Chapter Text
There was a bevy of older women surrounding Damian at the art gala. Mothers, all of them, with their bored children dragged behind and then pushed in Damian’s way. From where Bruce stood in his own circle of sycophants, he couldn’t hear what the matrons of high society were saying to his son, but he could make an educated guess that it was something along the lines of what a handsome boy you are, you take after your father so well. Why don’t you play with my son, Hunter, or my daughter, Regina? I know you’ll all get along so well!
Damian, unsurprisingly, was disinterested. Unimpressed, given by the way he looked down on all the children shoved in front of him. (An impressive feat, too, considering that Damian stood at least an inch shorter than most of them.)
Bruce inclined his head to the man towards his right, making the appropriate sounds as he half-listened to a story about the Bahamas and swimming pigs.
A brief glance towards the buffet table revealed that Damian was not there . The gaggle of children were, of course. The buffet table was one of the few sanctuaries a child could get in these events. He scanned the gallery a few more times. Dick had caught his gaze, flashing a quick ‘ok’ sign as he headed towards Iris Graham’s collection of charcoal drawings a little farther into the venue. Presumably to where Damian was.
A server came by with a fresh tray of champagne. Bruce took that moment as an opportunity to loudly exclaim that there is someone he absolutely must talk with on the other side of the room, and deftly extricated himself from the group. Now, off to find his son.
Bruce wasn’t worried that Damian would try something— wait, no, he took that back. Five children and even more ‘children-adjacent’ children taught him enough to know that peaceful galas with the Wayne family present were few and far between.
But that wasn’t the point.
Damian had been ‘off’ more times than ‘on’ these past few weeks, following the appearance and just as abrupt disappearance from his brother.
Damian’s brother. As in Bruce’s son.
(His firstborn son. His resurrected son. His ‘ trained in the League of Shadows to become a perfect killing machine’ son. Bruce was not one to believe in coincidences, but this was just absurd.)
Stubbornly, Damian continued to keep quiet on the subject of his brother. Either ignoring the question completely at worst or giving out cryptic comments at best. The best in the League , Damian had said. Even Grandfather feared him.
A pack of reporters hounded at his heels, all bright flashes and a hundred questions per minute. He gave them one of his signature BruceTM smiles, all gleaming white teeth, and empty-headedness. He ended up being saved by the star of tonight’s charity gala, Iris Graham, an up-and-coming artist who grew from the poverty-ridden streets of Gotham herself. She approached him, most likely, to convince him to buy one of her works. Unfortunately for her, Bruce had places to be and had no time for idle small talk.
“Ah, Ms. Graham, you look positively dashing tonight.” He turned to the reporters, gesturing at Graham’s elegantly cut dark green pantsuit. “Doesn’t she look lovely, ladies and gents? Anyway, have I told you, Miss Graham, how much I adore your work? Truly marvelous stuff. Especially the one with the Gotham skyline at night. How ever did you come up with that?”
The reporters shifted their attention to Miss Graham, who flushed under their gaze. Shoulders rolled back, she lifted her chin high and began to enthusiastically detail the story of the painting, first addressing Bruce on pretense, and then fully embracing the press’ attention. Bruce, without missing a beat, left to pursue his children again.
The past few days marked a noticeable shift in Damian’s behavior, however. There was a lightness in his step as if a thread of unseen tension came loose. He was less snappish, less moody.
And he spent a lot of time on his phone.
It did not take being the World’s Greatest Detective to guess that Damian’s brother came into contact with him again. Though whether this would bode them ill or not…Bruce couldn’t say for sure.
He met up with Dick who was leaning against a large square pillar, arms crossed and phone held at an angle that seemed a touch too awkward. “I would have figured you’d be over there with him instead of spying on him through your phone.”
Dick stuck his tongue out. He tilted his phone slightly to get his shoulder out of the frame and zoomed in on Damian who stood a little farther down the hall. “I tried, earlier, but he kept trying to run away from me,” Dick said. “He’s gotten better at this gala thing, for sure, so I thought it was fine to keep my distance. I’m just glad he’s not chewing anyone’s head off.”
“Is he texting again?”
“With the way his thumbs are moving? Oh, yeah.”
Bruce’s phone buzzed. So did Dick’s.
“It’s O.” Dick pushed himself off the pillar. “Poison Ivy’s been sighted and she’s causing havoc at one of Synototech’s research labs.”
Bruce grunted. “Get your brother. We’ll suit up.”
___
Red Robin was already on the scene when they arrived, dodging and weaving through the hoard of vines that sprouted in front of the entrance.
“Poison Ivy has enough explosives inside the lab to level it to the ground!” Oracle said through their comms. “There are still people trapped inside. You guys need to get them out .”
A thick vine lunged at him. Batman barely rolled out of the way. The vine retreated, turning to curl itself around Poison Ivy, a calm and collected fury plain on her face. He barked orders at the others to disarm the explosives and get everyone inside the building out .
Farther away he spotted Robin with his katana drawn, slicing pieces of Poison Ivy’s plant army away.
“You’re not going anywhere.” She thrust her arms outward, the vines obeying her command. Batman threw explosive batarangs at them before jumping away.
Nightwing yelled at Red Robin to jump back and slug explosive pellets at the entrance. The explosion ripped a hole into the entrance, and the two dove inside the building.
Batman ripped a thick vine out of the ground and swung it around to take out the other plants. Another plant wrapped itself around his legs and flung him into the air. He barely stuck the landing.
The plants advanced on him again. Batman slid under them and slung a bolas at their base. The rope swung around the base and exploded.
Oracle’s voice crackled through the comms. “Nightwing got all the civilians out. Red Robin is nearly done disarming the bomb.”
He dodged a large thorned stem. At the corner of his eyes, he could see something dark red pulsing .
Fuck. Where was Damian?
It burst. A shrill scream. A bright blinding light.
Batman’s breath hitched. “Robin!”
He ran over to the plant bomb’s detonation sight. Pressing his comms, he shouted “Robin, what’s your situation? Where are you?”
“Help,” Robin said. Bruce’s blood ran cold. “ Father— he won’t stop screaming!”
“Poison Ivy’s fleeing the scene,” Oracle said.
Let her run, he’ll capture her later. Right now, his son needs him.
“Gas mask, B. Don’t forget to put it on.”
The screaming had tapered off by the time he found his son. Robin knelt over something, back turned to him, the edges of his black cape singed. A few feet away from there were the remains of a giant plant that laid limp on the ground, its red petals curled back tightly to the base of the flower. All around them there were giant holes— seeds —that dug straight through concrete.
“Robin,” He called out.
The other whipped his head back, eyes wide, gas mask already attached. “Father! Please— I don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Robin shifted his position.
There, knelt on the ground, was Damian’s brother. His head was bowed, nearly pressed against the ground, one hand grasping at debris and the other clenched against his side. He whimpered on the floor, drawing himself tighter. Red coated his hand, seeped and spread through the white of his shirt.
He knelt at the boy’s—at Danny’s? That’s what he preferred to be called if Bruce remembered correctly— side. “What happened?”
“I was careless. I wasn’t watching my back. Poison Ivy’s new plant bomb has a quicker detonation time and I wasn’t able to get out of the blast radius quickly enough. My brother he— he saw and he shielded me. But I don’t know why he’s— He said he wasn’t hit .”
Danny convulsed. A scream ripped through his throat.
“Bullet?”
“A— a seed bullet from one of Ivy’s new plants. It’s still inside him.”
Shit. He fished out a small bottle of saline and wads of gauze from his utility belt and gave Robin instructions to help pack the wound. They’ll have to take him back to the cave.
Bruce spoke through the comms. “Red Robin, Nightwing, report.”
“Explosives have all been disarmed, B. I think I might know Poison Ivy’s motives, too.”
“The building’s all clear too, except for these plants. What the hell’s been happening on your end?”
“Poison Ivy’s escaped. Danyal al Ghul has been injured; I’m taking him to the cave.”
“What?” Nightwing and Red Robin exclaimed.
“RR and I can handle the clean-up here, B. You guys go on ahead.”
Batman grunted. He lifted Danny up off the ground—why was he throwing himself into a fight wearing jeans and a t-shirt?— and carried him to the batmobile. Damian dogged at his heels, only pausing to swipe a sample of the plant bomb.
“Oracle?”
“Already sent a message to Agent A to prep the infirmary, B.”
“Good.”
Danny slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness during their ride back to the cave.
Alfred was already prepared, the infirmary fully stocked and the operating theater ready for use.
“Wait—” Damian. “Anesthesia doesn’t work on you.”
Danny groaned through clenched teeth as Bruce helped him onto the operating table. “It’ll work. Righ— hah— ‘m weak ‘nough right now that it’ll work.” He turned to Bruce, words slurring. “Jus’ gimme the strongest you got.” Another groan. “Please.”
Bruce slipped that piece of information into the file labeled ‘investigate later.’ “Damian, get the computer to analyze the plant sample you collected.”
Alfred helped Danny slip off his torn and bloodied shirt and tossed it into a bin. “I wasn’t aware that crime-fighting attire would be so casual these days.”
“Gettin’ shot wasn’t r’lly on m’ to-do list today. Might’ve dressed better ‘f I’d known.”
They worked quickly, hooking Danny up to the appropriate machines and identifying the location of the seed. Damian had rushed back with an analysis report on the seed. Other than possessing a very tough shell, the seed itself was harmless.
Alfred finished cleaning up the wound. “The seed will have to stay inside, I’m afraid.”
Danny vigorously shook his head, eyes squinted and unfocused. “Nonono, ya’ gotta take it out.”
“Taking it out will only risk more injury than leaving it in.”
“‘Nd the seed is made out ‘f the only thing in this world that can kill me.”
What?
“Rosa disanthus,” Danny wheezed. “Check. That’s the plant, yeah?”
Damian flipped through the report again. “Its— the plant shares similar DNA with it, yes. But according to the computer it's harmless.”
“Not to me.”
With the exception of a raised eyebrow, Alfred looked nonplussed. “Very well then.” He injected more anesthesia into the wound site and pulled up a rolling chair next to Danny, forceps brandished in one hand. “Do try to keep still.”
“I’ll have you know that’m a champ at playin’ dead.”
***
Danny passed out soon after Alfred fished out the seed. Damian insisted that he help bandage his brother up, and in a rather surprising display of empathy, refused to leave Danny’s bedside.
Bruce managed to wrangle him to sleep by setting up another cot in the infirmary with plenty of promises to wake him up if anything happened. He crashed the second his head hit the pillow, showing how much this entire ordeal shook him.
Before Alfred went about to clean the operating theater, he passed the bloodied seed off to Bruce. “While I may be old and hardly a medical expert, I’m quite sure that blood is not supposed to have bits of green in it.”
“Green?” Bruce took the forceps, holding the seed up to the light. It was unusually large, though judging from the plant it came from, he couldn’t be too surprised by it. He angled it slightly, eyes narrowed as he tried to spot a sliver of green. There. It was hardly noticeable amidst all the dark reds, but if you held it just right, you could see little flecks of green swirling about the blood.
The seed itself looked unharmed, so it couldn’t have been from that.
Hm. More unanswered questions.
While the blood was being analyzed, Bruce took the opportunity to breathe and—
And…
The remarkable thing about Danny was that his skin was unblemished. In their line of work—hero, vigilante, assassin — it was next to impossible to remain unscathed unless one had preternatural healing abilities or nigh-indestructible skin. Even Damian, young as he was, had a few scars to his name
Danny—with the exception of the wound Alfred had stitched closed (a wound that will scar)— had none. Not a single mark.
That should be a good thing.
That should be a good thing.
He is the best the League has ever produced
Bruce rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed. He checked Danny’s vitals one more time, pulled Damian’s blanket over his shoulders, then sat himself down in front of the computer monitor.
The first thing Bruce did was check on the summative reports that both Nightwing and Red Robin sent him. The mission was successful with minimal casualties and no deaths; all researchers within the facility were taken to the hospital for treatment. The two managed to neutralize the majority of the hostile plants Poison Ivy set both in and around the facility. Poison Ivy, however, still remained at large.
Dick’s report also said that he and Tim were going to get something to eat at BatBurger and not to wait up.
You have some shit you need to sort out , the message seemed to say. And we’re not gonna be a part of it.
He closed off the report and opened a random assortment of case files. Despite his efforts, none of them really caught his attention, and he found his eyes glazing over.
Bruce always had a good memory.
It was useful more often than not. He was good at remembering faces and storing away minute details that may or may not become useful in a case, and it helped him juggle both of his personas. But there were times when having a good memory was more trouble than it’s worth.
Time heals all wounds— but a sharp memory had a penchant of reopening them.
(The heat was one of the things he remembered the most. The hot desert son relentlessly bore down on him, sweat sticking to his skin and matting his hair. The air so dry that every inhale parched his throat, and insects buzzed annoyingly around his ear. But all of that— all the discomfort, the heat, the sun, the stress—faded away when Talia—his once-love, once-passion, once the owner of his heart and soul—pulled him aside to whisper in his ears “beloved, I am with child.”
He kissed her there in that cursed desert. And even years later he still remembered the feel of her lips against his. The way that her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. The slow curl of her smile.)
(Another memory: It’s that damn desert again. The moon shone high in the sky, a pale and waning crescent. The sand that was hot to touch in the day was cold beneath his fingertips. The air was still so dry. He is angry at Ra’s, angry at this mission, angry at himself. Then came Talia, face cold and impassive but her eyes rimmed red, her spine rigid but Bruce did not miss the way she angled herself against the doorframe, almost clinging to it. “It’s gone,” she said, simple and straightforward as if she was remarking about the fucking weather. “The baby is gone.”)
(And another: They’re miles beneath the sea, just off the coast of the United Kingdom. The cave is dark and infested with mutant man-bats trying to escape to the surface and their son—their son, arrogant and unexpected but as relentlessly determined as their parents—had run off to fight the world’s most renowned hitman. Talia was not dead, was not captured. She stood waist-deep in the Lazarus pit…waiting.
Then, as if possessed, she dove in. He shouted her name and went in after her. Pulled her back to the surface. The green waters had slipped into her wounds, suturing them closed and seeping its madness into her. Her eyes flickered green. She tore herself from his grip, but then fell limp. He caught her, and as he did saw something that might have looked like tears at the corner of her eyes.)
( A final one: Reunited and victorious, Damian ran to his mother. But as he came closer his steps slowed, then stopped. Face contorted into confusion. “Where—?”
Talia’s composure broke— but only for a moment. The cracks smoothed themselves away with an exhale. She closed the distance between her and Damian, fingers carding through his hair before coming down his neck and then cupping his face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s gone.”)
He blinked.
Alfred appeared at his side with a cup of warm tea in hand.
Bruce gave Alfred a grateful look and silently took the cup. He took a sip, long and slow, letting the scent of chamomile calm him, and appreciating the pleasant warmth on his tongue.
“Alfred,” Bruce said as he rolled back his aching shoulders. “What do you make of him?”
“Master Danny, I presume?” Alfred placed his hands behind his back. “I would not presume to make such judgments when I’ve only met him once. However, I do see a resemblance.”
With a grunt, he sipped his tea. “There’s something strange about him, Alfred.”
“I would say that about all your children, Master Bruce.”
Bruce chuckled. “Can’t argue with you there.”