Chapter Text
Tim sighed an exaggerated sigh. “Well. Here it is. Gotham Kindergarten.”
“Academy.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
Damian unbuckled his seatbelt but paused before opening the passenger door. “Do not forget to pick me up from school, no later than three o'clock.”
Tim groaned. “It's only, like, four blocks! Five if you count the driveway. Can't you just walk?”
“Why should I? You’re taking me to school; you can take me back home. Pennyworth does.”
“Damian, I'm busy. I'm gonna be busy. I have a schedule!”
“I have seen your schedule. I do not think it reasonable for a forty-eight hour period.”
“Exactly why I don't want to carve out time to pick you up from school.” Tim shifted the car out of the parking gear as he added with a grumble, “Not like you even need to come here in the first place.”
Damian, of course, heard. “Some of us desire to complete our education, Drake.”
“Shut up.”
“Very well. Fail to show up, and I will tell Father when he returns to this country that you neglected me and cannot handle responsibility.”
He would tell, too. Tim rolled his eyes. “Fine, I'll get you at three. Now get out of my car.”
“Father's car,” Damian smirked.
“Damian, there are people behind us. Move.”
As his little brother finally left the car, Tim felt the strange urge to say I love you, the way family members leaving their kids somewhere were supposed to.
Of course he didn't say it. Stupid.
Drake was late. Damian stood on the Academy’s front steps for ten minutes before sitting down, moving his backpack to his knees. He sighed.
Pennyworth was always punctual. Damian missed him.
There were several other children waiting on the steps as well. Damian watched them without their noticing him. Most were on their phones. Some pulled out notebooks and pencils to begin their homework. One or two at a time, they left. Their parents or siblings or babysitters came to take them home.
Damian suddenly very much did not want to be the last child left on the steps.
Can't you just walk? echoed his brother’s voice in his head.
Damian hesitated for a moment. He had texted Timothy once. He had attempted to call once. That should have been enough.
He stood again and shouldered his pack.
Pedestrian traffic was average today. During the day, Gotham felt safer to almost everyone, though Damian had noticed that his peers never walked alone, always in groups or with an adult.
Damian had no group to walk home with, as he had never needed one. And his adult escort (namely, Pennyworth) always drove.
Drake should have come. Damian didn't care that he would be fine walking alone; his brother had given his word and had broken it. Had he meant it at all?
Damian clenched the straps of his backpack in his fists. It hurt to be forgotten, but the sting of it possibly being intentional hurt more.
Assuming the best of your family isn't a weakness, Grayson had told Damian once after he had complained about Drake and insulted Grayson's general naivete. Take me, for instance, or Alfred or whoever. You don't need your guard up for every interaction with us. You can apply that to Tim, too.
Damian had corrected Richard's grammar (“whomever”) but had dismissed the conversation.
Was he supposed to assume the best of Drake now? As he was wearing down his school shoes on the glass and gravel of Gotham's pavement, as his books thudded against his back and his pens rattled annoyingly in their case? He found himself habitually reaching to finger the zippers to make sure no one had pickpocketed his pack, not that anyone could have, because he was Robin, son of the Bat, and—
A rustle of garbage down an alley. Damian focused instantly. There's a dog, said his brain, not unlike a dog itself scenting something of interest.
He should have thought twice, should have scanned his surroundings one more time, but Damian needed—deserved—something good this afternoon. Strays were promising; puppies were especially good.
It was too thin, a mongrel of various shades of brown, bearing ears that stuck out almost horizontally. It growled at Damian with its teeth fixed in the remains of a pizza box double its size. Its eyes were black and untrusting, but alive.
Damian's breath caught. He knelt on one knee several feet away from the dog, let his backpack slide down his shoulder, and began to reach out a hand. He spoke softly. “Good dog.” It did not flinch, but stiffened. “You are resourceful,” Damian continued, gesturing to the pizza box. “Gotham is a hard city.”
“You can say that again, kid,” muttered someone behind him, and Damian had just enough time to turn his head before the blow landed across his neck.
The sky was ringing like the bell in Father's study. Fog clouded sight and touch, stealing away anything that could ground him. Confusion dragged his senses in different directions.
Damian needed to wake up.
Robin, report, said no one, but Damian still tried.
He had been attacked. There was pain, a tsunami of it, unquantifiable.
The ringing softened, at least.
The next time he woke up, Damian forced his consciousness to stay, tugging it back to himself. The sun was lower in the sky now. Not quite evening. Not yet.
As he lay on the tarred ground, Damian could tell his pockets were empty. His backpack was gone, either stolen or out of reach.
The puppy was nowhere in sight. Most things were nowhere in sight. He could see a wall and part of the sky.
So. No phone. No comms; Damian was a civilian today, and he carried nothing on his person that might give his identity away.
He was definitely hurt, and badly. Damian cursed himself for his lack of attention and cursed Drake for breaking his word—but did not curse the stray dog. He did have some restraint. The dog was innocent. He hoped it was alright.
Damian knew his injuries were such that moving, even a little, was a risk. The pain running up his back and neck was severe, agonizing, yet Damian sensed the slightest motion would make it worse. The fire in his body would grow into an inferno, and death would likely follow, because Damian was helpless here, vulnerable, alone.
Was Timothy searching for him? Had he arrived late at the school, his hair a mess from sleeping at his desk or the kitchen table or the corner of the living room, his eyes apologetic but his smile casual—asking for his brother? Or was he waiting at home for Damian to walk through the door, so he could crow a taunting I told you so!
Damian hadn't altered his route home besides the small detour into the alley. He would not be difficult to find.
If Timothy was looking for him.
Damian inhaled, a small, pitiful sound. It hurt, pain sinking into his chest.
He could sense darkness coming, deeper than before, colder, and it scared him as much as he allowed himself to feel afraid.
He needed help now, and Drake was not coming.
“Jon,” Damian breathed, and then a little louder, “Jon.”
Super hearing was annoying, because Damian wasn't sure how it worked—how or if it could be turned on and off, how he could tell if any Kryptonians were listening in on anything.
It didn't help that Jon was a rule follower, at least of his parents’ rules, and wouldn't fly off to Gotham anytime just because Damian was casually asking.
Damian swallowed, almost completely sure the taste of blood was just his imagination. “Kent. Please. My neck is broken and if you do not come I will die.”
He fell silent then, counting. Metropolis to Gotham usually took Jon about fifteen seconds on average.
Eight seconds later, the welcome blue-and-red outfit appeared against the dark brick of the alley walls. “Damian!” cried Jon, his face open and frightened, his breathing quick. “What happened?”
“Eight seconds,” commented Damian quietly. “Well done.”
“What?”
Damian didn't bother explaining. The pain seemed to be spreading. “I need a hospital.”
Jon scanned his body, eyes flashing. “Yeah, no kidding. What happened to you? Your pulse is all wrong, and your—”
“Kent.”
“Right.” Jon seemingly had forgotten the I will die part. “Do you want me to carry you?”
Imbecile. “No.”
“Okay. I can borrow someone's phone, be right back.”
Another thirty seconds, and Jon was back, this time getting to his knees next to Damian. “Paramedics are on their way. You’ll be okay.”
“You. . .” Damian found it harder and harder to think. He wasn't even sure his speech was coming out right. “How? You cannot talk at super speed.”
“Oh, it wasn't a whole conversation. I just said to get an ambulance here because my friend was really hurt, and I hung up when they said they would. And then I had to return the phone, because I didn't exactly ask to borrow it. The lady understood though. I think.”
“You are in costume. We’re. . . not friends.” Damian let his gaze unfocus, watching the colors in front of him blur.
“I say everyone's my friend,” said Jon, placing a cautious hand on Damian’s shoulder. “If I mean it more when it comes to you, nobody else can tell, can they?”
Damian had no argument. Breath was fast becoming precious, rare.
Jon's tone became more serious. “I won't let you die, you know. You asked me for help. I won't leave.”
He heard sirens. Fast. All of Damian’s helpers were fast today. Except for Timothy.
“No,” said Damian, so softly that if it wasn't for his friend's enhanced hearing it would have been inaudible. “Don’t come with me. You have to find Drake. Tell him.”
Jon frowned. “Why Tim?”
“Only one home right now. And. . .” And he is supposed to be looking after me. As my brother. And he was supposed to take me home and did not come.
“Damian?”
“Tell him.”
“I—yeah. 'Course I will. But Damian, you're not—”
Damian felt suddenly cold, and his friend's words were swallowed by the consuming dark.