then. It’s interesting.” She leaned back a bit, grip still tight on the book. “About… oh maybe half a millennium ago, a Druid was banished from his home—I can’t remember why, so don’t ask me—with a curse that began to seep away his form.”
“He shag someone’s nan or something? Seems a bit tough.”
She shot a glare at him as she continued. “He came all the way to America, hiding on a boat, and settled deep in a forest. And that was his home for many years, content to spend the rest of his days, until people began to move closer, chopping down trees and cutting away old brush to make way for homes and farms.”
“Great. Let me guess, he throws a fit?”
“Do you always have to give your two cents?”
“Yes, why do you ask?
“…He grew upset as his land was destroyed in favor of stone dwellings. But he couldn’t do anything with how weakened he’d become. One day, he met a young huntsman who strayed too far into his territory. He… convinced the man to bring him an empty book, and wrote out as many spells and curses as he could—”
“Convinced? What the hell does that mean?”
“—As he succumbed to his curse, he had the man take the book. He prophesied that one day, exactly 500 years later, someone would be able to use it. That they’d bring the book back and use the magic and… return him to his glory. And he’d grant them their greatest wish in turn. Even things as impossible as resurrection.”
Constantine could only stare as she blabbered on, cheery at something that sounded increasingly concerning. He swore under his breath as she finished off; the last sentence was not a good one to hear. Every promised wish he’d ever seen a person desire had never turned out well for them. It didn’t sound very worth pursuing either way. She’d seemed smarter than that, but that might have been the beer talking.
“And how do you know all this?” He asked, annoyed that he had to now deal with whatever was unfolding.
“Well… I’ve an interest in fae. Long-standing, as it were. They like to gossip, if you know whom to ask.”
A hardly convincing answer. He eyed the book still in her arms and decided that indeed it would be better for it to stay in his care.
“And you just happened to hear the bloody bedtime story about my book?”
“Believe me or not, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter.”
“If you already know I’m a magic user, then you’d understand why I want that book back. I can’t have it falling into the wrong hands.”
She frowned, her jaw tensed as she stared back, hands not leaving the book.
“I was hoping you’d be more agreeable.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he replied easily, but a flicker of unease burrowed into him that he chose to push to the side. It had been stupid of him to get involved with her. He needed to think of something, and figured a distraction would help him out. “This Druid… do you know where exactly he’s from?”
“Greyvale. Or, I guess you’d call it Gotham nowadays.”
Again, she was saying stuff that suggested she was much older than she looked. He’d thought her to be in her early to mid-thirties. But that couldn’t be the case. She had an odd sort of accent that was muddled and impossible to place, what with her inconsistent speech patterns. Either way, she seemed unstable.
“… Would this have anything to do with the whole leyline situation going on there?”
She nodded, a pleased expression appearing on her face.
“The veil is getting thinner. On Samhain, everything should be ready. Of course, some preparations are in order. Such a spell would require a lot of energy.”
“And let me guess: you’re the chosen one or something? Plan to raise some old bastard from the dead?” He scoffed, taking another drag as he looked at her with disdain. “You realize he’s probably not going to just open a bloody bakery when he’s corporeal again.”
“He wants to go live in his forest again. That’s it. I hardly see the harm in that.”
“And did he tell you that himself, or was it the fae talking?”
“He promised me—” She snapped, her voice cracking, before shutting her mouth. He narrowed his eyes.
“So you’re in contact?” He prompted, burning his cigarette out on the dresser. It was old enough that a new scorch mark would easily blend into the ashen mosaic already imprinted onto it.
“I never said that.”
He rolled his eyes, stretching out a crick in his neck as he eyed her. She looked about ready to bolt. And he couldn’t let her do that with his book. Constantine would prefer to avoid any contact with Batman that involved an explanation of how he let a crazed wannabe sorceress loose to probably destroy Gotham.
“Give me the book, and I’ll let you walk free, sweetheart,” he lied easily, knowing full well he’d tail her after putting the book in a safe location. “Let’s be reasonable here.”
“I…”
Her fingers twitched once again on the book, her lip quivering as if she was seriously considering giving up. He inched closer, only four feet away, before her eyes suddenly flashed white. Her expression morphed in an instant, becoming enraged and scrambling away, nearly falling over the bed as she backed into the corner.
“Leave.” She growled, her voice raspy and worn.
He swore under his breath and was about to take another step forward before a chill ran down his spine. Light beamed behind him, his shadow being cast across the room. He turned around, nearly tripping over his feet as he was met with the sight of what seemed to be a white glowing orb. The lights flickered around them, the smell of smoke dissipating to be replaced with uncanny nothing.
“The hell is that thing?” He leaned away from it, mentally cataloguing each part of its presence to seal it to memory. It simply floated in mid-air, not moving at all. It glowed brightly, yet, strangely, he felt no need to squint.
“You really didn’t have to come, I’m sorry,” Melina cried out, and he whipped his head to her in disbelief.
“You’re friends with the fucking translation sphere?” He quipped, incredulous at the familiarity in her tone. The orb felt wrong in a way that was unlike any magic he’d ever come across. It made his skin crawl as it shimmered, eerie in its stillness. Power exuded from it; ancient and clearly not good.
He guessed that it had something to do with the story Melina had spun earlier. The memory of the so-called Druid was still fresh in his mind after all.
It began to glow brighter than ever before, beams of light coming off it in lazy waves. “Sleep,” it commanded in what sounded like a man’s voice, and Constantine’s legs suddenly lost their strength as he tumbled to the floor. His mind weighed on his skull, threatening to burst through in its descent to the Earth’s very core.
He tried to fight for his consciousness, but it was a fruitless war.
“Will he be alright?” Melina asked, distant and far away, a twinge of what couldn’t be concern coating her voice. “He’s not so bad, really.”
“He will rise when he must.”
As darkness began to seep into his vision, he wondered whether she would pay for the room or if he’d be shafted with the bill.
“Hey. I missed you.”
Damian’s feet were still rooted in place, not daring to teeter closer to Dick. The man was like a black hole in some capacities, inescapable in the way Damian always found himself orbiting him.
Dick tilted his head slightly, a bit like a dog might, raising a quizzical brow. His eyes narrowed slightly before he took another step forward.
“C’mon, can I at the very least get a hug?” He asked, a hint of tiredness hidden discreetly in his words. “I had to drive all the way down from Blüdhaven to get here. Traffic was terrible, and you know how I drive. Still took even me almost two hours.”
“Fine,” Damian made a face as he spat out the word like it was a cherry pit. The pang to his back was just background noise as Dick wrapped his arms around him.
And Damian hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this, missed them. So much so that he ignored the aches where Dick’s arms dug into his bruises ever so slightly, letting himself just for once sink into the warmth that radiated off his brother. His arms were associated with safety, with success in missions where they’d taken down criminals with practiced ease. He smelled like laundry detergent and his cologne: sandalwood, vanilla, and citrus all coming together in a redolent scent.
Dick finally pulled back after a minute or so, no thanks to Damian’s lame efforts of escape that were surely half-hearted at best. He frowned slightly as he stared, and Damian had to fight the urge to squirm under his sharp gaze.
“Did…” He began, before closing his mouth as if considering his next words. “Never mind. Sorry.”
Damian scowled, prompting a sudden laugh to escape from Dick. There was nothing comical occurring, and so he wondered what could possibly be so amusing to warrant such a reaction. Tim was not in the room, so no clowns were present to spark any bouts of laughter.
“You ate dinner already, right? Tim said so anyway.” Damian made a face as Dick spoke. “I know, I know. That was a dumb question. But honestly, what’s been happening with you? Tim mentioned some sort of art show that you had…?”
He nodded. “Tt.”
“I wish I could’ve made it. You gotta show me the painting you made sometime. I’m sure it was amazing.” Dick wiggled his brows, “Did you paint me? I hope you got my good side; the right is always better. My right, that is.”
He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms in what he hoped wasn’t obviously feigned annoyance. A hard balance to strike.
“I’m joking. Kind of.” Dick rolled his shoulders back before stepping away and beckoning him to follow with a hand. “Everyone’s down in the cave already. Let’s go!”
Damian decided not to mention the fact that he had been banned from patrol in favor of falling in line. It was supposed to end that Saturday, so there was really no point either way.
The stairs down to the cave were familiar and yet still foreign to him as they descended. It really had been a while since he had entered into it. Especially since the frequency of his visits had already diminished when he had been barred from going down during weekdays.
It was distinctly cooler down below, and the low burble of conversation began to pick up in volume as they approached. There was still a slouch in Dicks posture that Damian observed as they walked, indicative of the lack of sleep he was surely dealing with. He was surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep at the wheel when he had driven over.
“—gotta be targeted. I mean, there’s just genuinely no way,” Steph’s voice cut through as they finally entered the main area of the cave.
Indeed, it seemed all were gathered, barring Barbara. She was probably at her own base, or maybe taking a night off for once (very unlikely, knowing her). Jason leaned against a counter, his arms crossed in discomfort that he was failing to conceal. Tim was nearer to where Bruce stood, his hand on his chin like he was lost in thought. Cass glanced over as they walked over to the main group, a smile playing on her face.
“You’re here. I’m glad,” she said, walking up to Dick and enveloping him in a firm hug. She glanced over to Damian as she finally let go, her face suddenly falling as she stared at him.
“You’re in pain,” Cass remarked. It was not a question; it was a fact she knew with certainty. Dick looked back at him, unmistakable worry mixed into his gaze. Damian opened his mouth, mind spinning through all the possible answers he could give before Bruce cut him off.
“He was injured last night during the kidnapping,” he supplied, eyes darting down to Damian’s arm. “Do you need painkillers? It might help you sleep better.”
He shook his head quickly. If he started taking them, he feared he’d grow dependent on the mild relief they would bring. And he didn’t want anyone thinking he needed painkillers for a simple arm injury.
Cass didn’t look too convinced, but her attention turned back to where Damian’s father stood as he cleared his throat.
“Dick. Glad to see you here. We’ve been discussing what I believe Tim already mentioned to you on the phone.”
“The whole blackout thing? It seems weird to me. The Electrocutioner is still in Arkham, and these power outages don’t seem exactly planned.”
Damian raised a brow at this, trying to catch up with what they were talking about. It was true he’d noticed the increased number of blackouts occurring. While Gotham’s electrical systems could hardly be considered robust, they didn’t go out this often. He could recall many moments where the lights had flickered at school and even at the Gala a week earlier.
“Not to mention the billboard that literally blew up in front of Damian and I. Cmon, there’s no way it just randomly did that. Something’s going on.” Tim frowned, staring at the large screen at the front of the cave. It had a blown-up map of Gotham, marking the areas of blackouts. Red dots flashed on Gotham’s grid like a spreading disease. “These seem to be more concentrated in certain areas. But I can’t figure out any pattern that would make sense…”
“There’s a Batburger in all those places,” Steph suggested, garnering a snicker from Cass. “Maybe they're trying to target Jason.”
“Ha ha. There’s a Batburger on every block of Gotham,” Tim replied as Jason shot a glare at Steph, who only smiled even wider. “C’mon, guys. Let’s actually focus here. Any ideas?”
Dick squinted at the screen. “Have we investigated the areas yet? Maybe we should check if any of the power lines have been messed with. Gotham Light and Power might have records of that anyway.”
“Barbara is looking into that as we speak,” Bruce answered. “I think patrol is in order. Damian, I’m partnering you with Jason tomorrow night. You two will cover the Bowery and Park Row.”
He perked up at this, not letting even the threat of having to be near Jason for an extended period of time ruin his mood. He nodded eagerly, trying to suppress his excitement at being allowed back on patrol.
“That reminds me,” Jason piped up, finally pushing himself off the counter to stand at his full height. “I got some intel about yesterday’s situation.”
“You mean the kidnapping thing?” Steph asked, resting an elbow on Cass like she was an armrest. She didn’t seem to be too annoyed, more bemused at Steph’s antics.
Jason rolled his eyes. “That. Seems like someone didn’t like our kidnappers too much. They burned the whole lot down. And get this: not even a speck of lighter fluid or anything. It just burned that quickly on its own. By the time firefighters came, there wasn’t anything left.”
“What could even be the motive?” Tim wondered aloud. “Maybe one of the kidnappers had an enemy? But why go after a shoddy base instead of just going after the guy himself?”
“Don’t have a clue. But I’m gonna monitor that. Hopefully Gordon can get some information from the guys that are locked up.”
Damian bit at his lip, a pool of dread forming in his stomach.
A fire with no fuel, an exploding billboard, erratic power outages, and a strange and ominous crow. He had an inkling of what this could mean, an answer he’d been avoiding since the beginning. It made sense, though; it was the only thing that could reasonably explain it all. He had just hoped it wasn’t true.
Melina.
Notes:
Not certain if it was obvious, but the actress Constantine was referring to was Ruth Wilson! I found it funny comparing how Damian describes Melina versus how Constantine does. One is a bit less saccharine for sure, haha.
Kinda proud of the writing on this one, it’s hard switching out of my Damian writing style, if you will. Hoping I wrote Constantine decently enough; I really don’t usually consume media with him. But his character is pretty intriguing to me! (He and King Shark are peak writing by the way…) And a minor Dr. Who reference, how fun…
I love having like… lore if you will, specific to stories, so sorry if there's too much exposition sometimes! I just like world-building. I promise there won’t be too many interludes at all.
Not to yap too much, but just saying that unfortunately I have school and am employed (surprising, I know), so while I’m committed to working on this fic, it is possible (not certain, ofc) that it may slow a bit, but we will see :) Thank you for your understanding anyway!
… also, I have a Tumblr under Magnoliabee, so maybe I’ll start posting on there and stuff? I’m bad at social media, though, so bear with me.
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You have to tell me, dude!”
Damian stared ahead as Kody continued to whine behind him. His voice was grating on his ears, spit spraying from his mouth with each word. He could feel it on his neck, a disgusting sensation that made him want to turn around and throw his notebook at Kody.
But it would be an act of little reward, so he merely gritted his teeth as he continued ignoring the barrage of questions being hurled at him.
The situation brought him back to only a week or so ago, when Kody had decided to escalate to poking his back to garner a response. Damian deemed that he would rather not have any injuries aggravated, finally turning his head back as Kody whispered through his teeth.
“If you fight someone, then I think I should know first. I can spread the word, you know? Tell everyone that you beat up a…” He paused, seemingly racking his brain for someone Damian could have possibly had an altercation with. “A cop? Not that I think you would do that, obviously… I mean, probably.”
Damian gave him a blank look as Kody raised an eyebrow. He had a stupid expression on his face as if he were waiting for confirmation. Damian was pretty sure he should be at the very least mildly offended that Kody was implying he was some sort of criminal, but he’d learned to ignore whatever new idiotic thing came out of his mouth as of late. It was even harder to be offended as he observed the dampness to Kody's hair and clothing, which confused him, as it wasn’t as if the school had a pool.
“I’m just trying to help out! Or is it a secret or something? My mom made me watch this really old movie about a club where people beat each other up. Are you in one of those? I heard that Red Hood runs one in Crime Alley.”
“No,” Damian answered before he could stop himself. His leg burned in pain, but he noted something that had been weighing on the back of his mind. His words didn’t seem to hurt him so much during the day. Not to a dramatic degree, but it was notable if he considered the pain he’d felt when yelling at Steph a week before.
“Okay,” Kody scratched at his neck, “don’t tell me then. But I’m gonna figure it out.”
Damian rolled his eyes before hearing the telltale clacking of Mrs. Briggs’s pumps approaching. He glanced over to her, having to squint as she was once again dressed much too vibrantly for his tastes. Her nails were bright purple, and she had her braids tied up, making it very easy to observe the gold chunky necklace sat primly upon her neck.
“Boys, what are we talking about?” She asked, a frown on her face as she glanced between them. “I don’t want to have to separate you two, but if we’re having problems—“
“We’re not having any problems. Damian just won’t tell me his secret.” Kody cut in, and he groaned internally as Mrs. Briggs’s eyes widened as she fixed her attention back on Damian.
“Secret?”
“Well, I don’t know it yet, but I’m trying to figure it out. It’s fine, though. We’re all good.”
She bit at her lip as she hummed, staring much too intently at Damian’s face. He huffed, turning his head so she would finally stop.
“Let’s be nice to each other. I don’t want you spending another lunch in the office; we do not antagonize our classmates.”
Kody nodded diligently, but Damian noted he had crossed his fingers under the desk. He had doubts that his peer even knew what antagonizing meant.
“Okay.”
“Amazing. Get back to reading, you need to be on chapter two by next week. We’re so close to the end of the day, let’s power through!”
The book, The Giver, had been cast aside to a forgotten corner of Kody's cramped desk. It already seemed worn, a suspicious warping to it that Damian deemed to likely be from whatever had doused Kody earlier. This was an observation confirmed from glancing at the floor, where a puddle had formed under Kody’s backpack.
“Oh, that?” Kody pointed to the book as Damian raised his eyebrow. “It was so crazy. I was filling up my water bottle, and I swear the pipe freaked out on me! I got splashed like crazy. And now all my stuff is ruined, so my mom got really mad when I called her.”
He hadn’t been looking for an explanation, as he truly didn’t care much, but Damian kept his eyes trained on the book. If things were already acting up with the city’s electricity, then why would the water be safe? It could, of course, be a coincidence, but he had been too single-minded lately. Paranoia had long ago set in; he just hadn’t acknowledged it till now.
Ten minutes passed, and the bell rang as it always did, resulting in the mass exodus of the classroom. Damian fell behind the pack, sighing internally as he stepped into the hallway. It was a difficult task to dodge the many children barreling through the halls. An eighth grader shoved his friend into a row of lockers, nearly crashing into Damian with boisterous laughter. He glared at them before continuing, staying close to the wall as he finally reached the staircase.
It was emptier than the crowded halls had been, and it was an unremarkable journey to Ms. Liesel’s room. He ended his day with her teaching on Fridays, a reward for a week of school-induced misery. Damian only really enjoyed her class. A sentiment he had no intentions of sharing.
As he walked through the metal door leading to the art classroom, his head perked up at a loud and familiar noise. He turned to look toward it, and couldn’t help the slight joy tugging at him as he observed a large black and white dog wagging its tail back and forth.
“—It’s been about three months, I’d say? He’s picking up fast.” Dr. Dahlman was holding onto the dog’s leash, smiling brightly as Ms. Liesel was crouched in front of him, rubbing the dog’s ears. “I was planning to bring him in officially next week, but I had to pick up some papers before I left. Zahir said he didn’t care, thank god. I couldn’t leave him in my car.”
“He’s so sweet!” Ms. Liesel cooed, continuing to pet the dog's clearly soft fur, scratching his head and cheeks. “He must take after you.”
“Well—” Dr. Dahlman sputtered out, before cutting himself off as he noticed Damian having entered the classroom. “Hey, Damian!”
Ms. Liesel raised her head, an even sunnier expression appearing on her face. “My favorite student! Am I allowed to say that?” She glanced at Dr. Dahlman, who shook his head ever so minutely. “Well, it’s fine. Not like it was much of a secret.”
Dr. Dahlman cleared his throat. “I had to bring Chewy in while I grabbed my papers. I know I said you’d see him next week, but I don’t think an earlier meeting would hurt anyone.”
Chewy’s tongue hung out of his mouth as his tail whipped back and forth, thwacking into Dr. Dahlman's leg every so often. He seemed to be a Bernese Mountain Dog, a respectable breed, obvious from his cheerful face and large frame. Damian figured he must be being trained as a therapy dog. This process seemed to be coming along nicely as Chewy didn’t try to jump on him as Titus might have.
“You can pet him if you’d like,” the counselor supplied, loosening his grip on the leash as Ms. Liesel stood, brushing off her dress. “He could always use more socialization.”
Damian decided not to question why Dr. Dahlman had chosen to visit his art teacher. He approached Chewy, crouching down to simply stare at him. Chewy’s tail still wagged fiercely, enough that he was almost surprised the beast hadn’t flown off.
He raised his hand and began stroking his fur, scratching at his chin, and petting his fluffy body. His mouth tugged upward as he sat with Chewy. Ms. Liesel and Dr. Dahlman hovered awkwardly above him, glancing at one another as they watched the scene before them.
“Do you prefer dogs or cats?” Ms. Liesel asked suddenly, looking between Damian and Dr. Dahlman. “Personally, I like them equally. I have a cat at home. Her name is Farah; she likes to bite my legs.”
She hiked up her skirt to just above her calves as she spoke, showing off bandages and faded scars.
“I call them my battle scars!”
“… I’m more of a dog person myself,” Dr. Dahlman replied slowly, his eyebrows raised and eyes glinting in the slightest bit of amusement as he stared at Ms. Liesel. “Say, Damian, Juliet— Julie still has your painting. We were wondering if you would like to take it home soon. It seemed pretty personal.”
He let the idea play about in his head. He didn’t need his family to see it, as such a conversation would bring unwanted scrutiny, so the bigger issue was getting it home. While Alfred picked him up, he would surely be curious to observe the painting. It seemed Tim had gone and run his mouth about the painting.
“Here, I’ll wrap it up for you,” Ms. Liesel said as she hurried over to her desk, searching around for something to cover his painting. “We can’t have it getting damaged!”
Dr. Dahlman turned his attention back to Damian, who still had his hands in Chewy’s fur. He was warm and smelled clean, his fur having clearly been diligently brushed through. He was sitting beside him, and Damian found some solace in his presence.
“What are your weekend plans?” Dr. Dahlman asked conversationally, leaning against a table casually. Damian glanced at him, not knowing what to say.
“Richard.” He finally answered, pain shooting up his calf. Dr. Dahlman looked surprised before quickly changing his expression. He hid his face in Chewy’s fur as Dr. Dahlman nodded with a wide smile. The dog whined slightly, but was placated as Damian scratched along his spine.
“He’s around? That’s great to hear. I’m glad you have him.”
That was an odd way to put their relationship, but before Damian could consider his words more deeply, a large canvas covered with a white sheet was thrust toward him.
“Here you go!” Ms. Liesel beamed down at him, hands carefully clutching what seemed to be his painting. “I varnished it before the show, so it should be fine to transport. Just be really careful taking it home!”
He took it gingerly, standing up finally, and Dr. Dahlman let out a sigh.
“Well, I should get going now. Class starts soon, and I have a campsite to get to.”
That explained why he was leaving early, and perhaps the bringing of the dog. He likely was planning to camp with Chewy, a thought that made Damian grow very faintly fonder of the counselor.
“Bye, Julie. Bye, Damian; I’ll see you next week!”
Damian put a hand to his chin as he deliberated where his painting would be best hidden. Alfred hadn’t commented on its appearance in the car when he picked up Damian, merely glancing at it as Damian climbed into his seat and rested it at his feet. The butler was never one to push. He appreciated that to a degree, and yet lately, he’s begun feeling less assured by this trait. Car rides were silent, and he knew this was typical even before the curse, but somehow it felt disconcerting all of a sudden.
His bedroom was his prison and sanctuary in some ways, and tonight it would relate more to the latter as he finally decided on stuffing the painting under his bed and praying no one had reason to look under it. Damian pushed it under carefully. He was still proud of his work and did not dare do anything that might harm the careful varnishing.
He heard a knock on his door and scrambled up. He sidestepped his backpack as he pulled the handle, and Dick stood in the doorway with a bright smile.
“Hey! Patrol is in a second, head down with me.”
Dick had his hands shoved in his pockets as they walked off, as if there was nothing odd about the situation. Usually, he’d be goading Damian into talking by now. This did not occur, and that struck him as being odd. He kept glancing back at Damian, his lips pursed and expression strained.
He wasn’t staying at the manor. His room remained empty; it seemed his fight with his father from before had stretched on. He mentioned to Damian in passing that he was staying at one of his safe houses in the city. Damian wasn’t quite sure which one he was referring to, but, of course, he was not in a position to ask.
They changed quickly in the locker room, and Damian was grateful that there were changing stalls at that moment.
“I need to talk with Alfred about something, so I’ll come in after,” Dick said before walking toward the medbay. Damian frowned slightly as his brother left his side, before quickly shaking the feeling away as he headed toward the cave. He was almost there as he heard voices. His name was mentioned, and he refrained from entering, listening in from the doorway.
“… Keep an eye on him. I am… concerned. He’s been quiet.” Bruce’s voice was low, as if he didn’t want to be heard. It was like what he was saying was somehow scandalous.
“Is that why you had Timmy call in the big guns?” Jason’s voice cut in. He sounded annoyed, and Damien wondered if it was because he had been forced to patrol with him that night.
“Partly. There’s still a case. But his well-being comes first.”
“And you couldn’t talk to him yourself?”
Bruce sighed. “I—don’t know how. I’m… afraid that if I say something wrong, he’ll only grow more upset. Just—please try.”
“I will, obviously. But you'd better say something soon. Go over the conversation with Alfred at the very least, but if the kid needs emotional support, it sure as hell ain’t coming from me. That’s supposed to be your job.”
“I will… Thank you.”
“Why isn’t ol’ Wing doing this, though? I can’t say he’s not the better choice. Even Cass would be better.”
“I just need to catch him up tonight. After this, he’ll be with Robin. Cass is working on the fire still; she’s investigating with Tim. There might be some ledes we’re missing.”
Damian felt his stomach lurch as he confirmed they were talking about him. They spoke as if he were some pathetic child who needed handholding and gentle words. As if Damian were not trained by assassins, as if he were not capable of being enough.
Because he was, wasn’t he? Enough, that is. He completed tasks with ease, and that should be enough. He didn’t understand what could not be enough about that. Doing what was asked of him had always meant success; why had that changed?
He had felt a sense of failure when he heard his father say he’d been quiet. Surely he should’ve wanted them to notice, yet why did it feel so shameful for them to have finally done so? It had only been about two weeks. He could do more, figure out more. Have something more to offer than a page in an old book.
His head hurt, and he wondered absentmindedly if it was due to his condition. Nocentra was a term without definition in any dictionary, which of course made sense. The wording in the book had been clinical: “persistent headaches, fatigue, predisposition to bruising, suppressed appetite, and, in some cases, emesis.” Nearly all of the symptoms he’d already displayed. And the description of the substance that would expel from his body was the same as what had leaked out of his nose the day before. He was curious if it would only occur when he was actively bleeding, but decided testing that through self-injury was out of the question. There were too many ways that may go wrong, as bandages were much harder to keep discreet.
The sound of footsteps approaching took him back to reality, and he turned around to see Steph quickly approaching.
“Oh! Hey Dames!” She was as energetic as usual, her mask not yet pulled up and her hair hanging limply against her back. Long hair seemed like a poor choice for vigilante work, but she didn’t listen much when Damian gave his thoughts on the matter. “Why are you just standing there? I thought you’d be excited to be back at it!”
When he didn’t respond, merely staring, she smiled awkwardly before looking toward the doorway.
“O-kay then. Uh, well… I’m just gonna step around you.”
He watched her go before sighing to himself and following after her. If she told Father and Jason that he was standing outside the room, it would become very apparent that he’d been listening in on them.
The cave was illuminated by the bright computer screen, once again showing the map of blackouts. Red blinked rhythmically, in a nearly soothing pattern. His father had turned his attention to the screen, Jason standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. Steph was nearer to the door, and she looked back at Damian as he entered, a look of relief on her face.
“Oh, thank god, it was getting a little stuffy,” she whispered, somehow loudly, causing Jason to glare at her. “I call dibs on going to that place,” she said while pointing toward the dot located very near to where Damian and Tim had gone to Batburger.
“I’m assigning patrol routes tonight. You’re over here tonight, Dick, and I will be close.” He gestured toward Old Gotham, decidedly on the opposite side of the city from where Steph had been angling to go.
“Oh, c'mon, why am I the only one alone? That’s so boring.”
“It’s just for tonight.”
Before she could interrupt once more, Dick finally entered. He’d already put his mask on, a tense look on his face as he looked again at Damian. He wondered what he might have spoken with Alfred about.
“All good?” He asked, glancing around the group.
“Yep,” Jason said, popping the ‘p’ as he started walking toward the garage. “Hurry up, kid.”
Damian held back a retort as he slowly turned to follow, well aware he was the “kid” in question. That didn’t stop Steph from snorting as Damian stared at the floor, considering all the ways he could take the brakes off of Jason’s motorcycle.
“So.”
Damian lifted his head from the would-be robber he’d apprehended. Park Row, more often called Crime Alley, was usually solely Jason’s territory. It wasn’t as if Father was particularly eager to patrol there himself, so usually Redhood was left to his own devices.
“Just lay it on me. What’s up?”
To this, Damian would have no answer, even with his voice being his own. So he just stared at his brother, who was fidgeting with his holster, unhooking and rehooking it.
Jason sighed, shaking his head. “Oh my god. Where’s Dickie when you need him?” He muttered, grappling up onto a rooftop with ease. Damian followed, touching down lightly.
The smell of burning incense was thick in the air. Jason was hunched over something, and Damian stepped toward him to get a better look. It appeared to be a pile of what used to be herbs, with ash all around it. He had a pit in his stomach, his hands clenching tightly around his grappling hook.
“Huh. Is this… some kind of religious thing? It’s obviously purposeful, anyway.” Jason wafted the smoke toward his face, having taken off his helmet. “It kinda smells like… rosemary? Any ideas what this could be about?”
Damian shook his head, thankful that at least it was truthful. He hadn’t a clue why there might be incense being burned on a random rooftop. While he had a gut feeling it had something to do with Melina, he still had zero idea about her plans. In fact, for all he knew, she’d already left, a thought he hadn’t let himself consider before. But the blackouts, fire, and billboard all pointed to her involvement, what with their potentially magical relation.
Jason was eyeing him funny, finally standing up. He ignored the pile of smoldering herbs in favor of squinting at Damian. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, suddenly very aware of himself.
“… Seriously, you’ve been, uh… quiet. Is like… something up?”
Damian curled his lip his distaste, “No.”
A word that shouldn’t have hurt so much to say, but it had nearly felt like it had been forced out of him, a venomous spittle exiting his throat. His stomach ached painfully, and he crouched down in front of the herbs to hide his pain. A dull ache throbbed all over him, one he had become accustomed to. That didn’t make it hurt any less.
Jason didn’t seem to believe him much. He huffed, once again playing with his holster. “Look, if anything is wrong, you can just tell me. Is there someone messing with you? ‘Cause I’ll… talk to them if you need me to. I’ll take care of it.”
It almost sounded like he was offering to kill someone for him, which Damian knew wasn’t the case in this instance, as he was talking about hypothetical children. His face flushed with embarrassment as he kept his gaze on the ground. For Jason to not only think he’d let the actions of children affect him but actually cause him to change his behavior was one of the more shameful insinuations he’d been accused of.
“… Alright.” Jason put his helmet back on. “What about your arm? Can I take a look at it? I want to make sure—”
The crackle of the comms interrupted that thought, and Father’s voice cut in.
“Red Hood, Robin. Have you two found anything yet?”
“Not really. Just—” Jason angled his head down toward the pile of now fully burnt herbs, seemingly looking at them (it was difficult to tell as Jason’s helmet was rather large). “We found this weird burning pile of herbs on top of this roof near where the power surge was.”
“… We did too,” Dick said. “Don’t tell me there’s another cult that popped up.”
Steph groaned over the comm. “Don’t put that in the air. I didn’t find anything weird but…”
“We’re going to keep patrolling; everyone, keep an eye out for anything else that might be suspicious,” Bruce replied.
“I’ll do some research,” Barbara said. Damian hadn’t even realized she was online that night. He figured she’d been dealing with Tim and Cass, who were on another channel. He was curious if their investigation was any success, but he had some doubts.
“Let’s keep looking,” Jason said suddenly, walking away toward the edge of the roof, already with his grapple out. Damian scrambled to follow him, but not before taking some of the ashes and placing them in a small vial in his belt.
He just hoped it wouldn’t break.
Damian stared up at the ceiling of his room, lost in his thoughts.
Alfred the Cat was nestled into his side, soft enough that Damian felt no pain when he touched him. It was hard to sleep, as no matter where he rested, pain followed. He was debating whether to try sleeping on his side when a quiet knock rapped on his door.
He sat up, staring at the doorway where someone must have stood. Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he went to open the door.
His father stood there in an uncomfortable silence, looking down at him tiredly. It was late, and Damian had been told to go to bed nearly an hour before, while Jason told him and Dick everything they had seen on patrol. He'd handed the vial to Jason wordlessly, who had taken it with a quiet thanks. Father was wearing a simple black long-sleeved shirt and dark pants, having finally changed out of his suit. In some ways, Damian was more familiar with the mask he donned than the face behind it, and so he simply stared at him, taking in every detail of his face with quiet surprise.
“You’ve been… quiet. More than usual.”
Damian looked up sharply, feeling an eerie sense of familiarity with the one-sided conversation he’d had with Jason earlier. He tapped his fingers against his arm, stalling.
“I’m not asking for an explanation if you don’t want to give one. I just… I need to know you’re okay. Are you… okay?”
“Fine.” His voice was strained; even he knew that. His wince was nearly imperceptible as pain bloomed on his arm, but his father had never been one to ignore the finer details.
Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Fine isn’t enough. If you’re hurt, if something’s happening—you can tell me.”
Damian’s jaw tightened; he shifted his weight, eyes dropping once more. He nodded sharply. Father studied him with a hard gaze, one that made him want to squirm. He stepped closer, kneeling to be level with Damian.
Bruce's voice was gentle, but unflinching. “I’m… you don’t have to say anything. If nothing’s wrong, I’ll believe you, but,” he paused, sighing quietly, “just tell someone if it isn’t. Alright?”
Damian swallowed hard, his throat burning, but he didn't move. He just clenched his fists and looked away. Bruce rested a hand lightly in the air, as if he were about to ghost it over Damian’s shoulder, before letting it fall limply to his side.
Damian didn’t answer. His lips parted as if he might try, but then closed again. He only gave a small and short nod. This seemed to be enough.
Bruce stood up, pulling away like he always did, letting a hand rest on the doorframe.
“Goodnight.”
Damian watched him walk away before letting the door close with a quiet click. He took a step back, and once more plunged into the sort of isolation that he never thought possible. For as large as his family was, he still felt impossibly small as he sat on his bed, pulling his cat nearer to him.
Tears dropped down his face, and it was then that he realized he had begun to cry. He didn’t have it in him to care, letting them wash over him as more joined. It was the only gift he would grant himself, tears turning to sobs as his face burned as his bruises did. He hugged Alfred the Cat tighter, who mewed softly as he curled up on himself, a misery setting over him.
He would’ve thought he’d be grateful to some degree that his family had begun noticing a change, and yet it didn’t feel very good at all. Damian was burdening them with things of his own doing. Dick had only come because Tim had called him, not through a real desire to see Damian. He had to be cared for like a houseplant, watered when necessary but never more often.
He was ashamed that they thought him weak enough to need emotional support of all things. All he needed was his curse lifted, yet somehow even that felt like too much to ask.
Notes:
Progress! But sad... perhaps that might be the synopsis for this one. Ramping up and all that good stuff.
Bruce... so close, aren't we? Need to push it a bit more, though, to be honest. Kody continues to be a mild nuisance, like a buzzing fly in Damian's ear. Damian's favorite teacher duo is at it again. Kind of feels like a crossover comic event to write, lol. And the painting returns home! I did NOT forget about its saddening existence, too bad for Damian.
I honestly don't have that much to say this time around. Thank you for the continued support; I can't say it enough times! Have a beautiful day/night.
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