Chapter Text
Friday, October 3rd
06:48 AM
The city has been overtaken by a thick fog overnight, as is usual for early mornings in Gotham. Especially during this time of year.
Autumn has arrived early with a creeping, cold presence. It looks like it’s here to stay for a long while yet. At least that’s the rhetoric that Bruce, Pennyworth, Drake, and even all three of Gotham’s weathermen all seem to agree upon. However, Damian would personally push the narrative that Gotham always feels like autumn, regardless of the actual season.
Damian adjusts himself where he sits in the back driver’s side passenger seat of his father’s Mercedes-Benz. There is a strong aroma of faux pine in the vehicle, no doubt originating from the cheap air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
The twelve-year-old shifts in his seat again, turning his upper torso slightly to the left to have a better view out the window. Although the current weather conditions make it difficult to see anything due to the reduced visibility.
The fog makes the headlights of oncoming traffic cast a rather rough glare upon his corneas, causing him to grimace with each passing car. He turns away from the window with an aggravated sigh, closing his eyes. No matter, it wasn’t like there was anything of note out there anyway.
A phone rings, breaking the silence of the car. Damian looks toward the front passenger seat to watch his so-called “older brother,” Timothy Drake, check the caller ID on his phone. The older boy barely takes a second to contemplate before deciding that whoever is on the other side of the line isn’t worth answering.
Damian takes a second to study his fellow occupants. Father and Drake are both dressed in their usual business casual suits, since they are on their way to Wayne Enterprises for the day. Damian himself is dressed in his stuffy Gotham Academy school uniform, equipped in his Aegean blue blazer, grey slacks, and black dress shoes.
“Damn spam calls…”
Tim mumbles, moving to slide the device back into his front pocket. Bruce only acknowledges the comment with a gentle hum, his right hand’s index finger tapping a steady beat on the steering wheel. Tim reaches over and turns on the car stereo, where a weather and traffic report plays on the radio station at a comfortably medium-low volume.
A few minutes later, Bruce speaks up, thumbing down the volume of the radio from one of the buttons on the steering wheel, which is now broadcasting some kind of sale at a local grocery store.
“Damian.”
The boy in question glances up to meet his father’s steel blue stare in the reflection of the rearview mirror. His Father returns his vision to the road once he confirms that he has his youngest’s attention.
“Yes, father?”
“I need you to promise me that you’ll stop antagonizing your classmates. I do not wish to get another call from your school about your less-than-desirable behavior.”
“Tsk. I have barely done anything that deserves such a scolding–”
“Yes, Damian, you have,” Bruce stresses. “Threatening your peers with bodily harm is something that I– and your Dean of Students– consider an unacceptable behavior that will not be tolerated.”
Ah…
It seems that the incident from last week, where one of Damian’s classmates was acting unruly and disrespectful to their Math teacher, had finally made itself known to his father. Really, there was no need to kick up such a fuss. All Damian did was simply address the troublemaker and advise him that if such interruptions should continue, then there would be consequences in the form of a good lashing.
Whether that be upon the knuckles or the backside is up to the discretion of their educator, of course. Honestly, Damian went out of his way to look out for the miscreant.
Clearly, it did not go over as well as he had hoped.
“If you’re referring to what transpired during Mr. Wilson’s Algebra class last Thursday, then I would like to inform you that I handled the situation as politely as I possibly could.” Damian defended. “Besides, what I said was true.”
“Damian, I hate to be the one to inform you of this,” interjected Drake, not sounding displeased in the slightest. He turned to look back at the younger and, resting his elbow on the center console for leverage, continued, “-Schools don't utilize corporal punishment here in the States anymore. Haven’t since the 1970s, actually.”
Fantastic.
Damian let out a disgruntled “hrmph” while crossing his arms.
It seems that Father informed Drake about the incident as well. Wonderful. Should Damian expect to receive a call and a lecture from Todd later about the incident? One from Richard as well?
“Listen, Damian, I know with your upbringing–” Bruce stops himself short.
A moment of uncomfortable silence weighs between the three of them. Damian unconsciously tenses his shoulders and watches as Drake turns to stare out his window, as if he’s suddenly found something of interest on the roadside worth capturing his attention. Rather unlikely, considering the thick layer of fog still blanketing the city. Damian turns his gaze back to his father’s image in the reflection of the mirror. His father’s once stoic face has now morphed, gaining a slight crease between his strong brows.
It’s not a surprising reaction from his family. Any mention of Damian’s time spent with the League of Assassins tends to have this effect on everyone. Well, on everyone except Damian and Pennyworth, that is. Although while Pennyworth might be able to stand and discuss the League, the butler rarely ever lets the conversation of it continue for long. It’s a bit of a touchy subject.
Bruce lets out an almost inaudible, exhausted sigh before continuing. To the lesser-trained ear, it would’ve gone unnoticed.
“What I mean to say is that it's not up to you to deal with those kinds of situations. Let your teachers deal with it; it’s unnecessary to involve yourself, and it will only cause more problems for you and me later on. Something I know we’d both rather not deal with.” Bruce’s voice takes on a more stern tone. “Promise me you won’t get into another situation like it again.”
“...Yes, Father.”
Damian is most definitely not pouting; that would be absurd and unbecoming for someone of his lineage.
“Yes, what?”
“...Yes, I promise, Father.”
“Good. Thank you.” His father gives a single nod of approval, and the car falls back into silence once again. Now with that conversation out of the way, whatever leftover tension that was present seemed to fade to the back of everyone's minds.
Damian uncrosses his arms from where he still had them folded on his chest to look back out of his window. They were on one of Gotham’s many highway bridges now, though this specific one meant that they would soon be arriving upon the grounds of his Academy’s campus in the next ten to fifteen minutes, depending on traffic.
The fog had slowly begun to take on a hazy, golden hue while Damian wasn’t paying attention to it, announcing that the sun had finally started its rise over this specific time zone. He glances at the wristwatch that Bruce had gifted him (from his father’s personal collection; practically an heirloom in its own right) when he finally agreed to enroll in Gotham Academy, a private school for the children of Gotham’s most elite. Or so they say.
It took many days of discussion and contemplation (actually, it was more like arguments that ended with both parties fuming and Damian being banished to his bedroom for the night) before Damian was inclined (cajoled) to agree.
It’s currently 07:04 am, only twenty-six minutes before the first bell is to ring. Damian scowls. The day hasn’t even started, and he’s already ready for it to end.
…
Bruce turns off the main street and into the school's long, winding drop-off lane, or as some of the other parents and teachers have lovingly referred to it as the “hug and go” lane. It's a rather juvenile nickname, but Damian supposes there is merit to it, since the Academy is technically a kindergarten through twelfth grade. Damian himself has been placed in the seventh grade by his father, so he can “mingle” and interact with children his own age.
Initially, Damian had protested against the grade placement. His knowledge has far surpassed anything this school could possibly hope to teach him. However, when it was brought to his attention by his father that it would be a great cover for his public persona of Damian Wayne, billionaire Bruce Wayne’s youngest child. Now knowing that information, he was more agreeable to it.
The vehicle rolls to a stop as it joins the line of other expensive cars, full of parents and guardians dropping off their students. Groups of children and teens in the same blue and grey uniform slowly make their way into the building, while some stop to wait in groups outside for their peers to join them.
Damian quickly unbuckles and grabs his backpack from where it's resting on the floorboard next to his legs. He exists with a quick parting to both his father and Drake, aiming to make a quick break into the building and into his first class before any of his fellow peers do. Before he can even fully walk around his father's sleek black car, he's stopped in his path as the driver’s side window starts to roll down.
Father and son stare at each other, hazel green to steel blue. Drake is staring too, but Damian ignores him, as usual. His father’s dark hair is loosely brushed back, and there’s a faint hint of a five o’clock shadow that is usually never present. From the look of it, his father is definitely playing up his “Brucie Wayne” persona today.
Bruce ends the staring contest six seconds in, no doubt not wanting to hold up traffic. His father glances at the car still in front of them before turning back to face Damian and leaning a little out the window.
“Damian, I know there is still more you and I need to discuss.” Bruce lowers his voice, and his gaze softens just the slightest. “Topics of a more… sensitive nature. Nevertheless, I see the effort you're making to control and regulate your emotions. I find your efforts commendable.”
A rare, almost warm and fluffy feeling blooms in Damian's chest at his father's praise. He finds himself struggling to fight off an embarrassed flush that threatens to announce itself to the world on his cheeks. It looks like his efforts to hide his reaction weren’t as successful as he’d hoped, as one side of his father’s mouth lifts in a small grin.
The moment is broken when the car in front of them begins to drive off. Damian adjusts the strap of his backpack where it rests on his shoulder.
“Well, we must both be on our ways then. Goodbye, Father.” Reluctantly, he acknowledges his brother in the passenger seat. He’s been doing well so far; he doesn't want to lose his streak now that his father has acknowledged him. “Goodbye, Drake. Safe travels to you both.”
He nods at both occupants before finally rounding the front of the car and walking onto the sidewalk with an even stride. It’s only when he hears a faint yell of “Bye, kid!” from Drake and the unmistakable rumble of his father’s V8 engine drive off that he allows a small smile to ghost over his lips.
…
The day starts as usual and continues on the same as any other day in this poor excuse of a school. Damian starts his day in his English Composition class, where they have begun work on writing rhetorical essays. A style of writing Damian already knows and has mastered. Next is his general science class, though now that it’s October, they’ve started their chemistry unit. Another field of study in which Damian excels.
Lunch time, on the other hand, is another thing entirely. Damian has no friends or acquaintances, which is of no bother to him. Some people wish to approach him; however, most seem content to keep him at a distance. Whether to admire him or to avoid him, it doesn't matter. Damian appreciates his solitude all the same.
Damian spends his lunch block not in the cafeteria, but in the upstairs library. His usual spot is hidden behind the rows of the nonfiction collection. The table is small, but placed tangent to a medium-sized window that looks out onto the east side of campus, where he has an excellent view of the rows of many deciduous trees that line the sidewalks.
The boy finishes his meal quickly, a veggie and hummus wrap today, courtesy of Alfred. Usually, with whatever amount of time he has left, he either gets a head start on his schoolwork or sketches in his sketchbook. Today, he starts an observational fishbowl perspective sketch of his surroundings from where he sits.
After lunch, Damian has his algebra class with Mr. Wilson, as well as his annoying clown of a classmate. Luckily, ever since Damian’s… intervention a week ago, there have been no further acts of tomfoolery. Today’s class is no different. Though Mr. Wilson has sent more confused–or rather, concerned glances his way. Damian simply ignores them.
The last class of the day is interchangeable. Depending on the day of the week, it's either a Physical Education class or a Fine Arts class. Today is an A-day schedule, which means that Damian heads towards the art studio wing instead of the gymnasium locker rooms. It should go without saying that his Fine Art class is his favorite. Partly since his art teacher, Mrs. Mendoza, has a rather calm demeanor, and is one of the few adults who seem to treat him as an equal.
Damian is the first to arrive at the art studio, as he does every A day. However, the door to the room is closed. Typically, Mrs. Mendoza keeps it propped open all day. Damian instinctively feels suspicious. It's an unfortunately common reaction, considering he’s a vigilante of Gotham. He fights it down and only allows himself a single second of hesitation before turning the door handle and stepping inside.
He freezes a step past the doorway.
In the front of the room, next to the big desk reserved for their teacher, stands not Mrs. Mendoza, but instead a middle-aged man.
The stranger is most likely in his late mid to late thirties, near the same age as Damian’s father, and as tall as him too, though with a lithe build. He has wavy, medium-length, midnight black hair that's brushed in a professional side part. It’s paired with a neatly trimmed beard.
The man is currently leaning on the desk and flipping through a three-ring binder labeled “Semester Project”.
The door makes a sudden sound in the room's silence as it closes, catching the stranger's attention.
Bright amber eyes stare into Damian’s hazel.
“You’re not Mrs. Mendoza.”
Damian didn’t mean for it to come out like an accusation, but it certainly sounded like one.
The man lifts a strong eyebrow and lets an almost mischievous grin overtake his face.
“No, I most certainly am not.”
The stranger agrees evenly, his voice a low timbre and his accent distinctively Irish. He closes the open binder in his hands with a loud Thwap! and straightens into a relaxed stance from where he was once leaning.
“Your instructor is out on maternity leave, so I'm here from across the pond on assignment as your substitute.” The man’s grin has yet to leave his face. “The names’ Cillian Doyle. Though I suppose Mr. Doyle will do, considering proper protocol and manners, n’all.” Mr. Doyle rolls his eyes, almost like he’d prefer not to be referred to by his last name.
“Damian Wayne.” Damian offers his own introduction, a bit reluctantly.
Doyle’s grin seems to widen even more, most likely recognizing Damian’s name in connection to his father’s, and the boy’s frown deepens in response.
There’s something odd about this man.
…
Damian sits at his assigned table in the front right corner of the classroom. On the table top rest his art supplies and his current project. He’s experimenting with charcoal for his current piece, as it's one of his lesser-used mediums. He’s still in the planning stages, so he’s mainly sketching out a couple of ideas in his class sketchbook.
Two other students sit at his table, though they both spend their time silently focusing on their own pieces and listening to music on their smartphones. Their table isn't one for conversation, unlike the five other tables in the room filled with chatty children.
Damian usually would join his fellow seatmates and put in his earbuds to listen to his own carefully cultivated playlist, but he is unable to, as he’d much rather have all his senses unhindered to observe his new “substitute” teacher.
The Irishman is walking around the classroom, slowly making his way to each table and discussing with each student their current and past projects. He speaks to each individual with a calm ease, sort of similar to how Grayson addresses others, in a way that is disarmingly kind and unsuspecting.
At first, Damian was suspicious of the man, though he couldn’t say he had a good enough reason to be, other than the odd feeling, of course. He thought for sure that when Doyle recognized his name, the man would immediately begin pestering him about his family ties. So far, with thirty minutes left of class, the man hasn’t approached him since he first walked in.
Now, though, the man doesn't seem all that off at all. In fact, other than him being Irish and a new teacher at the academy, Damian would even go as far as to say that he’s as normal as a regular person could seem to be.
Still…
Damian thinks as he refocuses his attention back on his current vague sketch of a crow.
Being too “normal” in Gotham can often mean you’re anything but “normal”...
“Quite the lovely préachán you've sketched there, Damian.”
The twelve-year-old startles, whipping his head around to see Doyle standing right behind him, slightly leaning over him to look at his sketch over his shoulder. Damian grits his teeth and tries to bury the sudden onslaught of adrenaline that courses through his system from the scare. He narrows his eyes, suspicious once again.
How was he able to sneak up behind him without Damian noticing?
“...Pardon?” Damian bites out the question.
Doyle takes a moment longer to observe the graphite depiction of a crow before turning his attention back to the folder he holds in his hands. It’s labeled with Damian’s name and the current block his class is in.
Doyle lets out a little hum. His annoying, mischievous grin back in place.
“Hmm? Oh, préachán? It's Irish for Crow, though really it can mean any bird of prey.”
Doyle stops flipping through Damian’s artwork that he’s already submitted, pulling out a watercolor piece Damian did a couple of weeks ago of a blue jay and a robin resting in a bush. The Irishman’s gaze slowly turns to Damian’s, grin morphing into a smile.
“You seem to enjoy studying birds, as your art history proves,” Doyle states regarding Damian’s past projects stacked neatly in the folder in the man’s hands. He places the painting on the tabletop next to Damian's sketchbook.
“The blue jay is exceptional; the proportions, linework, and color gradient. It’s phenomenal. But the robin…” Doyle trails off, his finger ghosting over the robin from its head to its talons. “The robin is truly perfect, not one mistake, and I dare not praise just anyone so highly. I dare say you have a unique affinity for capturing the beauty of such creatures.”
To regular people, it might sound as if Damian is receiving high praise for his exemplary art skills, but Damian is far from regular.
No, he has ears that have been trained and honed by the likes of the League of Assassins and the Batman; comprehending the hidden meanings of things is something that is expected of him. A feat he excels at. This conversation right here is a blaring red sign that Doyle knows something. Something about Damian himself? Something about Robin?
Or worse, the connection between the two.
Damian watches, shoulders tense, as Doyle slowly lifts the painting of the two birds. He tracks the movement with his eyes as Doyle slips it into place in the open folder.
Damian pivots in his chair, slowly, almost unnoticeably. He really doesn't want to have to do this here, at his school, but if this man knows something, then he has to be ready for anything.
Doyle snaps the folder shut quickly, as if picking up on Damian’s well-concealed unease. They make eye contact, and Damian swears that Doyle's amber eyes flash yellow. The man’s grin drops suddenly, morphing into a frown so slight it could be easily overlooked by the less observant. Once more, the amber eyes flash yellow and Damian… he…
Damian blinks.
The tension bleeds out of him, as if it was never there. He can’t quite remember what his train of thought was leading to, or even where it came from.
What... What were they talking about again?
Damian turns back and looks down at the sketch of the crow in his notebook. Oh, yes. The crow.
“Yes, well. It's just a rough idea for now. I’ll have to see if it's anything worth expanding upon yet.” Damian responds, but somehow, that doesn't seem like it was the right response… to whatever Doyle must’ve asked him… Damian can’t exactly recall.
He faces Doyle again, wondering if the man was as confused as he felt, but the man simply nodded along to his words.
“Well, if you need anyone to bounce any ideas off, I’m always here.” Was the man’s simple response.
Doyle tipped an imaginary hat at him before moving on to one of his tablemates. Damian stared after him for a second longer before returning to work on his sketch, brushing off whatever… whatever happened. Clearly, if he was unable to remember, it was of little importance.
…
Although Bruce (and Drake) had been the ones to drop Damian off at the Academy while on their way to Wayne Enterprises that morning, it was Alfred who came to collect him at the end of the school day
And, as is typical, Alfred arrives exactly on time. Damian spends little to no time loitering on campus after the last bell tolls. Pennyworth is by far the most punctual member of the family.
From the Academy, they go straight home to the manor. Once they arrive, the butler convinces Damian of an afternoon snack of sliced carrots and cucumbers before the young boy departs for his room to continue his schoolwork. So, without further ado, Damian enjoys his vegetable tray and engages Pennyworth in mindless chatter about the day's events while the butler busies himself with sorting the mail across from him at the dining table.
“Thank you, Pennyworth,” Damian announces, getting up from his seat. He grabs his backpack that was next to him on the floor. “I will be in my bedroom until further notice.”
Alfred responds with a single affirmative nod, “Very well, young master Damian. Should you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
Once in his room, with Titus and Alfred the Cat of course, Damian changes out of his uniform into more comfortable clothes. He showers his pets with equal amounts of attention and affection before spending the next couple of hours working on his algebra homework and finalizing the first draft of his rhetorical essay.
When it’s time for dinner, Alfred surprisingly brings it up to his room instead of calling him down to the dining room. The butler informs him that Father and Drake, while on their way home, will arrive too late to join them. Damian tries not to let his disappointment show outwardly as he graciously accepts his meal from the butler. Pennyworth has keen senses, so he doubts he was truly successful.
Pathetic, there is absolutely no reason why he should feel disappointed. He’s not a child; he’s far too old to be even remotely upset that his father and older brother will miss a singular dinner with him.
Damian sits back down at his desk, quickly finishes his dinner, returns to his school work, and does what he was trained to do since long before he arrived here in Gotham.
He forces that childish and unwelcome feeling down as deeply as he can, till he can’t feel anything at all.
…
The overwhelming darkness of night has finally and truly settled over Gotham, and with it, Batman, Red Robin, and Robin take to the city's diminished streets, alleyways, and rooftops.
They’ve split up. An action that Father hardly ever allows. At least, concerning patrols where Damian is in attendance, that is.
There have been no new movements on any of the active cases they’ve been following, and there has also been a welcome lull in citywide crime for the last week or two. That’s not to say that crime hasn’t stopped completely, of course. After all, there's never any rest for the wicked.
Damian crouches on a rooftop with his hood drawn up over his head. He peers out over an empty alley littered with overturned bins of rubbish and graffiti on either side. He looks at his high-tech wrist watch, which he only wears out for patrols. It's currently:
Saturday, October 4th
01:48 AM
Damian scowls. It's been about three hours since the group of vigilantes split off on their own. Three hours since the patrol started, and yet, Damian has yet to encounter any crime or altercation anywhere.
It looks like it's just been him who's had bad luck—or good luck, depending on the perspective. Over the comms, he’s heard that both Batman and Red Robin have been relatively busy with the odd few muggings and convenience store robberies in their own respective jurisdictions.
“Robin, it's been an hour. Report”
Comes the gruff, low voice of Father, the Batman, through his earpiece.
Damian grits his teeth, his face flushing. He’s not sure if the action is done in embarrassment, as he has nothing to report, or in frustration, that it has not been a full hour yet, and Batman is calling after him like he’s some unsupervised minor. Does his father not trust him for a full sixty minutes with no contact?
Damian takes a slow, measured breath.
He’s been good.
He will not lash out in frustration; he will not start an argument that he will lose. He will continue to be good.
So, he swallows his irritation and brings up a hand to his ear to respond.
“Still nothing yet.”
Silence.
The audio crackles a half second before his father’s voice carries over the frequency.
“Alright, we have two more hours before patrol ends. We’ll meet back up at the agreed rendezvous point.”
Another beat of silence. “Remember to report your status every hour. Update us if anything happens.” There’s no comment from Drake.
Damian lets out a long, exhausted groan.
“Yes, Father.”
“Good.”
The line cuts out.
Of course, his father wouldn’t really trust him with a solo patrol. After everything they’ve been through, after everything that's happened, you’d think that there would be more trust between them. It's always two steps forward and three steps back.
“Clack, Clack”
Damian freezes at the sound. He calms his breathing, moving all of his focus to his sense of hearing.
“Clack, Clack”
There it goes again.
Damian frowns, his brows pinching in concentration. It sounds like the hooves of a goat or a horse striking the pavement. That can’t be right, though. Damian isn’t too close to the city's parks, near the heart of Old Gotham. He’s nowhere near the Gotham City Zoo either.
The sound gets closer and closer, till–
There!
A large shadow passes by the entrance of the alley, and it's definitely the silhouette of a horse. How odd. Damian grins triumphantly.
Finally! Now his night isn’t as much of a waste as he thought.
Damian trails after the horse at a distance as it turns into the city park and heads deeper into the thick groupings of trees.
It’s a large, sturdy stallion. It's certainly not a police horse. Its entire coloring is a midnight black, with a long and wild mane and feathering hooves. There’s no saddle or bridle.
It marches deeper into the woods of the park, and the grand animal finally stops near a small pond.
The horse suddenly conducts a fast spin to face where Damian is hiding in the canopy of one of the surrounding trees, as if sensing the human’s presence. Its yellow eyes seem to glow from the reflection of the street lights that line the many walking paths. The young vigilante’s eyes narrow behind his domino mask. The beast has an impeccable sense of awareness.
Since he’s been caught, Damian doesn’t see why he must hide out of sight any longer. He drops down from the thick branch he was crouched upon and slowly begins to approach the equine with his hands up and palms facing out in a disarming motion.
Though it seems unnecessary, as the horse just gives a lazy swish of its tail and almost saunters to meet Damian halfway in the middle of the small meadow.
“What’s a beast like you doing, roaming the city all alone at night?” He whispers, running a hand to pet and pat the stallion’s strong neck.
The horse, which looks to be a kind of draft breed, simply flips an ear in response, but its eyes never leave Damian’s. The stallion is observing Damian just as much as Damian is observing him.
“Come on, boy. Let's get you back to…” Damian hesitates, suddenly unsure of himself. “... wherever your home is.”
Horses have a remarkable homing instinct, so this shouldn’t be too difficult. All that needs to be done now is to make a makeshift bridle, and they can get on their way. Damian is rather intrigued to see exactly where the stallion's home is, and how it managed to get as deep into Gotham as it did, unnoticed.
He pulls out a short six-foot rope from his utility belt and begins to tie it into multiple intricate knots, until it looks almost similar to a bridle. When he approaches, the draft tilts its head up and turns away. Each time Damian makes a pass to place it on the beast (standing on his tippy-toes), it dances out of the way.
The draft lets out a soft nickering sound, as if it's a funny little game they're playing.
After about five minutes of this nonsense, Damian gives up. He forcefully throws the rope on the ground with a frustrated huff and folds his arms, glaring daggers at the large animals.
Seeing the rope on the ground, the stallion approaches Damian again and turns so its flank is facing the boy. The horse motions with its head, quick nods, as if telling the boy to hop on.
Damian raises a twitching eyebrow.
“Well, if that's what you wanted, you should’ve made it known beforehand.” He grumbles out, though not really feeling upset. Though they can be unruly and annoying, Damian could never stay irritated at any animal for long.
He places both hands up on the creature's back, and right before he goes to jump, the horse bends down one knee, as if making fun of Damian’s height. The boy huffs an amused breath despite himself and swings up onto the beast.
The second that Damian settles himself, the stallion rears up unexpectedly with a loud squealing sound, leaving its passenger to scramble for purchase, small hands grasping the horse’s wild mane in a tight hold. If he were able to see the animal’s eyes, he’d have seen them shine a vibrant and familiar gold.
Damian has no time to gasp or even make any sort of noise at all. The front legs of the horse come down swiftly, sending a shockwave through his body. Almost instantly, the animal's hind legs thrust up in a high kick. Damian would’ve fallen off if he hadn’t tensed his thigh muscles behind the horse's shoulders.
The rude thing!
Damian screams internally as the draft horse begins to spin, kick, and rear. Like it was a lithe saddle bronc horse similar to the ones in those horrific rodeo videos he’s seen. It tricked me!
Yet, despite himself, Damian begins to… laugh?
It's not possible, he’s usually too composed, but… he is.
He’s laughing.
It's a quiet, unsuspecting thing at first. It comes out hidden in gasps of air, and before Damain knows it, he’s laughing like a foolish child.
A buck here, a turn there, a couple of jumps, and then the stallion does some odd combination of all three, and Damian laughs harder with it. He’s overcome with a weird, enjoyable adrenaline rush. The beast neighs, like it's laughing along with Damian.
Then, the draft jumps impossibly high, almost higher than the tallest of trees in the park. Damian chokes on his laugh from the shock of it. Such a leap should be impossible for a normal horse, especially a stocky draft like the one he’s currently clinging to.
The twelve-year-old has no time to continue that thought, though. Suddenly, the horse is kicking his hind legs up, almost at a ninety-degree angle, and Damian is falling fast into the cold pond with a loud “Splash!”.
When Damian resurfaces, there's no sign of it. Not even a trace of a hoof print. The earth bears no sign of disturbance. He scrambles out of the pond, only slightly slowed by the waterlogged weight of his soaked uniform, his head pivoting left and right.
Where is it? Where could it have gone!?
There’s a sudden twinge of pain right at Damian’s temple. He brings his hand up to cradle the side of his head.
Where is… where was…
What was he looking for again?
The pain disappeared as quickly as it arrived. Damian blinks, looking around in confusion. Why is he in the park?
A cold breeze rustles the trees, and Damian shivers. His attention is directed to his soaked uniform. Damian frowns, pulling his wet cloak tighter around himself, as if it will do anything to ward off the creeping cold. Had he fallen into the pond?
He must’ve, somehow.
A muffled thud sounds behind him, and he turns sharply at the noise, taking a fighting stance.
“Robin.”
Damian immediately relaxes at the sight of Batman emerging from the shadows of the trees. However, as the Dark Knight moves towards him, Damian registers the aura of agitation that appears to surround the man.
“It's been two hours, patrol is over. None of us has been able to reach you.”
His father stalks closer to loom over Damian’s shivering form. Damian stills—as much as he can with his involuntary shivering—and sure enough, scrawled on his watch face is the time:
04:04 AM
The Batman shroud and cloak create an unsettling appearance. His father’s voice is a barely contained growl as he continues.
“Where have you been?”
.
.
.
On the outskirts of the park, unnoticed by both father and son, rests an observer in an Eastern Hemlock tree.
An owl with gleaming yellow eyes of molten gold.