The Kid
Fandom: Batman
Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne
Genre: (Dark) Humor, with a dash of Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Violence, blood, language, as to be expected. XD
A/N: For morweneledhwen, because she got me into the Robins in the first place. <3 I was always interested in a Jason & Damian team-up because they’re both so very close to the edge. So I decided to write one. I’m also always fascinated by how Damian is such a badass and at the same time just this little kid, so I tried to include that, too. Enjoy. XD
„Whoa.“
In the last 30 minutes, the Red Hood had crashed a burning bus into a shopping center, crawled over the hood in a hail of bullets, sucker punched five armed goons in kabuki masks, shot up about half a dozen others, and wrestled an eight foot tall Samoan assassin into a mall fountain.
And this was still the most messed-up thing he’d seen tonight.
There was something really eerie about a beaten-up ten year old kid in a torn Robin costume, hanging from a ceiling by his hands, while a soft piano version of the Beach Boy’s ‘Kokomo’ played in the background.
The hooded vigilante gnashed his teeth. He knew that this particular kid wasn’t a kid, in that sense, and yet this was just wrong, okay. Shit like this was what made him hunt criminals in the first place. Kinda exactly like this, really.
He lowered his gun, after making sure it was just him and the passed-out midget, and made his approach.
Oh, how he hoped that kid was passed-out, and not worse. He didn’t want to present Batman with the dead remains of his son, because that’d be terrible. And he knew that one of them, perhaps Drake or whatever, would point fingers and say that it was his fault because he didn’t get there sooner, or worse, imply that he murdered the brat. However, they could all suck it, because he was here and they weren’t.
He barely could believe his luck, the fact that he’d made it to the prize first. Ever since word had gotten out that Robin had been kidnapped, they were tearing up the city - Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing, Red Robin, Gordon and his guys, even Catwoman and them, or so he’d heard. No doubt they were all experiencing all sorts of emotions right now in their noble pursuit to save the brat’s precious life. Him, he had none of that. For Jason Todd, it was a competition - who’d get to hand Batman back the wretched fruit of his loins, and then got to rub it in his face forever.
Okay, maybe, there was yet another reason he’d been the quickest to respond and the fastest to connect all the clues and find him, and they hadn’t. Because they had never been the Robin who’d died.
But who cared about that anymore, right.
Jason reached for the rifle on his back. The kid was still not moving, strung up like the world’s most fucked-up Halloween decoration. Jason had never gotten this good a look at him. He actually looked slightly less ugly unconscious than not, because he wasn’t sneering or making that angry little badger face for once. It was strange how he’d inherited Bruce Wayne’s looks, yet none of his handsomeness. He had a hard, stern, graceless little mug, that one, alongside a bulky, beefed-up body that just looked freaky on a ten year old. And even if he’d grow out of that eventually, he’d never be one of the pretty-boys, like Grayson, not ever. Though Jason guessed that looks weren’t all that important when you’d have the Wayne fortune drop into your lap like a ripe apple one day.
If the kid made it that far. If what relaxed his facial muscles so wasn’t the sweet sleep of death, which would be bad. For Jason. He would’ve wasted a perfectly uneventful evening.
He was about to call out to him when Batbrat came to life on his own, coughing and sputtering and kicking the air.
Damian Wayne rolled his head around woozily a couple times, until the sound of a safety being turned off alerted him and he fixed his cold blue eyes on the rifle pointing up at his head.
He spat out a tooth before he spoke, swinging softly back and forth in his restraints. “You.”
Jason had his rifle cocked and ready. “You.”
“Showsss what I know.” Damian’s lips were completely busted, but Jason could make out the attempt of a smirk. “I…didn’ realize Third-Rate Sidekick Tryoutsss were today…”
Underneath him, Jason tilted his head. So the little snot had been kidnapped, beaten to a bloody pulp, held and tortured for hours and hung off a ceiling until he passed out, yet he decided to waste his first breath on a burn that wasn’t even that good?
Damn. He knew there’d been a reason he hated this one less than the others.
“I could shoot you dead, you know,” was his casual response.
The kid sneered. “Non…sense. You did…n’t come here…and shot allllll those guards to…kill me. You want to…pack me up like a present and…deliver me to F-Father because you’re a sad… -” That was when Damian seemed to notice where he was. He shot the rope that held him a look so disdainful it was almost funny. “Whatisthis.”
Then, he started to kick again. It was as if he didn’t understand the concept of being strung up in the air at all. Which was weird, because Jason had heard that Damian was genius-level smart, or something.
This was fucking alarming. This, and the slurred speech. Calling Batman ‘Father’ instead of ‘Batman’ in front of him. Perhaps those goons had wrecked him permanently when they’d used him as a piñata. Jason knew what a baseball bat - or a crowbar - could do in motivated hands. That wasn’t great. He’d hate to show up at Batman’s doorstep with damaged merchandise. Brain-damaged merchandise, even.
There was only one way to find out.
“Hold still.” He aimed his rifle again. “I said, hold still. Seriously, stop doing that. I’ll hit you. Stop. I said STOP - do you respond to language, you little shit?!”
“Quiet,” the brat hissed at him, still kicking at nothing. Under all those bruises, his face was turning red. “You - quiet, I can…I won’ require…I know Kung Fu.”
Oh for the love of -
This was pointless. He couldn’t get a clean shot in. So he decided to let Damian exhaust himself; with all those blows he’d taken on…every inch of his body, that couldn’t take long. Also, it better didn’t take long, because…Jason’s entrance hadn’t been too smooth, and the hallway behind them was probably swarming with shooters by now. He’d blocked the door, but that wouldn’t last him all too long while he waited for The Amazing Boy-Bat to get it through his battered skull that he couldn’t rage himself out of his shackles.
After what seemed like a solid five minutes, Damian eventually gave up, with a frustrated huff and the most epic pout Jason had ever seen on a person.
“I hate this,” he declared forcefully, spitting blood all the way.
Jason took that as his cue to shoulder his rifle again, take aim, and fire.
It was a great shot. He’d expected no less from himself.
The rope split, and the new Boy Wonder plummeted like a ragged doll, while Jason was dancing around underneath, holding his arms open like an idiot at football practice. And there he’d thought he’d left that behind when he’d dropped out of High School the second time, due to death.
He finally had him all lined up, when - incredibly - that wretched, ungrateful little moppet clenched his fists, spun in mid-air, and delivered a perfect kick to Jason’s face, sending him flying backwards.
“Ungh!”
Good effort. Not good enough to take out the Red Hood, though. For seconds, Jason stumbled, but he’d regained his stance before Damian even hit the ground.
The devilspawn landed on all fours, like a feral cat, and then he hissed like one, his mouth full of blood. His own blood, and, as Jason suspected, that of a couple people he bit when they dragged him here. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to destroy. Fuck, he had to be terrifying to criminals. He’d been worked over for hours, yet he was still going, eager to take a bite out of the Red Hood.
Jason was impressed. He should’ve known; Grayson, Drake, even Bruce - they were athletes, acrobats, martial artists, but Damian? He was a machine.
He had to grin despite himself. The boy was already covered in bruises; some more wouldn’t hurt. If he had to beat the shit out of him again to hand him back to his obviously negligent dad, whatever. This could actually be fun.
“What, you think I won’t hit kids?” He said, throwing his rifle aside - way, way aside, since this Robin sure wasn’t above diving for it - to present his fists. “Come and get it, pipsqueak.”
“’m not a kid and I don’ suffer saving and insults,” the boy spat at him, so full of anger Jason was worried he’d rupture something before he got to punch his lights out. “By you. Or anyone. I will end you.”
And then, he pounced, with all the grace and twice the fury of a grown-ass tiger.
Ran full speed into Jason’s out-stretched fist, and landed on his back with a very unmanly, very ten-year-old sounding cry.
And there he stayed, performing a bunch of uncoordinated movements that looked nothing like that badassery from ten seconds ago.
Jason gaped at him, stunned.
Damian Wayne, the fifth Robin, dread of the underworld and accomplished murderer of crooks, could will himself to do an air-borne spin kick, but could not figure out how to get off the ground, apparently.
Kid looked like a fucking beetle. This was ridiculous.
And either Alfred had become an actual wizard at acting lessons, or he was not acting.
“Ssstay where you are,” Damian growled, lifting his head to shoot a death glare in Jason’s direction. Jason had to admit he sounded pretty threatening for a little boy who was writhing around on the floor. Not too bad.
“I’m not … done with you. I will … crush you … and then I will crush your remains…” His rant dissolved into a series of harsh curses in a language Jason didn’t know, then switched back to English; it was as if the kid didn’t even notice. This probably made him a cold-hearted bastard, but he could’ve watched this for hours, if he didn’t have a Bat to shame. “You’ll regret … I don’t know what, right now, but I’ll make you regret it - ” Damian’s fingers twitched, as if he was wringing Jason’s neck. Some of them looked broken.
Jason awkwardly shuffled his feet. Okay…this had started out kinda funny, but now it was getting weird, and sad. There was something about broken fingers in green gloves and purpled skin shining through the tears in a Robin costume that disturbed him profoundly. With an annoyed sigh, he stepped in, angling for Damian’s arm to lift him up.
“Let’s call truce for now, all right?” He offered, hoping to appease the brat. Even though he knew he’d totally won this, technically. “C’mon. Let me - ”
With his hands still tied, Damian slapped his arm away. Dammit, that kid was strong. “Leave me, Grayson!” He snapped, “You’re not my father!”
Okay, seriously. Dick Grayson was a prancing clown in an upgraded leotard. Red Hood was a brooding menace in an awesome red helmet. How could he possibly confuse them.
Jason’s mouth flew open in protest. “I’m not - ”
And then it clicked.
Oh. Oooh.
Now he was getting an idea of what was happening.
…well, fuck.
He knelt down beside the boy, though not close enough for Damian to ram his teeth into his leg, which was probably something he’d do.
“Hey. Little dude. Calm down. Calm…calm the hell down. Damian. Robin.”
Somehow, he managed to grab his bound wrists. Damian flinched, hard, and Jason could tell that he hated being touched, even if he weren’t a bruised mess right now. Not that he blamed him. In a way, Damian Wayne - Robin - was the most beaten-up kid in all of Gotham. If you looked at it that way, it became kinda depressing.
“Don’t touch m - ”
The boy struggled to pull away from him, giving him the same look of pure, unbridled hatred that he’d given that rope earlier. His legs were kicking at him, and he was obviously seconds away from using his teeth.
“Stop it!” Shit. Shit. And he wasn’t good with children, at all. “Stop fighting me! You couldn’t fight your own grandmother right now!”
Damian sat up at that, swaying back and forth like a hypnotized snake. His eyes seemed to wander to a pretty faraway place. “This servant boy at Mother’s,” he pouted, out of nowhere, “He used to tease me, and say my grandmother was a demon. I never took his tongue. But I should have. It was my right.”
Yep. Now that Jason could see them up close, the boy’s eyes weren’t right. They were rolling around in his head, never lining up correctly, even though they were large and blue and expressive.
Terrific.
“Robin,” he sighed, “You’ve a concussion.”
That got his attention. Damian stopped everything he was doing, and just stared with his wide, slightly dislocated eyes.
It was…it was kind of adorable, really.
His lips curled into a disgusted frown, he bared his bloodied teeth, and then, he declared, with bluster and pride: “Bullshit.”
Oh, he’d never heard him curse before. That was cute.
Jason was glad Damian couldn’t see the small grin twitch underneath the red helmet. He probably didn’t respond well to being laughed at, like most stuck-up aristocratic snots with unresolved rage issues.
“Listen, it’s not so bad. Happens to everyone. Even Robins.”
Damian scrunched his face in furious disbelief, but Jason could see the cogs working in his head. Huh, his brain probably really wasn’t half-bad; even beaten to mush, it was still processing. And then, the massive scowl on his face started to slip as the pieces came together.
Jason might have been a cold-hearted bastard, but he could have seriously lived forever without seeing the heartbreak on that kid while he figured it out.
Weird. He would’ve thought seeing Batman’s boy utterly humiliated would be more fun.
“No.” Damian’s voice was a low, dread-filled whisper. “This…can’t be. It’s…everything’s in there. My lessons. My skills. My control…it’s all in there. It must work. It must. Always. Work.” A notion of sheer grief crossed his taut, olive-skinned face. “I taught myself to disarm a bomb in under 5 seconds, it was easy,” he muttered to himself, crestfallen. “I…don’t remember how to do it.”
His nails dug into Jason’s hands while his disoriented eyes were searching his blank helmet for some kind of help or … comfort, or something. But all he could possibly see was his own, battered reflection.
“I can’t function…”
Something seemed to distract him and he looked at Jason in wonderment, which was way more hilarious than it should have been right about now.
“…you wear a bowl over your head.”
Jason was grinding his teeth. “Great. This is great. It’s just great.”
And with impeccable timing, a loud Crash! made them both flinch as something like a battering ram - or a really pissed off eight foot assassin - made the door shake in its hinges.
“They’re coming,” Damian announced, making sense for three glorious seconds.
“I know.” Jason let go of his wrists, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Damian was so offended by that, he forgot to attack him. Thank fuck. “Listen, little man, yes, your head isn’t working as it should right now, okay? Your brain’s lighting up like a Christmas tree, and the switches are turned on and off at random and I…’m really shit at explaining this, but we need to get out of here, and we need to not get shot. Did you understand anything I just said.”
There was another slam against the door, and then Jason watched in awe as all the terror and shame was drained from Damian’s face, and it became hard again. He gave the larger man a curt nod. “Up.”
Jason helped him to his feet. Damian looked a little wobbly as he stood, leaning on him for support at first. But he stood. Good. Good. When the door took another hit, sending debris raining from the ceiling, the kid didn’t even do so much as wince. He demandingly stretched out his bound wrists. “Off.”
Jason pulled out his knife. “If I do this, are you going to be an asshole?” He asked intently, wiggling the blade at him.
Damian opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something nasty to that, but then he simply put forth his lower lip. “No,” he promised grumpily. “For now.”
He seemed very relieved to have his hands back when Jason cut him loose, one of maybe three actual emotions that he’d ever seen on him. More importantly, he kept to their agreement and didn’t try to murder him.
“Tsk, your dad never taught you how to say thanks?” Jason grumbled, stowing away his knife.
“You’re a nuisance, Grayson,” was the reply. Damian was busy eyeing the door like a cat eyed its lunch.
“I am not Dick Grayson. Look the fuck at me.”
This seemed to stun Damian for a moment, as he turned his head to examine him. It seemed to come to him eventually, and with that came another one of those shit-eating smirks. “Oh.” He said softly. “Right. It’s you. You were the dumb one.”
His hand slapped across Damian’s face faster than he could think. The boy’s head flew to one side, fresh blood spattering from his freshly broken lip.
“Oh sh- sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
He was. He’d just back-handed a little boy with a head injury. That was intense even for the Red Hood. Fuckdammit.
“…case in point,” Damian coughed, and then he spun back around, going in for the most vicious groin attack Jason had ever witnessed.
He stopped him just in time before he could atomize his testicles (or drop to the floor again, whichever). Damian’s nose had started bleeding, which didn’t keep him from looking at Jason as if he’d just found him under his shoe.
Jason squeezed his shoulders. “Look, I get it. And I am sorry. But you need me right now.”
Damian spat at his feet. “You’re a sad sack, Todd. And I could still kill you. With my head’s Christmas tree.”
Now there were splinters hailing from that door. No time for arguments.
Jason let go of him to pull out his two guns; it was good to feel their weight in his hands. “You know what? You probably could. Doesn’t matter right now. Now, what I need you to do is climb on my back, hold on real tight, keep your head down, don’t say a word, and if you have any gods, pray to them. You know what - pretend I am Grayson, if that helps, I don’t care. Oh. And stuff your nose.”
Damian looked at his guns, mesmerized, blood still dripping from his chin. “Grayson doesn’t shoot things,” he muttered, then directed his glazed eyes at Jason. “Give me something to shoot with.”
“Uh-uh. Your father would kill me.”
It was strange that this was the first thing he thought of, over “These are mine,” or “You’re ten,” or “You have a concussion”.
‘course it was.
“-tt-, Father never kills anyone,” Damian said dismissively. “He should, but - give me that.”
“No!”
Jason held his guns out of Damian’s reach before he could make a run for them. This was getting really really annoying. What was worse, it had grown eerily quiet on the other side of the door, which meant they were either pulling that ram far, far back, or were planting dynamite. Either way, it wasn’t great.
“Come on,” Damian insisted, as if he was trying to get into Disney World. Talking obviously put a strain on him, but he wasn’t willing to give up, either. Whenever he had a clear moment, like this, his voice was as sharp and abrasive as even Bruce’s had never been. “Need you? You need me, you plebe. You‘re a fool if you think that you can get through with two guns, on your own. I don’t intend to shoot anyone, even though I could. But I‘ll…make noise. Give you cover. Distract them.” The boy smiled. He had a terrible, joyless, and currently pretty busted smile. “They probably think I’m dead. It’ll be a surprise - ” He clutched his head. “Those were many words ow. This’s hard.”
Jason just stared down at him, torn between pity and grudging respect. “That’s completely crazy,” he concluded.
Damian let go of his head, determined to ignore whatever the hell was happening in there right now. “Well, Todd,” he said dryly. “You’re completely crazy. So. What’s your point.”
…
Eh. When the brat was right, the brat was right.
With a defeated groan, Jason reached for the semi-automatic he kept strapped in his boot. “You fire that thing next to my ear, I’ll throw you,” he growled.
Beside him, the little one grinned like a maniac.
They found the perfect cover behind a toppled column. All they had to do now was wait for the goon brigade to show. It couldn’t be more than seconds now.
He kinda wanted to ask the half-pint if he realized that they could both die in this. But then he figured, why get sappy now. This was same old, same old, for both of them.
“Break it down,” Jason Todd muttered hoarsely, eyes on the giant door. “C’mon. C’mon.”
The kid was on his back, one arm flung around his neck, bruised knees digging into his sides, gun in hand, a torn piece of his costume stuffed up his nose. They would make quite the sight. Damian’s right thumb was broken, but his left hand was intact enough to pull the trigger once they’d taped the gun to it. This wasn’t ideal…but nothing ever was.
“Father never lets me ride piggyback,” Damian suddenly informed him for no reason, giving his sides a playful little squeeze. “But I won’t address it, if he won’t address it.”
“You lose your grip, you’re dead,” Jason reminded him. “You know that, right?”
On his back, the kid was swaying. “Wait…who are you? Why am I holding this…?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake - ”
“Heh.” Damian conked the butt of his gun against his helmet. “I’m just messing with you.” He sounded proud; probably because he only came up with a joke every three months or so. And Batman probably never laughed at any of them.
With an enormous blast, the door flew off the hinges, splintered wood and glass spraying everywhere, as a swarm of shooters descended on them like so many locusts.
“Robin,” Jason said, just before he opened fire, “In case we don’t make it, it was a pleasure fighting with you. Just so you know.”
He wasn’t sure if Damian Wayne was still making fun of him, when he pressed his heels into him like he was a horse, and hissed “Charge!”
*****
How they made it out, he’ll never know.
But the Red Hood had never moved as swiftly, skillfully and with as much purpose as when he’d had that ten year old clinging to his back, knowing that every false movement could spell his end. And Damian, while his vision and his aim were obviously addled, kept his promise and made a hell of a ruckus; shooting out windows making glass rain on their opponents, shooting at knees and shins and feet, shooting out every light he could find, groaning in pain with every shot. And he didn’t let go, and he didn’t fall.
Oh, right. And then there was that whole thing where Batman eventually showed up with Nightwing and Batgirl and Red Robin in tow and beat up the rest. Fine, that had probably helped.
But they had been looking pretty fucking good when they’d arrived, him and the kid.
Come sunrise, they all found themselves on the roof of the shopping center. Red Hood was standing at the edge, in a safe distance, watching from afar as the family reunion commenced.
He watched how Batman seemed to consider hugging his boy for ten seconds, then ended up formally putting his hand on his shoulder as if he’d won a spelling bee. Bruce. He hadn’t changed. Well, it seemed to be all Robin expected. Jason could see him say something to his father, and then he turned, and limped over to where he was standing. Nightwing and Red Robin were observing him with eagle eyes as he looked down at the kid.
Damian crossed his arms and tilted his head. His face looked …still nasty, to be honest, but he seemed...relaxed. Serene. Or Something. Under Alfred’s care, he’d get over that head bump in no time, Jason was sure. Those other injuries would take a while. But whatever. He could probably use the time-out.
“I have decided I won’t come after you,” he told the taller man. “I am sure this is a relief for you.”
“Yeah,” Jason replied sarcastically. “Wait. What?”
“Well, you did slap me down there when I called you dumb,” Damian reminded him. “I don’t usually stand for that. But I will be busy. I’m getting reconstructive surgery on my mouth tomorrow.” He opened said mouth, and displayed his wrecked teeth once more, making Jason chuckle. Damian seemed okay with that.
“I don’t think you’re that dumb,” He then said. “I may have underestimated you. And since we will probably meet again as foes, well. I wanted to tell you.”
He stretched out his battered little hand. “It was an honor.”
“Uh. Yes.” Jason took it, and shook it with great care. “That it was.”
The boy winced a little as he pulled his hand free. He seemed flustered for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, he curtly said, “Good fighting,” turned abruptly and limped back to the others, where Jason was treated to the sight of Nightwing hugging an embarrassed-looking Damian like an idiot for what seemed like forever.
And then, Batman came over.
Crap.
Jason just now remembered that this was how it all had started, him wanting to see the look on Batman’s face as he got his Robin back, but now that it happened, he was not prepared for it.
The Bat didn’t look as if he wanted to sock him, at least. That was good. Was that good? He wasn’t sure what to do.
The truth was, he had rehearsed this moment over and over in his head, all the things he’d say to him if they met again, all the things he’d prepared in his mind, angry, loaded, bitter things.
But now, as it happened, he couldn’t think of a single one of those.
“What you did was insane,” Batman said, “But he would not have made it without you…Jason. I believe I owe you my gratitude.”
Underneath his helmet, Jason grinned. And just like that, he thought of the only right thing to say.
“Bruce,” he said. “Your kid’s great.”
Characters: Jason Todd, Damian Wayne
Genre: (Dark) Humor, with a dash of Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Violence, blood, language, as to be expected. XD
A/N: For morweneledhwen, because she got me into the Robins in the first place. <3 I was always interested in a Jason & Damian team-up because they’re both so very close to the edge. So I decided to write one. I’m also always fascinated by how Damian is such a badass and at the same time just this little kid, so I tried to include that, too. Enjoy. XD
„Whoa.“
In the last 30 minutes, the Red Hood had crashed a burning bus into a shopping center, crawled over the hood in a hail of bullets, sucker punched five armed goons in kabuki masks, shot up about half a dozen others, and wrestled an eight foot tall Samoan assassin into a mall fountain.
And this was still the most messed-up thing he’d seen tonight.
There was something really eerie about a beaten-up ten year old kid in a torn Robin costume, hanging from a ceiling by his hands, while a soft piano version of the Beach Boy’s ‘Kokomo’ played in the background.
The hooded vigilante gnashed his teeth. He knew that this particular kid wasn’t a kid, in that sense, and yet this was just wrong, okay. Shit like this was what made him hunt criminals in the first place. Kinda exactly like this, really.
He lowered his gun, after making sure it was just him and the passed-out midget, and made his approach.
Oh, how he hoped that kid was passed-out, and not worse. He didn’t want to present Batman with the dead remains of his son, because that’d be terrible. And he knew that one of them, perhaps Drake or whatever, would point fingers and say that it was his fault because he didn’t get there sooner, or worse, imply that he murdered the brat. However, they could all suck it, because he was here and they weren’t.
He barely could believe his luck, the fact that he’d made it to the prize first. Ever since word had gotten out that Robin had been kidnapped, they were tearing up the city - Batman, Batgirl, Nightwing, Red Robin, Gordon and his guys, even Catwoman and them, or so he’d heard. No doubt they were all experiencing all sorts of emotions right now in their noble pursuit to save the brat’s precious life. Him, he had none of that. For Jason Todd, it was a competition - who’d get to hand Batman back the wretched fruit of his loins, and then got to rub it in his face forever.
Okay, maybe, there was yet another reason he’d been the quickest to respond and the fastest to connect all the clues and find him, and they hadn’t. Because they had never been the Robin who’d died.
But who cared about that anymore, right.
Jason reached for the rifle on his back. The kid was still not moving, strung up like the world’s most fucked-up Halloween decoration. Jason had never gotten this good a look at him. He actually looked slightly less ugly unconscious than not, because he wasn’t sneering or making that angry little badger face for once. It was strange how he’d inherited Bruce Wayne’s looks, yet none of his handsomeness. He had a hard, stern, graceless little mug, that one, alongside a bulky, beefed-up body that just looked freaky on a ten year old. And even if he’d grow out of that eventually, he’d never be one of the pretty-boys, like Grayson, not ever. Though Jason guessed that looks weren’t all that important when you’d have the Wayne fortune drop into your lap like a ripe apple one day.
If the kid made it that far. If what relaxed his facial muscles so wasn’t the sweet sleep of death, which would be bad. For Jason. He would’ve wasted a perfectly uneventful evening.
He was about to call out to him when Batbrat came to life on his own, coughing and sputtering and kicking the air.
Damian Wayne rolled his head around woozily a couple times, until the sound of a safety being turned off alerted him and he fixed his cold blue eyes on the rifle pointing up at his head.
He spat out a tooth before he spoke, swinging softly back and forth in his restraints. “You.”
Jason had his rifle cocked and ready. “You.”
“Showsss what I know.” Damian’s lips were completely busted, but Jason could make out the attempt of a smirk. “I…didn’ realize Third-Rate Sidekick Tryoutsss were today…”
Underneath him, Jason tilted his head. So the little snot had been kidnapped, beaten to a bloody pulp, held and tortured for hours and hung off a ceiling until he passed out, yet he decided to waste his first breath on a burn that wasn’t even that good?
Damn. He knew there’d been a reason he hated this one less than the others.
“I could shoot you dead, you know,” was his casual response.
The kid sneered. “Non…sense. You did…n’t come here…and shot allllll those guards to…kill me. You want to…pack me up like a present and…deliver me to F-Father because you’re a sad… -” That was when Damian seemed to notice where he was. He shot the rope that held him a look so disdainful it was almost funny. “Whatisthis.”
Then, he started to kick again. It was as if he didn’t understand the concept of being strung up in the air at all. Which was weird, because Jason had heard that Damian was genius-level smart, or something.
This was fucking alarming. This, and the slurred speech. Calling Batman ‘Father’ instead of ‘Batman’ in front of him. Perhaps those goons had wrecked him permanently when they’d used him as a piñata. Jason knew what a baseball bat - or a crowbar - could do in motivated hands. That wasn’t great. He’d hate to show up at Batman’s doorstep with damaged merchandise. Brain-damaged merchandise, even.
There was only one way to find out.
“Hold still.” He aimed his rifle again. “I said, hold still. Seriously, stop doing that. I’ll hit you. Stop. I said STOP - do you respond to language, you little shit?!”
“Quiet,” the brat hissed at him, still kicking at nothing. Under all those bruises, his face was turning red. “You - quiet, I can…I won’ require…I know Kung Fu.”
Oh for the love of -
This was pointless. He couldn’t get a clean shot in. So he decided to let Damian exhaust himself; with all those blows he’d taken on…every inch of his body, that couldn’t take long. Also, it better didn’t take long, because…Jason’s entrance hadn’t been too smooth, and the hallway behind them was probably swarming with shooters by now. He’d blocked the door, but that wouldn’t last him all too long while he waited for The Amazing Boy-Bat to get it through his battered skull that he couldn’t rage himself out of his shackles.
After what seemed like a solid five minutes, Damian eventually gave up, with a frustrated huff and the most epic pout Jason had ever seen on a person.
“I hate this,” he declared forcefully, spitting blood all the way.
Jason took that as his cue to shoulder his rifle again, take aim, and fire.
It was a great shot. He’d expected no less from himself.
The rope split, and the new Boy Wonder plummeted like a ragged doll, while Jason was dancing around underneath, holding his arms open like an idiot at football practice. And there he’d thought he’d left that behind when he’d dropped out of High School the second time, due to death.
He finally had him all lined up, when - incredibly - that wretched, ungrateful little moppet clenched his fists, spun in mid-air, and delivered a perfect kick to Jason’s face, sending him flying backwards.
“Ungh!”
Good effort. Not good enough to take out the Red Hood, though. For seconds, Jason stumbled, but he’d regained his stance before Damian even hit the ground.
The devilspawn landed on all fours, like a feral cat, and then he hissed like one, his mouth full of blood. His own blood, and, as Jason suspected, that of a couple people he bit when they dragged him here. Every muscle in his body was tense, ready to destroy. Fuck, he had to be terrifying to criminals. He’d been worked over for hours, yet he was still going, eager to take a bite out of the Red Hood.
Jason was impressed. He should’ve known; Grayson, Drake, even Bruce - they were athletes, acrobats, martial artists, but Damian? He was a machine.
He had to grin despite himself. The boy was already covered in bruises; some more wouldn’t hurt. If he had to beat the shit out of him again to hand him back to his obviously negligent dad, whatever. This could actually be fun.
“What, you think I won’t hit kids?” He said, throwing his rifle aside - way, way aside, since this Robin sure wasn’t above diving for it - to present his fists. “Come and get it, pipsqueak.”
“’m not a kid and I don’ suffer saving and insults,” the boy spat at him, so full of anger Jason was worried he’d rupture something before he got to punch his lights out. “By you. Or anyone. I will end you.”
And then, he pounced, with all the grace and twice the fury of a grown-ass tiger.
Ran full speed into Jason’s out-stretched fist, and landed on his back with a very unmanly, very ten-year-old sounding cry.
And there he stayed, performing a bunch of uncoordinated movements that looked nothing like that badassery from ten seconds ago.
Jason gaped at him, stunned.
Damian Wayne, the fifth Robin, dread of the underworld and accomplished murderer of crooks, could will himself to do an air-borne spin kick, but could not figure out how to get off the ground, apparently.
Kid looked like a fucking beetle. This was ridiculous.
And either Alfred had become an actual wizard at acting lessons, or he was not acting.
“Ssstay where you are,” Damian growled, lifting his head to shoot a death glare in Jason’s direction. Jason had to admit he sounded pretty threatening for a little boy who was writhing around on the floor. Not too bad.
“I’m not … done with you. I will … crush you … and then I will crush your remains…” His rant dissolved into a series of harsh curses in a language Jason didn’t know, then switched back to English; it was as if the kid didn’t even notice. This probably made him a cold-hearted bastard, but he could’ve watched this for hours, if he didn’t have a Bat to shame. “You’ll regret … I don’t know what, right now, but I’ll make you regret it - ” Damian’s fingers twitched, as if he was wringing Jason’s neck. Some of them looked broken.
Jason awkwardly shuffled his feet. Okay…this had started out kinda funny, but now it was getting weird, and sad. There was something about broken fingers in green gloves and purpled skin shining through the tears in a Robin costume that disturbed him profoundly. With an annoyed sigh, he stepped in, angling for Damian’s arm to lift him up.
“Let’s call truce for now, all right?” He offered, hoping to appease the brat. Even though he knew he’d totally won this, technically. “C’mon. Let me - ”
With his hands still tied, Damian slapped his arm away. Dammit, that kid was strong. “Leave me, Grayson!” He snapped, “You’re not my father!”
Okay, seriously. Dick Grayson was a prancing clown in an upgraded leotard. Red Hood was a brooding menace in an awesome red helmet. How could he possibly confuse them.
Jason’s mouth flew open in protest. “I’m not - ”
And then it clicked.
Oh. Oooh.
Now he was getting an idea of what was happening.
…well, fuck.
He knelt down beside the boy, though not close enough for Damian to ram his teeth into his leg, which was probably something he’d do.
“Hey. Little dude. Calm down. Calm…calm the hell down. Damian. Robin.”
Somehow, he managed to grab his bound wrists. Damian flinched, hard, and Jason could tell that he hated being touched, even if he weren’t a bruised mess right now. Not that he blamed him. In a way, Damian Wayne - Robin - was the most beaten-up kid in all of Gotham. If you looked at it that way, it became kinda depressing.
“Don’t touch m - ”
The boy struggled to pull away from him, giving him the same look of pure, unbridled hatred that he’d given that rope earlier. His legs were kicking at him, and he was obviously seconds away from using his teeth.
“Stop it!” Shit. Shit. And he wasn’t good with children, at all. “Stop fighting me! You couldn’t fight your own grandmother right now!”
Damian sat up at that, swaying back and forth like a hypnotized snake. His eyes seemed to wander to a pretty faraway place. “This servant boy at Mother’s,” he pouted, out of nowhere, “He used to tease me, and say my grandmother was a demon. I never took his tongue. But I should have. It was my right.”
Yep. Now that Jason could see them up close, the boy’s eyes weren’t right. They were rolling around in his head, never lining up correctly, even though they were large and blue and expressive.
Terrific.
“Robin,” he sighed, “You’ve a concussion.”
That got his attention. Damian stopped everything he was doing, and just stared with his wide, slightly dislocated eyes.
It was…it was kind of adorable, really.
His lips curled into a disgusted frown, he bared his bloodied teeth, and then, he declared, with bluster and pride: “Bullshit.”
Oh, he’d never heard him curse before. That was cute.
Jason was glad Damian couldn’t see the small grin twitch underneath the red helmet. He probably didn’t respond well to being laughed at, like most stuck-up aristocratic snots with unresolved rage issues.
“Listen, it’s not so bad. Happens to everyone. Even Robins.”
Damian scrunched his face in furious disbelief, but Jason could see the cogs working in his head. Huh, his brain probably really wasn’t half-bad; even beaten to mush, it was still processing. And then, the massive scowl on his face started to slip as the pieces came together.
Jason might have been a cold-hearted bastard, but he could have seriously lived forever without seeing the heartbreak on that kid while he figured it out.
Weird. He would’ve thought seeing Batman’s boy utterly humiliated would be more fun.
“No.” Damian’s voice was a low, dread-filled whisper. “This…can’t be. It’s…everything’s in there. My lessons. My skills. My control…it’s all in there. It must work. It must. Always. Work.” A notion of sheer grief crossed his taut, olive-skinned face. “I taught myself to disarm a bomb in under 5 seconds, it was easy,” he muttered to himself, crestfallen. “I…don’t remember how to do it.”
His nails dug into Jason’s hands while his disoriented eyes were searching his blank helmet for some kind of help or … comfort, or something. But all he could possibly see was his own, battered reflection.
“I can’t function…”
Something seemed to distract him and he looked at Jason in wonderment, which was way more hilarious than it should have been right about now.
“…you wear a bowl over your head.”
Jason was grinding his teeth. “Great. This is great. It’s just great.”
And with impeccable timing, a loud Crash! made them both flinch as something like a battering ram - or a really pissed off eight foot assassin - made the door shake in its hinges.
“They’re coming,” Damian announced, making sense for three glorious seconds.
“I know.” Jason let go of his wrists, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Damian was so offended by that, he forgot to attack him. Thank fuck. “Listen, little man, yes, your head isn’t working as it should right now, okay? Your brain’s lighting up like a Christmas tree, and the switches are turned on and off at random and I…’m really shit at explaining this, but we need to get out of here, and we need to not get shot. Did you understand anything I just said.”
There was another slam against the door, and then Jason watched in awe as all the terror and shame was drained from Damian’s face, and it became hard again. He gave the larger man a curt nod. “Up.”
Jason helped him to his feet. Damian looked a little wobbly as he stood, leaning on him for support at first. But he stood. Good. Good. When the door took another hit, sending debris raining from the ceiling, the kid didn’t even do so much as wince. He demandingly stretched out his bound wrists. “Off.”
Jason pulled out his knife. “If I do this, are you going to be an asshole?” He asked intently, wiggling the blade at him.
Damian opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something nasty to that, but then he simply put forth his lower lip. “No,” he promised grumpily. “For now.”
He seemed very relieved to have his hands back when Jason cut him loose, one of maybe three actual emotions that he’d ever seen on him. More importantly, he kept to their agreement and didn’t try to murder him.
“Tsk, your dad never taught you how to say thanks?” Jason grumbled, stowing away his knife.
“You’re a nuisance, Grayson,” was the reply. Damian was busy eyeing the door like a cat eyed its lunch.
“I am not Dick Grayson. Look the fuck at me.”
This seemed to stun Damian for a moment, as he turned his head to examine him. It seemed to come to him eventually, and with that came another one of those shit-eating smirks. “Oh.” He said softly. “Right. It’s you. You were the dumb one.”
His hand slapped across Damian’s face faster than he could think. The boy’s head flew to one side, fresh blood spattering from his freshly broken lip.
“Oh sh- sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
He was. He’d just back-handed a little boy with a head injury. That was intense even for the Red Hood. Fuckdammit.
“…case in point,” Damian coughed, and then he spun back around, going in for the most vicious groin attack Jason had ever witnessed.
He stopped him just in time before he could atomize his testicles (or drop to the floor again, whichever). Damian’s nose had started bleeding, which didn’t keep him from looking at Jason as if he’d just found him under his shoe.
Jason squeezed his shoulders. “Look, I get it. And I am sorry. But you need me right now.”
Damian spat at his feet. “You’re a sad sack, Todd. And I could still kill you. With my head’s Christmas tree.”
Now there were splinters hailing from that door. No time for arguments.
Jason let go of him to pull out his two guns; it was good to feel their weight in his hands. “You know what? You probably could. Doesn’t matter right now. Now, what I need you to do is climb on my back, hold on real tight, keep your head down, don’t say a word, and if you have any gods, pray to them. You know what - pretend I am Grayson, if that helps, I don’t care. Oh. And stuff your nose.”
Damian looked at his guns, mesmerized, blood still dripping from his chin. “Grayson doesn’t shoot things,” he muttered, then directed his glazed eyes at Jason. “Give me something to shoot with.”
“Uh-uh. Your father would kill me.”
It was strange that this was the first thing he thought of, over “These are mine,” or “You’re ten,” or “You have a concussion”.
‘course it was.
“-tt-, Father never kills anyone,” Damian said dismissively. “He should, but - give me that.”
“No!”
Jason held his guns out of Damian’s reach before he could make a run for them. This was getting really really annoying. What was worse, it had grown eerily quiet on the other side of the door, which meant they were either pulling that ram far, far back, or were planting dynamite. Either way, it wasn’t great.
“Come on,” Damian insisted, as if he was trying to get into Disney World. Talking obviously put a strain on him, but he wasn’t willing to give up, either. Whenever he had a clear moment, like this, his voice was as sharp and abrasive as even Bruce’s had never been. “Need you? You need me, you plebe. You‘re a fool if you think that you can get through with two guns, on your own. I don’t intend to shoot anyone, even though I could. But I‘ll…make noise. Give you cover. Distract them.” The boy smiled. He had a terrible, joyless, and currently pretty busted smile. “They probably think I’m dead. It’ll be a surprise - ” He clutched his head. “Those were many words ow. This’s hard.”
Jason just stared down at him, torn between pity and grudging respect. “That’s completely crazy,” he concluded.
Damian let go of his head, determined to ignore whatever the hell was happening in there right now. “Well, Todd,” he said dryly. “You’re completely crazy. So. What’s your point.”
…
Eh. When the brat was right, the brat was right.
With a defeated groan, Jason reached for the semi-automatic he kept strapped in his boot. “You fire that thing next to my ear, I’ll throw you,” he growled.
Beside him, the little one grinned like a maniac.
They found the perfect cover behind a toppled column. All they had to do now was wait for the goon brigade to show. It couldn’t be more than seconds now.
He kinda wanted to ask the half-pint if he realized that they could both die in this. But then he figured, why get sappy now. This was same old, same old, for both of them.
“Break it down,” Jason Todd muttered hoarsely, eyes on the giant door. “C’mon. C’mon.”
The kid was on his back, one arm flung around his neck, bruised knees digging into his sides, gun in hand, a torn piece of his costume stuffed up his nose. They would make quite the sight. Damian’s right thumb was broken, but his left hand was intact enough to pull the trigger once they’d taped the gun to it. This wasn’t ideal…but nothing ever was.
“Father never lets me ride piggyback,” Damian suddenly informed him for no reason, giving his sides a playful little squeeze. “But I won’t address it, if he won’t address it.”
“You lose your grip, you’re dead,” Jason reminded him. “You know that, right?”
On his back, the kid was swaying. “Wait…who are you? Why am I holding this…?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake - ”
“Heh.” Damian conked the butt of his gun against his helmet. “I’m just messing with you.” He sounded proud; probably because he only came up with a joke every three months or so. And Batman probably never laughed at any of them.
With an enormous blast, the door flew off the hinges, splintered wood and glass spraying everywhere, as a swarm of shooters descended on them like so many locusts.
“Robin,” Jason said, just before he opened fire, “In case we don’t make it, it was a pleasure fighting with you. Just so you know.”
He wasn’t sure if Damian Wayne was still making fun of him, when he pressed his heels into him like he was a horse, and hissed “Charge!”
*****
How they made it out, he’ll never know.
But the Red Hood had never moved as swiftly, skillfully and with as much purpose as when he’d had that ten year old clinging to his back, knowing that every false movement could spell his end. And Damian, while his vision and his aim were obviously addled, kept his promise and made a hell of a ruckus; shooting out windows making glass rain on their opponents, shooting at knees and shins and feet, shooting out every light he could find, groaning in pain with every shot. And he didn’t let go, and he didn’t fall.
Oh, right. And then there was that whole thing where Batman eventually showed up with Nightwing and Batgirl and Red Robin in tow and beat up the rest. Fine, that had probably helped.
But they had been looking pretty fucking good when they’d arrived, him and the kid.
Come sunrise, they all found themselves on the roof of the shopping center. Red Hood was standing at the edge, in a safe distance, watching from afar as the family reunion commenced.
He watched how Batman seemed to consider hugging his boy for ten seconds, then ended up formally putting his hand on his shoulder as if he’d won a spelling bee. Bruce. He hadn’t changed. Well, it seemed to be all Robin expected. Jason could see him say something to his father, and then he turned, and limped over to where he was standing. Nightwing and Red Robin were observing him with eagle eyes as he looked down at the kid.
Damian crossed his arms and tilted his head. His face looked …still nasty, to be honest, but he seemed...relaxed. Serene. Or Something. Under Alfred’s care, he’d get over that head bump in no time, Jason was sure. Those other injuries would take a while. But whatever. He could probably use the time-out.
“I have decided I won’t come after you,” he told the taller man. “I am sure this is a relief for you.”
“Yeah,” Jason replied sarcastically. “Wait. What?”
“Well, you did slap me down there when I called you dumb,” Damian reminded him. “I don’t usually stand for that. But I will be busy. I’m getting reconstructive surgery on my mouth tomorrow.” He opened said mouth, and displayed his wrecked teeth once more, making Jason chuckle. Damian seemed okay with that.
“I don’t think you’re that dumb,” He then said. “I may have underestimated you. And since we will probably meet again as foes, well. I wanted to tell you.”
He stretched out his battered little hand. “It was an honor.”
“Uh. Yes.” Jason took it, and shook it with great care. “That it was.”
The boy winced a little as he pulled his hand free. He seemed flustered for a moment, unsure what to do. Then, he curtly said, “Good fighting,” turned abruptly and limped back to the others, where Jason was treated to the sight of Nightwing hugging an embarrassed-looking Damian like an idiot for what seemed like forever.
And then, Batman came over.
Crap.
Jason just now remembered that this was how it all had started, him wanting to see the look on Batman’s face as he got his Robin back, but now that it happened, he was not prepared for it.
The Bat didn’t look as if he wanted to sock him, at least. That was good. Was that good? He wasn’t sure what to do.
The truth was, he had rehearsed this moment over and over in his head, all the things he’d say to him if they met again, all the things he’d prepared in his mind, angry, loaded, bitter things.
But now, as it happened, he couldn’t think of a single one of those.
“What you did was insane,” Batman said, “But he would not have made it without you…Jason. I believe I owe you my gratitude.”
Underneath his helmet, Jason grinned. And just like that, he thought of the only right thing to say.
“Bruce,” he said. “Your kid’s great.”