Chapter Text
“Titus, no.”
Damian cursed quietly as the dog ignored his order, nosing its way through the cracked bedroom door. He took a took breath to summon from his well of patience before following him inside.
Upon his entrance, Damian discovered that Alfred was lounging on Timothy’s bed. The cat’s paw was stretched out in front of it, a splint wrapped tightly around the leg it had injured chasing a mouse last week. Nobody had dared to make the obvious comparison between the cat and Damian’s own casted leg. At least, not to his face.
Titus sat next to Tim, tail thumping as Timothy absently scratched behind his ears. Traitor. The older boy looked up at his entrance. “Damian.” Timothy was slouched in the chair by his desk, a laptop screen blinking code at his elbow. There was a single candy wrapper discarded on the desk’s surface; it was just the beginning of the project. “I don’t have time to play right now. I’ve got to figure out what caused the blip in our security system last week.”
“Tt.” Damian held his leash aloft. “We were supposed to be going on a walk.” Despite his emphasis, only Titus’s ears flicked at the familiar word. Still not enough to dislodge him from his perch.
“I was talking to Titus,” Timothy deadpanned. “I know better than to assume you would do such childish things.” His voice rose on the last words until they were squeaky.
“I do not sound like that!”
Tim rocked his hand and head in tandem, showing his disagreement. But before Damian could defend himself, Timothy raised a single eyebrow at him. “Besides, a walk? Like that? At this time of night?”
Damian glared. “It is barely past twenty hours. And I can walk.” He stomped his casted foot, just to make a point, and then bit his tongue to keep his face from revealing how much the movement had hurt.
“Yeah, uh-huh.” Tim nodded. “Let me guess: you once scaled Mount Everest with a broken leg and both arms tied behind your back, so walking on a shattered ankle is really nothing in comparison.” He turned his attention back to Titus, patting him condescendingly on the head. “You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Keeping your little master safe from himself?”
Damian growled in irritation. “Titus, come here.”
Titus zipped back to him and heeled at Damian’s side like he hadn’t just interfered with Damian’s plans. He’d been forced to coddle his broken ankle for two days already, and that was long enough. Spending one more day lounging about the manor was sure to make him snap. With an assertive click, he snapped the end of the leash to Titus’s collar. “I will return.”
With the reintroduction of the leash, Titus’s nose was pointed straight back toward the door with intense focus. Damian nudged it open, but before he could take a step out, a hand caught his shoulder.
“You know I can’t actually let you go on a walk, right?” Timothy sighed. “Alfred asked me to keep an eye on you.”
Damian shook the offending hand off his shoulder. “You can observe from the window, if you must.”
Timothy made an aborted sound of frustration. “Alfred also told you to listen to me. He specifically asked me not to let you do anything that could aggravate your ankle. Walking counts.”
“I can walk—”
Titus lunged out the door without warning.
Damian’s grip on the leash yanked him to the floor. He hissed when his leg made impact at an odd angle, his cast doing nothing to cushion to fall. Privately, he regretted his decision to wean himself off his pain medications early.
“Are you okay?” Timothy asked.
Damian’s cheeks began to heat. “I am fine. You can’t tell me what to—”
“Wait.”
“Titus," Damian demanded. “Come here.” But the dog had shot down the hallway and out of sight, the leash trailing behind him. He even barked. Father must not have been getting him adequate exercise, if this was his reaction to the prospect of a walk with Damian.
“Did you hear something?”
“TT. Hearing things—”
“Shut up.”
Damian took in a breath to argue, but refrained when Timothy’s tone registered. It was clipped, tight, the way it was when he was on patrol. Damian’s fingers clenched around nothing. He held his breath to listen for movement and—
A creak, on the manor’s stairway, followed by an unmistakable footstep.
Titus barked: once, twice. A yelp.
Quiet.
Tim sucked in a breath, somewhere behind him. “Hide,” he whispered. He didn’t give Damian a chance to respond, just shoved at him until he slid along the floor and was engulfed completely by the bed’s dust cover.
Damian bit his tongue at the pressure against his broken ankle. It throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the pain referring all the way up his thigh. Still, he reached blindly around himself to search for a weapon. Timothy kept his room messy enough; he was bound to find something that could be used in his surprise attack.
Timothy crept toward the lock on his bedroom door.
He didn’t make it.
The door swung open on silent hinges just as Tim’s fingers brushed the doorknob. Tim rushed forward, throwing his weight against the door. But instead of slamming shut, the door stopped around the toe of a boot wedged into its opening.
“I’ve got one!” a deep voice bellowed, from the hallway.
Timothy’s eyes widened as he and Damian put the pieces together.
They were dealing with more than one intruder.
The intruders weren’t worried about stealth.
And they were looking for people.
Not a moment later, there was a bang behind Tim. The heavy oak door shook, bouncing Tim’s weight off and back again.
“Little pig, little pig,” sang the same deep voice from before. “Let me come in.”
Tim made eye contact with Damian and shook his head sharply, flashing the hand signal for ‘Hide. Await signal.’
Damian glared. His hand wrapped around a baseball; he could launch it from his hiding spot and trip someone later. Or maybe throw it with enough force to knock someone out (unlikely, from his angle.)
But before he could wriggle his hands into view to respond, the door jumped again. It threw Tim forward, and a leather glove snapped through the crack and wrapped tight around his upper arm with eerie accuracy.
Tim dropped his weight and twisted, trying to dislodge the hold. But the door swung open further, and a second hand looped under Tim’s other shoulder and reeled him in and up.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Tim asked, every bit the breathless socialite an intruder would expect. It was a trained script they had all practiced, to ascertain whether intruders were there for Waynes or vigilantes. His bare feet slammed down onto work boots ineffectively.
Behind Tim stood a large man dressed in denim jeans, a brown Carhart jacket, and black beanie. A bandana covered the bottom half of his face, but his eyes were visible. They sparkled with malicious glee. “Who are you, is the better question.”
He marched Tim deeper into the room. Three more men, also with their faces covered by bandanas, followed the first one through the door. Damian’s heart dropped as he clocked the gear on them: rope, knives, a cattle prod, glocks. Duffel bags with even more gear.
This was not a robbery.
Damian’s hand wrapped tighter around his baseball as he searched for an exit. Two men stood between himself and the door. One of the windows was free, but he did not know whether he could make it quickly enough, with his leg. They would have to fight.
“I’m nobody,” Tim lied. “A house sitter.”
The tall man laughed, his grip on Tim squeezing tight enough to make him wince. “You’re a liar, is what you are.” He shifted his grip to Tim’s neck and hauled him up further. Tim’s toes barely brushed the floor. “Try that again.”
Tim thrashed in the grip. His voice was strangled when he demanded, “Let go.”
The man cocked his head toward one of his lackeys. “Get a photo. Verify his identity.”
A chill ran down Damian’s spine at the words. One of the men pulled a cheap burner phone from his back pocket, and a moment later there was a bright flash. “Timothy Drake Wayne,” the second man announced. Damian couldn’t see the phone, to tell whether he was comparing photos to a target he’d been sent, using facial recognition software, or communicating directly with whoever had hired them.
Damian wished Tim would make eye contact, so Damian could impress upon him to just fight. Damian had fought with worse injuries. But the older boy stubbornly refused to look in his direction. He even strained to see backward, around the man’s bulk. “Help! Hel—”
He was silenced when a hand clapped over his mouth. The tall man looked much less amused now. “Is there anybody else home?”
When Tim only glared, the man shook him, as though he were a vending machine whose answer would fall out if it were just jostled loose. “Tell me!”
Tim shook his head.
“I don’t believe you,” the man hissed. He pulled Tim in tighter to himself as he turned back to the other men. “Search the rest of the house. Any sign of life, you report back to me.”
The other men filed out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Perfect. Damian could attack while there were fewer enemies, and then he and Drake could pick off their foes one-by-one.
Something soft lightly brushed against the inside of one of Damian’s legs. Startled, he quietly shifted until he could see the source.
Alfred stared at him with wide eyes, back hunched and tail fluffy. He was shaking, body tucked between Damian’s legs. He was curled into a tight loaf, except for his injured leg, which was stuck out in front of him in a thick, white cast.
Damian looked at the shut door. Back at Alfred. The cat was an excellent predator, but would not be able to run in his condition. Any movement Damian made would draw attention to the injured pet. These men did not seem beyond maiming an animal.
Damian had seen enough of that, in his life.
He scooted back further, instead, guarding Alfred. Timothy was far from defenseless. He had told Damian to wait for his signal. And, as much as he wanted to ignore it, Damian’s broken ankle was a problem. Even if he managed to drag himself from beneath the bed without being noticed, his injury prevented both speed and stealth. He was a liability.
Tim’s best bet was to escape, draw attention away from the room.
A low yelp of pain drew his attention back to Timothy. He and the man holding him were close enough to the bed that he couldn’t see above their knees, but he could confirm that Tim had been lowered back to his feet, at least.
“Did you just try to bite me?”
Tim spat out a chunk of leather glove. In the next heart beat, he was shoved to the floor. Damian scanned him for any injuries. His neck was already reddened from being choked, and his upper arm was sure to bruise. Pure determination radiated from Tim’s expression. Determination, and loathing. And, when the man stepped over him, fear.
He did not look in Damian’s direction.
“Who were you talking to?”
Tim tried to roll over, but a large boot dropped onto the center of his back, trapping him. “Nobody,” Tim spat. “It’s just me.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I was talking to my dog. We were going to go on a walk.”
The man grunted, a sound like he still didn’t totally believe Tim. “If my men find someone else, you’ll regret lying to me.” Casually, the man leaned down to scoop up one of Tim’s arms, wrenching it high behind his back. The angle was deep enough Tim’s face twisted in pain. “What about that little brother of yours? Damian? Where is he?”
“He’s not here.”
“He’s supposed to be here.”
Tim’s face spasmed at the revelation, but his voice remained steady. “I pawned him off. He’s at a friend’s house.”
The man made a loud, tight noise, like a buzzer ringing. A moment later, there was a distinct snap.
Tim hissed, flinching in the man’s hold.
Unperturbed by Tim’s struggles, the man continued. “You’ve got nine more tries. Where is the little one?”
“I told you,” Tim growled. “Wait! Wait—” Another snap. “Listen,” Tim gasped. “I know where the safes are, I can give you the codes. What are you being paid? My dad can double it.”
The man chuckled and leaned forward, low enough that Damian could make out his profile. “I’m not interested in your money.”
With slow cruelty, he pushed Tim’s arm up further. Tim tried to curl his back, but the boot sank down hard enough to press air out of Tim’s lungs.
“St—stop,” Tim gasped, and Damian could hear an edge of real pain there. “You’re going to—”
With a twist, Tim’s shoulder gave a loud pop.
A strangled cry ripped out of Tim’s clenched teeth. In the next second, he moaned, as his arm was dropped back to his side. Even from his angle, Damian could tell the shoulder was all wrong, sitting at an odd angle. Tim’s pinky and ring finger were also twisted and uneven. Broken.
The tall man dropped to a kneel so he could speak directly into Tim’s ear. “This will go so much easier for you if you just let it happen.”
Tim panted, as much a consequence of pain as adrenaline. “Fuck you.”
Instead of a reprimand, the man patted Tim’s cheek in a demeaning manner. “Maybe later,” he hummed.
From Damian’s angle, he got a perfect view of the blood draining from Tim’s face.
Still, Tim’s broken fingers twitched, out of the tall man’s line of sight. “Hide.”
The door opened again without warning, and the three men stumbled back inside. They wore matching black leather work boots, scuffed at the toes and dull with use. One man had a pronounced pronation worn deep into his treads.
“Ah,” one of the men complained. “You got started without us?”
The tall man didn’t rise from his kneel, but he did finally lean away from Tim’s face. “Just a warmup. What did you find?”
“We checked every room,” the whiner said. He was a broad man with a brawler’s build. “Nobody else is here.”
“Did you find the little one’s room? Are you sure there were no signs of him?”
“Yeah, we found it. Clean as a whistle. No way the kid’s home.”
The tall man grabbed a handful of Tim’s hair and craned his neck back so he could croon in his ear. “Is that right? You are the only one home tonight?”
Tim grit his teeth and didn’t reply.
The tall man took that as confirmation. “I’d say I’m sorry about the arm, but that’d be a lie.” He reached for Tim’s wrists, and in that split moment of distraction, Tim sprang into action.
Tim bucked, and the tall man was leaning low enough that Tim’s shoulders rammed into his nose.
The man squeaked, jolting backward as blood began to gush down his face. “You little fucker!” He reached for the boy, but Tim was no longer on the floor.
In the distraction, Tim had extracted himself, his right arm hanging limply from its socket like a broken doll. He pulled the skateboard from beneath his bed and rolled it under the oncoming tread of the next closest intruder, who slipped over it and on top of the tall man on the floor.
And then Tim was on his feet, two grown men between him and the door. Easy.
Damian didn’t see what happened next, because a large, leather-bound hand darted under the dust skirt, narrowly missing Damian’s outstretched fingers. The hand searched blindly along the floor, fingers skimming the rug.
Alfred started to hiss a warning, but Damian shoved his hand inside the cat’s mouth, letting teeth sink into his fingers so it muffled any sounds. He pressed backward, as quickly as he dared without risking noise.
The air was split by a loud, electric crack, and a resounding thump.
The hand retreated, but it only left Damian with the view of Tim’s prone, convulsing body, a cattle prod pressed into his clavicle.
He should have been able to dodge that.
Which meant he let them.
When the electric current let up, Tim still twitched, panting. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth and stained his teeth.
The tall man, voice stuffy from his bleeding nose, laughed. “Oh, good. I like it when they have a little bite in them.” He drew his foot back and released his steel toes into Tim’s side, eliciting a dull cracking noise and another desperate gasp for air.
Before Tim could recover, the men were all over him. Damian’s view was blocked except for the backs of jackets. A whimper came from somewhere in the middle of the cluster. And then they were standing, all four of them, hoisting Tim from the floor like he weighed nothing. They frog marched him toward the bed and threw him on top of it.
The mattress bounced under his weight. Tim’s breaths were audible. Damian was no longer certain it was just because of the exertion.
“Rocket,” the tall man asked. His voice was nasally, due to the broken nose. “You got the camera?”
Damian practically held his breath as the four pairs of boots surrounded the three open sides of the bed. He curled tighter around Alfred, trying to tuck him further out of reach.
“Yeah, I got it,” someone replied.
“Good.” The tone dropped into a pitch that sent a chill down Damian’s spine. “Alright, kid.”
Tim gasped in sudden pain; the bed creaked with his jerk.
“Showtime.”