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“I’ll be right behind you, sweetheart.”
Lie. That is a lie.
The most obvious lie in the world. He can see it in his brother’s soft smile, in the pained fondness in his eyes. Knows it, from the fresh blood cooling on their shoes, the wound stretching across his brother’s forearm. Hands on his shoulders, steady and strong, he kneels in front of Damian, shaking him slightly. His Arabic is raspy, faltering, from his raw, abused neck. There’s a stain of blood on the corner of his mouth.
But Damian lets the cadence soothe him anyway like he always does. Lets it wrap around him like a warm blanket. He pretends it is not a lie, because he is unsure how he would handle accepting it as such.
Damian wraps small hands around his brother’s wrists, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. “You promised you would not lie to me,” he murmurs. There is a small laugh then a kiss pressed along his hairline. It is wet and leaves behind a stain of red. “They will kill you.”
“They will not,” his brother says. He wipes an absent thumb over his lip print. “I will see you again.”
He has no words for that empty assurance. His brother pulls his scarf back over his mouth, covering the dried blood and bruises and the mournful downturn of his mouth he probably thinks Damian does not see. He forcibly turns Damian around and urges him towards the private plane idling on the runway. He rumbles, his heart in his throat.
He looks back and begs, “Come with me. There is still time.”
His brother shakes his head. “There is not.” This is true. Their head start of a full day has whittled away into mere hours. “Talia will not be able to hold them off for much longer. I have to help you. Go. Now. One of us needs to make it, do not make it be me.”
Damian hesitates still. His brother lets out a fond little sigh. He darts in for a quick hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the older boy’s waist. Strong arms squeeze around his shoulders briefly. “You will come back to me,” he says, firm and demanding even as his brother pulls away. “And you will return to Father, like you said.”
“Only because you have asked so nicely.”
—
It truly was all a lie.
Damian stares at the unwrapped package on the table. The others speak quietly to each other. They take it as a threat to them all – only Drake stands silently off to the side, watching Damian with glittering, dark eyes. His hand does not shake as he picks up the little wooden robin. It is streaked with blood, a hole brutally carved out of its breast. He cradles it to his chest and does not cry. Not in front of this not-yet-family. The family he has known for only a few months.
The blood analysis comes back contaminated – unidentifiable – but Damian knows better.
His brother is dead. Because of him.
His father comes to him, gently takes the hand-carved robin away. He hesitates then brushes a comforting hand down his spine. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs – so soft, so kind, just like Damian was told he’d be. “We won’t let them take you.”
Damian does cry then. Not because he is afraid. Not because he does not believe him.
But because sweetheart.
He knows now where Jason got that term of endearment.
—
The trail leads to Nanda Parbat, because of course it does. It could lead nowhere else but here, Damian thinks wryly, despairingly. Tim’s tracker had activated once, twice, then disappeared, located right in the heart of the compound. If it hadn’t been for the way it blinked, they would think it was a trap. But Tim has always been clever, even Damian could admit that back when he called him Drake and thought of him more as an enemy than a friend, less than a brother.
Nightwing grips his shoulder, steady and comforting, and steps around him to lead the rest of the way. He breathes out slowly, straightens his spine, and follows silently, barely a whisper.
Really, he should be leading. It’s been years since he’s been here, true, and every confrontation they’ve had with the League since he joined his father has been in Gotham or other League locations, but he will never forget the layout of this place. It will forever be burned into his memory, just like – just like his brother’s smiles, his deadly grace, his soft cadence as he snuck into Damian’s room during the deepest parts of the night, streaked with bruises and blood, to tell him stories of Bats and Birds and how the world truly is.
(“Robin is magic, Damian,” he had whispered,
their heads tucked together, the candle flickering sharp shadows across his face.
Damian could not look away from the light in his brother’s eyes,
a brightness he only saw during nights like these.
“It will make you magic, if you let it.”)
His grip tightens around his sharpened katana – he refused to leave it behind and his father accepted it with a sigh and a frown. The man may have trained with the League before he became Batman, but he will never know the extent in which the League operates. Damian does. He always will. The only other person alive who might understand is Tim, but he’s the reason they’re sneaking in the shadows in the first place, so he was not there to argue on Damian’s behalf to make their father accept faster.
He only hopes the delay won’t cause him to lose another brother to the League. A brother he’d taken time to warm up to, sure – he’d grown up with promises that Robin was his and his alone. That idea had been squashed. Thoroughly. Before he ever stepped foot out of Nanda Parbat. He’d been told its origins, its meaning, and he hoarded those stories like a dragon from fairy tales.
But a childhood of conditioning is hard to overcome in only a couple years.
Now, though, Tim is his brother in all but blood.
(A thumb pressed against his cheek,
a lingering streak of blood. His brother’s smile was tinged red,
but there was still love in his eyes despite the fact it was Damian’s fault.
He took the punishment in Damian’s place.
“Robin is not a prize,” he said softly.
“It is a gift. You do not have to be worthy of it. You cannot take it.
But it will be yours. Eventually.”)
He loves this family. He’d been told he would. He barely believed it, but, but it ended up being true and he wished his brother, his first brother, was here to see it.
Nightwing puts up a hand, stopping Damian before he can collide with the older man’s back. He crouches low and Damian follows suit, peeking around him to see the chamber below. Across the room, hidden by shadows, he knows Batman and Batgirl are perched. Black Bat had gone around in a different direction and Damian doesn’t delude himself into thinking he will spot her, so he fixes his gaze on the gathering of people.
Ra’s al Ghul stands prim and proper in front of rows of underlings. No more than forty. He spots White Willow leaning against a wall, picking at her nails – that’s going to be a problem, she’s a relatively unknown fighter – and his mother stands behind Grandfather’s left shoulder, her eyes on the ground, her hands clasped behind her back. Damian’s eyes narrow, a fissure of unease crawling down his spine. He’s never seen his mother look so…despondent before.
Tim sits on the right of Ra’s, tied to his chair. His face is bruised and bloody, the exposed portions of his forearms torn to shreds from where he’d been presumably fighting his bonds. He’s tied down by simple rope, only – the rough material not only ties his wrists, but also wraps his hands against the end of the chair’s arms and binds his forearms all the way to his elbows. His legs are equally bound – from ankle to knee against wooden legs.
That is…unusual for Ra’s. Normally he treats Tim as if he were the pinnacle of humanity, the perfect replacement heir for Damian. The Detective that Bruce never ended up living up to. He would be restrained then, yes, but there is something brutal about it this time.
A gag is in his mouth and tied so tightly around his head, he can see blood. He’s glaring hatefully at Ra’s as he strains even now against his bonds. Damian has never seen such hatred on Tim’s face, even when in the presence of Ra’s. Loathing, disgust. But never outright hatred like this.
Damian almost misses the figure in the shadow, so caught up in analyzing Tim. He catches a flash of red and his heart leaps to his throat. He creeps closer, ducking under Nightwing’s arm. And he sees it –
Red Shadow. A man who had been making waves during Damian’s first year in Gotham and who, in the last three years, has finally climbed the ranks and claimed a spot as one of the Seven Men of Death, his grandfather’s most deadly assassins. Young and talented, Batman’s files do not have much on him and that’s part of what makes him so dangerous.
Named for the silence of his assassinations, the places that he lurks. The blood that follows him like a trail of breadcrumbs. Most of the Men of Death have their titles, their monikers, but they have names as well even if they’re not well known. Red Shadow has no name. He is nothing more than a shadow drenched in red.
Why is he here? The Men of Death are never at the main compound. They never set foot on Nanda Parbat. Ra’s al Ghul doesn’t trust them enough for it, doesn’t trust them in the vicinity of the largest Lazarus Pit in the world.
They’re dangerous. Damian’s entire family is dangerous, skilled in many fields, but this – he doesn’t know if they can handle one of the Men of Death, not one so promising. Not one who’s allowed in Nanda Parbat. It is five against one, but the other forty underlings are a problem. White Willow and her unknown status is a problem. Ra’s may not fight, but his mother will.
And Tim is vulnerable.
He tugs on Nightwing’s elbow, jerks his chin towards the way they came. His eyebrow raises, but he doesn’t say a word as he follows further and further back. Damian stops, closing his eyes as he struggles to calm his suddenly racing heart. He can’t lose them.
“They have one of the Seven Men of Death. Red Shadow,” he whispers, scarcely a breath. He hears a sharp noise over the comm, muffled and muted, but it sounded like Cassandra. If that is the reaction from The One Who Is All, then this got a lot worse. She knows more about the current skills of the Men of Death than he does, probably even more than his father. “This is riskier with him here.”
Nightwing frowns. “We can’t leave Kestrel.”
“I’m not saying we should,” Damian hisses, affronted. Richard raises his hands in surrender, a contrite twist to his mouth. “This is due diligence. I’m the only one who saw him so I’m informing you. We must tread carefully.”
“We will, Robin,” Nightwing assures, a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Something about it makes his skin prickle so he very carefully shrugs it off. He earns a strange look for that – it’s been a long time since he’s turned away his family’s touch, he’d even taken Nightwing’s hand on his shoulder mere minutes ago – but he ignores it in favor of returning to their original spot.
A click over the comm. Get ready, it says. Nightwing juggles a smoke pellet with one hand, a frown on his face as he watches. Damian braces himself, hand on his katana.
Another click. The smoke pellet flies. It hits the ground with Batman’s and a cloud of smoke billows out, encompassing the middle of the group. Batman’s cape is no more than a sigh as he and Batgirl leap down and immediately take out a quarter of the underlings just between the two of them. Even with all their League training, they’re no match for the World’s Greatest Detective and Stephanie Brown – she needs no sobriquet or epithet to encompass how badass she is – and once Nightwing joins the fray, even less so.
Damian can’t help but feel unsettled as he realizes Red Shadow and White Willow don’t move from their spots in the shadows and against the wall respectively.
He stays hidden in his own shadow though he knows both his grandfather and mother are aware of his presence. Ra’s steps forward, an amused tilt to his smile, his attention seemingly fixated on Batman and his ‘sidekicks.’
Damian waits for the signal that sees Red Shadow stepping out, unsheathing the wakizashi of his daishō pairing. He’s a red and black streak of inhuman speeds – his black cloak billowing to expose the red lining that’s like a flash of blood among the dark – as he bypasses Nightwing completely. Before he reaches Batman, Black Bat intercepts, practically colliding with him and they go crashing against a support column.
Then he waits a beat longer for Ra’s to make the signal again, harsher this time. His mother scowls before her expression smooths out and she joins the fight, pulling out her sword and aiming for Batman. He blocks it with his gauntlet, lips moving inaudibly. Whatever he says makes her next strike vicious, sparks glinting as he blocks it again.
He finally slips from his perch, one eye on Black Bat and Red Shadow as Batgirl and Nightwing work their way through the rest of the underlings. The two fighters seem equally matched, though Red Shadow’s weapons give him a slight advantage. There’s, admittedly, little concern for his mother and father’s fight as he creeps along the edge of the room to circle around behind Tim.
His brother’s eyes widen when he spots Damian, something relieved flickering across his face before it hardens into an expression he’s never seen before. He frowns as he picks at the knot tying the gag, wincing when he has to pull it back and tighten it even more against Tim’s already sore mouth in order to get leverage.
Tim sucks in a deep breath when it finally drops, moving his jaw to get rid of the ache. He spits out a glob of saliva and blood. “Dames,” he gasps out. “Dames, you can’t – .”
“Now, now, children,” a voice purrs from behind them.
Damian is too slow.
He turns, seeing a flash of white in the corner of his vision, before a tonfa slams into his shoulder. It cracks audibly and pain blooms across his chest. He bites back a scream, but it bursts out of him anyway, pitched, and sharp – it brings absolutely everything to a halt. Silence falls like the entire room is holding its breath in anticipation.
He collapses into a heap, gasping for breath. Tim snarls in mangled League dialect, spitting curses and violent promises. Red Shadow falters, stopping mid-swing. Cassandra takes the opening, slamming her hand into a pressure point, and he grunts, falling to a knee, one arm wrenched behind his back and pressed up between his shoulder blades by her unexpected strength. They both stop, frozen with him bowing under her and her pressing down. She drops her chin to his shoulder, and they don’t move.
“Robin!” Nightwing shouts, lunging forward with escrima crackling. A sword crosses his chest, a wavering underling holding it unsteadily. That’s not what stops him. No – White Willow flipping her tonfa to a bladed side and pressing it against his little brother’s neck is what freezes him in place. “Ra’s,” he snarls, lips curling to bare his teeth like an angered wildcat.
Ra’s al Ghul shakes his head disappointingly. “I expected more from you.” He raises his hand, and his mother disengages, stepping back.
Batman’s mouth presses into a thin line. “Let Kestrel and Robin go,” he says, low and dangerous. Damian swallows thickly, chin held high to keep his neck as far away from the blade as possible. He’s never heard his father sound like that before. “Ra’s, you do not want to see the consequences if you don’t.”
(“Let him go!” his brother demanded –
something wild and dangerous in his tone.
His grandfather raised an imperious brow, his nose twitching
as if he wanted to sneer but was too dignified to do so.
“I will take his punishment.”
Damian did not say a word, clenched his teeth together until it hurt,
fisted his hands tighter behind his back.
“You will not touch him .”
“Let this be a lesson, boy,” Ra’s said to Damian.
His brother was shoved to his knees, arms wrenched painfully behind his back
as someone took a knife to his tunic and tore it off easily to expose his bare chest.
“Your weakness is their death.”
His brother refused to scream.)
The Demon’s Head stares back impassively. “You are in no position to threaten me, Batman. You lost the moment you gave into your emotions.”
Damian struggles to breathe – the movement jostles his broken collarbone, sending white-hot streaks of pain that blot his vision with black, makes bile rise in the back of his throat. His throat that, with every labored inhale and exhale, presses the fine blade of White Willow’s tonfa against the skin of his neck, blood slowly spilling down his front. There’s a ringing in his ears, practically drowning out Tim’s low, dangerous threats, and the conversation between his father and grandfather.
All he can see is – is Richard’s rage-filled expression, the twist to Stephanie’s mouth that appears when she’s attempting to think of a dozen plans at once and isn’t liking any of them. His gaze drifts over to Black Bat and Red Shadow and he sees, he sees the way she presses him down until his forehead to the ground, sees a shudder run through him.
“Willow,” Ra’s demands sharply in League dialect – and his tone makes Cassandra tense, makes her loosen her grip on Red Shadow until he’s almost fully upright. Ra’s gestures towards Damian and then he says, “Take care of him.”
– and this is it. This is the moment Damian expected years and years ago, even before he escaped and came to Gotham.
This is the moment Ra’s al Ghul gives up on bringing his perfect heir back into the fold.
White Willow laughs, presses against Damian’s back, her tonfa digging deeper oh-so-slowly. “With pleasure,” she says.
Noise bursts all around like an explosion, bodies moving, running – but it is all lost to Damian as he tunnel visions to where Cassandra steps back from Red Shadow even as she’s being shoved away. The assassin surges to his feet, hand snapping out – and flash of silver, the flutter of displaced air.
White Willow curves practically in half to avoid the wakizashi aimed for her head. She stares at the weapon wobbling from where it’s deep in the wall then whirls around, scowling at her fellow assassin. “What the fuck, man?” she spits in English, momentarily forgetting herself.
Red Shadow is a statue, one arm out in a throwing motion. Damian inches away from Willow’s tonfa until his back hits Tim’s chair. He resists the urge to clutch at his shoulder, knowing it will only make it worse. Ra’s makes a disgusted, condescending sound.
“Stand down,” he commands. Red Shadow’s fingers twitch in midair. “Fall in line, boy.”
The rest of the Bats are silent. Watching. Waiting. At a complete loss because League of Assassins infighting is not something normally broadcasted to outsiders, not like this.
Red Shadow shudders violently, makes a wounded noise in the back of his throat. His fingers curl before he presses the heel of his palms to either side of his head, shoulders hunching in. He whines, shaking his head back and forth.
Damian’s mouth goes dry, and he doesn’t know why. There is something in the air. Something crackling, teetering on the edge of a precipice.
“You will listen to me,” Ra’s hisses, stepping forward in an uncharacteristic display of rage.
The assassin sways, head bowed then – slowly. Oh-so-slowly, he raises his head and even without seeing his eyes beneath the shadow of his hood, his glare is obvious.
“No,” Red Shadow rasps out.
Ra’s visibly startles. “What did you just say?”
Red Shadow struggles, twitching as if he’s fighting the urge to curl in on himself. “N-No,” he whispers – his voice is grating and hoarse as if he hasn’t spoken in years. “Let – .” He wheezes, staggering.
“Hey,” Richard says like he can’t help himself. He moves towards the man, his hand out as if he means to comfort the assassin. “You don’t – .”
Cassandra stops him with a hand to his chest, her body language tense and wary. She shakes her head when Richard glances at her questioningly and pushes him back towards the rest of the family.
“You – You will not,” Red Shadow continues. He walks towards Ra’s with stumbling, unsteady steps, but when he pulls out his katana, his grip is sure.
Damian watches him – unable to look away. His skin is growing clammy, his vision spotting on the edges. His shoulder and chest throb painfully in time with his heart. Tim struggles in his bonds above him, jostling the chair he’s rested his back on. Each jolt sends white-hot fire along his nerves, but Damian barely registers the extra pain.
He’s waiting – waiting for Red Shadow to finish his sentence. His slow, stuttering sentence that sounds like it hurts to get out. Waiting, with hope rising, crushing, strangling.
“Speak, boy,” Ra’s goads him, amusement just a mask over his rage. “If you find yourself even capable of that.”
Red Shadow takes a deep breath, feet sliding out into a bracing stance, katana coming up. “You will not – touch him,” he says.
(“You will not touch him!”)
Oh. Damian lets out a sharp sob, head dropping. Please be true, he thinks. Please, no more lies.
And Red Shadow launches himself at Ra’s, swinging his katana silently, deadly. It’s blocked, because this is Ra’s al Ghul, but the assassin doesn’t let up, raining blows down one after another, silver and black and red a blur of inhuman speeds. They are a whirlwind of violent, brutal grace. Decades of skill honed to a knife’s edge. Natural skill forming the sharpest blade.
White Willow moves to intervene, but his mother steps in her way, grabbing her wrist mid-swing and twisting it until the other woman shouts in pain. She wrenches free, dancing back, and – Black Bat sidles up next to Talia, fists raised. Neither of them acknowledge each other before they throw themselves against White Willow, moving in tandem as if they’d practiced together a hundred times.
He thinks he hears someone calling his name, but all that’s ringing in his ears is You will not touch him. You will not touch him.
“Jason,” he breathes out and something both shatters and mends inside him. Alive. He’s alive. His brother is alive. And – And –
Damian left him here.
Tim inhales sharply. “Damian,” he says shakily. “Are you – Are you sure?”
– and he sounds so hopeful.
He doesn’t ask how Tim knows. Doesn’t need to. There’s a hundred reasons why Tim would know about the Men of Death, would know about Red Shadow – he learned of Batman’s identity at age nine; he’s had six, almost seven, years to learn all he can of the League of Assassins. Perhaps he never could confirm Red Shadow’s identity. He will have to ask what evidence Tim gathered that put Jason on the list of suspects. Tim, of all people, would jump from brother to long-lost Robin instead of assuming Damian grew attached to an unimportant member of the League.
Damian nods – and Tim makes a sound in the back of his throat – as Richard drops to his knees next to him, hand cupping his jaw. He leans into the touch, sobs when a gentle thumb wipes away tears he didn’t know were falling.
“I’ve got you, baby bird,” Richard whispers. “Hold on for me, okay?”
Richard steps away to untie Tim, leaving the room open for viewing. Batgirl is throwing down the last of the underlings left behind – White Willow, his mother, and Black Bat nowhere to be seen. And worst –
Ra’s, Batman, and Red Shadow are missing as well.
Damian shoves himself to his feet. He bites back a whine as pain nearly sends him down to the ground, but there’s an arm around him, a hand wrapped around his bicep.
“Whoa, you shouldn’t be getting up – Kestrel, can you walk?”
Tim leans into Stephanie, arm bracing his middle. “Easily,” he says. “It looks worse than it actually is.” His body betrays his words as he leans a little heavier against Stephanie, gasping. “We have to – have to go after Batman and, and Red Shadow.”
Damian looks up and Tim gives him a strained smile, something dark and fathomless in his eyes. Stephanie looks from Tim to Damian and back again.
“What aren’t you telling us?” she demands.
Tim shakes his head. “I don’t want to be wrong,” he says. “I don’t think I am, but I don’t want to get our hopes up.”
“…Our hopes?” Richard says slowly. Then swears when Damian staggers in the direction he’s sure Red Shadow went. His knees buckle and Richard catches him around the waist to keep him from dropping completely. “Hey, hey! We’re not going anywhere. Batman can take care of Ra’s and Red Shadow. I’m positive Talia and Black Bat are more than enough for the other woman.”
“White Willow,” Tim offers. Dick nods in acknowledgement. “And Red Shadow is on our side. You saw how he went after Ra’s. Something’s wrong with him, they might need back up.”
Richard hesitates for too long. Damian curls a hand around his wrist – swallows thickly around the bile climbing up his throat – and squeezes it. Richard meets his eyes and visibly deflates.
“Fine,” he says. “But we stay back until we’re absolutely needed. I do not want to get in the middle of Ra’s and Batman.”
—
They don’t have to worry about getting in the middle of Ra’s and Batman – there is no middle to occupy. Batman is hunched on the ground, hand pressed to a large slash across his chest, an arrow sticking out of his calf between two panels of armor. His chest glistens wetly in the flickering flames of torches. The wound is deep, but not overly so. A black-dressed archer is sprawled unconscious half out of the shadows.
Red Shadow stands between Ra’s and Batman, panting harshly through his mask, arm trembling from where his katana is raised in a loose one-handed grip. His other hand is curled against his chest, mangled and red.
Blood darkens the front of his tunic, smears his exposed forearms, is pushed up into his hairline – his hood is finally down, revealing messy, curly black hair with a shock of white in his overgrown bangs. White that is nearly impossible to see with the blood clinging to it.
Damian’s heart clenches at the sight and he takes a wavering step out of the shadows. Richard grabs him, careful of his injury, but the damage is done. His footsteps aren’t as silent as they should be. As they normally are.
Red Shadow’s attention diverts. Skitters in their direction. Green eyes alight on the four of them – Tim murmurs holy shit under his breath –
– and that’s the only distraction Ra’s al Ghul needs.
His hand flickers in a signal as he lunges forward, quick as a striking snake. Red Shadow blocks his blow, straining against the strength behind it and – silver flashes in the shadows. An arrow notched. Pulled back. No one sees it. Not even Damian. Red Shadow ducks and spins, bringing the hilt of his sword for the next attack, then –
Then he sees it. Sees the trajectory.
He takes a glancing blow from Ra’s sword without flinching, red carving across his shoulder, gouging through his mask to his jaw. Blood flings into his eye, blurring his vision.
Damian sees Red Shadow – Jason – take the hit and he lurches under Richard’s grip. He sees Jason go with the momentum. Sees him leap for their group of four.
Sees a –
An arrow sprouts through his chest from behind. Red Shadow snarls out his cry of pain, staggering sideways and tripping over Batman’s outstretched leg. He goes down hard, with an audible crack of something breaking, but that’s lost in Damian’s shout – in Stephanie’s yell as Tim launches out of the shadows with his bō extended. There’s a clattering as a second archer falls to the ground, a wingding in their wrist.
Red Shadow’s shaking hands come up to press down around the arrow in his chest, blood squelching between his fingers. Batman heaves up and adds his own strength, ignoring the second cry of pain. Red Shadow slaps a hand to his arm, nails digging into the crevices of his armor.
Damian doesn’t hesitate. He rips himself from Richard’s grip and stumbles over to his father and brother. Falls to his knees, staring wide-eyed at the amount of blood. It’s not the most he’s ever seen on one person, but – but this is his family.
This is Jason. Who he thought was dead. And who may now die once more. Damian swallows down the sob at the thought.
He reaches out with his good hand – stops, finally hesitates. Dazed green eyes flicker to him. They clear, only a little, in recognition. Batman growls under his breath when Red Shadow lifts a bloodied hand, his fingers ghosting over Damian’s cheek.
“You – ,” he whispers, shivery and soft in the way ghosts are – and, no, no, that’s not. He’s not. His hand uncurls, cups the side of his face – it’s a familiar motion. Father likes to do it. Richard mimics him. It is yet another thing Jason picked up from them – and Damian leans into it despite the wet warmth, his lashes fluttering, clumping as tears well up. “You made – it.” The corners of his eyes crinkle like he’s smiling. “G-Good. Robin.”
“It was like you told me.” He covers Jason’s cold hand with his own. “Exactly like you told me. You were supposed to come back.”
Jason laughs brokenly and chokes on it, a gurgle in the back of his throat. Bruce hooks a finger over his mask, rips it off quickly in time for him to tip over and for blood to pool out of his mouth, stringing from his lips. His hand slips from Damian’s face, leaving behind ghoulish streaks of red.
Bruce freezes where he sits, lips parting in surprise, as Jason wheezes through his next breath, blood speckling his chin and the ground as his lungs fill with blood.
“Impossible,” he whispers. “This is a trick.”
“No trick,” Damian says firmly. Father looks at him from behind the cowl, eyes barely visible through the white lenses, but being this close doesn’t hide the sheen of tears, the shine of hope. He blinks and then looks back at Jason, his fingertips brushing his cheek so gently like he’s afraid Jason will disappear. “My brother. Your – Your – “
It is not a grand reveal – probably not the reveal Jason would have wanted – it’s muted, and sorrowful. Their father breathes out “Jason” in reverence, shoulders curling as he bends over his long-lost son. His hands come up to cradle underneath his jaw, thumbs stroke over his cheek bones, smearing blood, palms framing his face. “Jason. Jaylad. How? How did you – “
And he cannot finish the sentence. He sobs – and it’s loud, unrestrained. Richard falters in his fight against Ra’s at the sound and nearly gets impaled for his troubles.
Jason blinks slowly up at him, awareness wavering – recognition…dim. His brows furrow in confusion. “B-Batman,” he murmurs. “Who – ?”
Father presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he weeps. “I’m so, so sorry, Jason. I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t save you.”
Jason opens his mouth to say something else and blood bubbles over the corner of his lips instead, trailing red over Bruce’s fingers. Jason gurgles again, eyes widening in panic. His arms flail, broken hand smacking against Father – and Batman wastes no time in heaving him up and bracing him as he coughs out more blood. Jason whines, high pitched and heart wrenching.
Damian sobs, folding his good arm over his stomach as if that’s going to hold him together. Stephanie is there suddenly, her hair in violent disarray, her suit torn and stained with blood. She kneels on Jason’s other side, inspecting the entry and exit point of the arrow.
“It’s in his lung,” she says quietly. Damian doesn’t have the energy to snark about her pointing out the obvious. Not with Jason gasping, trembling, and Bruce circling careful, helpless comfort on his back. “We don’t have the equipment.”
“Do something,” Father snarls – and, for a moment, they think he’s talking to Stephanie like that. She leans back in shock, face paling.
A steady hand falls on Damian’s shoulder. Mother stands behind him, blood splashed on her cheek, staining the cuff of her jacket. Black Bat slinks away silently, joining Tim and Richard in their fight.
The battle falls to background noise as she says softly, “There is nothing we can do.” Something like regret in her voice. “I’m so sorry, beloved. Any equipment we have is on the other side of the compound. Between us and that, lies hundreds of my father’s men.”
“I just got him back,” Father says despairingly, it almost sounds like a plead. “Talia – .”
“The only way – there is a pool nearby.”
A Lazarus Pool – a small little spring not quite the size or power of Ra’s personal pool of the Pit. Damian remembers seeing his childhood, remembers the off-putting smell, like decaying flowers and turned dirt.
Damian’s stomach clenches. He meets Jason’s green gaze and realizes – remembers them being teal the last time he saw him. Jason’s lashes flutter as he absorbs the words spoken above him. And when he finally does, he lets out a broken moan.
The hushed, angry back and forth silences immediately.
“No,” Jason rasps out, struggling weakly. “No. No. Nonono. Don’t – Don’t make me,” he wheezes. “Not. Not again. I c-can’t.” He scrapes his fingers along Batman’s armor, kicks out his feet. His head thrashes back and forth even as his face grows paler with each passing second, even as the pool of red under him widens with each labored breath.
He keens wildly when Father shifts his arms under his shoulder and another under his knees.
“No! No!”
“Please,” Bruce begs. “Please, Jason. Let me have you back. Don’t make me lose you again.”
Jason’s breathing hitches. His struggles slow, grow sluggish. “I don’t – I don’t wanna go back.”
“What did you do to him?” Stephanie demands Talia.
Mother stares at her, eyes burning. “It is the nature of the Pit,” she says unwaveringly. “It strips you bare and builds you back up. What is new is not always what is old. Ra’s took advantage of that, as punishment.”
(Soft laughter. Flickering torches.
They were huddled together on Damian’s bed. Damian pressed to his brother’s side,
watching his hands move deftly over the block of wood.
Pieces of carved wood fell to towel draped over their laps as
his brother whittled carefully until a vague shape started to form.
“A bird?” he asked softly.
His brother smiled and corrected, “A robin.”
Damian frowned. “Still a bird. Not a real Robin.”
“Let me tell you a story,” his brother said. “Will you listen?”
Damian nodded eagerly. “Always.”
The door creaked open, hushing them both. Damian curled closer to his brother,
watched the door as Mother peeked her head in.
Her hair slid from its up-do, curtaining her face.
“You must be quieter,” she shushed,
expression stern but her eyes glittered with fond amusement.
Jason made a face, stuck his tongue out. She ruffled his hair,
and he smacked her away, using one hand to try and tame his curls once more.
She smiled as she held out what was hidden in her hand.
A new carving tool.
To replace the one Ra’s – the one Ra’s –
Jason stared at it for a long moment before he took it with a shaking hand.
If it were not for the fact, it was such a useful tool, Talia would not have brought it at all,
but Jason had asked for a new one despite everything and she could not deny him.)
Damian knows then, with white-hot clarity, that the punishment Ra’s envisioned was not just for Jason, but for Talia as well – for encouraging them to leave, for inciting the initial rebellion that gave him and Jason the distraction needed to escape in the first place.
His mother grew a soft spot for the second Robin – reluctantly at first, intending on only using him as a pawn for Damian to finally join Batman in Gotham, then whole-heartedly the first time he lashed out in protective violence on the behalf of her son despite his catatonic state – and thus, gave herself yet another weakness to be exploited.
Escaping was to keep them both safe. Jason ruined that by coming back for her.
“What does that mean?” Stephanie asks quietly. Her gloves are stained red now, soaked through to the skin.
Talia sighs. “It means, my dear. That if we put Jason in the Pool to save his life, what comes out may not be him.” She squeezes Damian’s shoulder. “What he is now is not the boy who came back for me to protect Damian.”
Damian grits his teeth. “Yes. he is. You saw him. The moment I was in danger, he saved me. He saved Batman,” he adds firmly, daring anyone to argue another perspective on the scene they came upon earlier. “He is still my brother.”
Bruce looks down at the weakly writhing Jason in his arms, mouth twisted in a mournful frown, grief practically a physical weight on his shoulders. “I have to try,” he says – then grunts when he struggles to his feet. Stephanie sighs and cuts through the arrow in his calf to keep it from snagging on anything. “He is my son. I have to try whatever I can. I can’t lose him again.”
“Please,” Jason mumbles. His temple rests on the armor of Batman’s shoulder, hands curled over his chest as his fingers twitch like he wants to keep fighting. “Please. Please. I don’t like – I don’t want – Please – .”
“Enough!”
They freeze as the shout echoes, bouncing and reverberating.
Ra’s sneers, looking undignified and in disarray with his mussed hair and torn clothing. Richard has a hand to Tim’s chest, shoving him back, escrima held out in front of him and humming audibly. They both look just a bit worse off compared to Ra’s – of course, Tim more so – and it’s a miracle they’re both still on their feet. Cassandra rises from her crouch, blood on her knuckles, her half-mask pulled down to reveal a savage curl on her lips.
She must have heard something she didn’t like.
“You will cease this behavior,” Ra’s demands as bodies melt from the shadows, their weapons held at the ready. “You cannot hope for any chance this comes out in your favor. Drop the boy now and leave. Perhaps I will grant you a day to settle your affairs.”
Batman snarls, clutching Jason closer. “Never, Ra’s.”
Ra’s laughs – it sends a collective shudder down most of their spines. They had never heard the Demon’s Head laugh before. He laughs and gestures towards his men slowly filling the room, slowly outnumbering them. “You have only stalled the inevitable. You will be nothing.”
There’s a whistle and then a choked shout – a body falls to the ground, blood already spreading underneath it.
“Your men are nothing,” a new voice says. A woman stands regally at the other entrance, her suit simple and unadorned, obviously reinforced. There is a sword unsheathed in her hand at her side, the blade shining with blood – and that is not the only weapon she has on her person. “They were as easy to cut through as paper with the sharpest blade, father. You should weep in embarrassment for that showing.”
“You’re late!” Talia says.
The woman’s smile is more of a smirk, but something softens in her eyes. “Forgive me. There was a right mess to clear through first.” Her gaze lands on Jason and it softens even further. I will handle this. Hurry.”
And from the corridor behind her, shadows converge as her own men file in – the room becomes a battlefield – Stephanie hauls Damian to his feet, letting him lean on her as they go through the throng of bodies. They part like the Red Sea for them, never once looking at the tiny, shattered family moving in desperation as Jason finally loses the will to fight, his head sliding off Batman’s shoulder to bow awkwardly in a move that’s disturbingly reminiscent of a corpse.
“Who is that?” Stephanie gaps out.
Damian eyes the only part of Jason he can see from here. “My aunt. Nyssa.”
Nyssa steps aside silently, drawing another sword, and joins the fray, jerking her chin to hurry them up. Talia nods back and ushers Father down the corridor, pulling ahead to lead the way.
“How?” Richard asks hoarsely, his arm tight around Tim. Cassandra is taking most of the weight, Richard’s face dangerously pale. He can’t seem to look away from the man in their father’s arms. “Is that really – ?”
“It is,” Damian says as the same time Mother snaps out, “Not now.”
“I will explain later,” she continues. “We don’t have much longer.”
Damian smells the Pool before he sees it – acidic, cloying. His interactions with Lazarus waters is limited in general. Only once has he seen Ra’s bath in it, years and years ago. His mother doesn’t know he was present for Jason’s submerging – she had done it in secret, sequestered away from everyone else. Not even Ra’s knew, and the subsequent blow-up had been violent and bloody as Jason was no longer a catatonic puppet for him to order around.
Jason had come out screaming. At the time, that had been the loudest noise he’d ever heard his brother make and he would be lying if he said that the sound hadn’t haunted him even in Gotham.
“In here.” Mother ushers them into the green-tinged room. “Beloved, you must hurry. It cannot bring the dead back life – even the newly dead.”
Bruce hesitates, the Pool casting his face into sharp, eerie shadows. Jason’s head lolls, eyelids half-mast and barely aware. He blinks sluggishly, lips parted and speckling with red on every exhale.
“Jay,” he whispers, hefting him more securely in his arms. A collective hush falls over them. “Jason. Will you –,” he swallows thickly. “I don’t want to lose you. Please. I need – I need you back.”
Jason shakes his head, the barest movement. Bruce crumples against the lip of the Pool, pressing his face against the crown of Jason’s head, his shoulder shaking.
Damian pulls away from Stephanie and steps closer on wavering feet. No one stops him. He climbs up the stonework, leans into Batman to place a hand on Jason’s knee.
“Jason,” he murmurs. “Do you know who this is?” Jason stares at him, focus drifting over his shoulder to look into the middle distance. He shakes his knee, dragging his attention back. “You promised,” he says. “You promised you would come back to me. To Father. Please,” he begs.
Jason tilts his head back, exposing his throat in a vulnerable way that makes Damian feel sick. The arrow is still through his chest, shoved even further in from his fall, and it makes, it makes Damian think of those insects on display in museums. Pinned with wings outstretched so everyone can admire their beauty even in death.
“Batman,” Jason mumbles, barely even a breath. Bruce slides his arm from under his knees and pulls back his cowl, his hair sticks up from sweat, his expression absolutely broken with shining tracks of tears on his cheeks. Jason blinks up at him, something flickering in his eyes. “…Batman,” he repeats, brows furrowing.
“Jason,” Bruce says. He cups his cheek, thumbs away tears and blood. “My Jaylad. My son.” He kisses his forehead again, lets his lips linger. They tremble against his skin as he tries not to cry. “I’m so sorry.”
Shaking hands shove ineffectually at him, weak as a kitten but urgent all the same. Father reluctantly leans back anyway, his hold loose and undemanding, willing to simply cradle Jason in his final moments.
A choice has been made.
Damian shouts as Jason forcibly rolls right out of Father's arms and disappears into the acid-green pool. Richard is halfway into diving after him before Talia grabs him around the waist and bodily hauls him back, holding him tight even as he fights to get away from her. There’s no real strength in his struggles, his shouts, just the urge to act, no matter how useless.
Damian stares wide-eyed at the surface of the waters as the ripples, instead of fading, grow denser and deeper, bubbles appearing until it looks like its boiling.
Silence. Suffocating, stifling silence. Then –
Then.
A hand. Fingers scrabbling at the stonework. A gasp. Jason’s head breaking the surface.
A pause. A beat. A moment.
Jason starts screaming.