Chapter 7
Jason was pissed.
Well, no, Jason was so nervous he was going to puke up his toenails, but being pissed was easier. Safer (well, safer for him, at least). And the Pit liked anger better, so it tended to pitch in, too.
Adding fuel to the fire, of course, was the fact that his bread had been overkneaded and so all of those loaves had been ruined. One of his shipments had been fucked up by his own goons (a combination of bad weather and a bad judgment call had sent everything south, fast), and now, now, he had to go over to the Manor. Like that was a thing that was normal and he was capable of doing without losing his goddamn mind.
And the Manor would be fine (no it wouldn’t, but it would be manageable), except that Bruce and Dick and Alfred, fucking Alfred would be there and interacting with Dami in front of him. And he was supposed to be normal about that? He wasn’t supposed to chop Bruce’s hand off at the wrist when he patted Dames on the back and called him chum?
So yeah! It was going to go great. Jason could tell.
God, this was the stupidest decision he’d ever made. And he used to keep explosives in his helmet.
Well, he wouldn’t be able to wear the helmet to a dinner he actually planned on eating at, so it would be domino only.
And he wasn’t stupid enough to go bare-faced to dinner in the manor, of all places, so he dug around his personal undercover kit and found the prosthetics and the makeup. If he changed his nose, it should be fine. Especially if he took pains to contour his face differently. And he would-- the combination would be more than enough, even for the Bats. Damian would laugh at him, though.
Hell, that was probably a plus.
Makeup first, and then domino. He didn’t want the powder smearing onto the edges of the domino and giving him away. Waterproof setting spray afterwards. You never knew with this kind of mission (and when had he started thinking of it as a mission?).
A bulky jacket that he’d already modified with body armor and Dames’ handles, and some lightly armored pants. Boots. More knives than any person should own, let alone be able to fit on their person at one time. A few guns.
And, because he wasn’t stupid, the thin, clear gloves that he wore under his motorcycle gloves when he was looking to avoid leaving fingerprints and DNA. They weren’t anything on the civilian market, and the Bats would recognize them for the high level assassin/theft tool they were, but they would keep his fingerprints off things. Jason used to wear them under his Robin gloves, for paranoia’s sake. Dick had, too. It helped, for dexterity-intensive tasks, to be able to take off the gloves.
Dick tended not to, but Jason had preferred to work ‘bare-handed’ with lock picking, bomb-diffusing, and other similar problems, especially if there were time constraints. Damian split the difference, although he did prefer to work barehanded. His prints simply weren’t on file, and so he didn’t have to worry about it, for the most part.
Jason wondered if the Replacement had a preference, and decided he didn’t care. Damian’s preferences were the only ones he really cared about.
Jason pulled over ten minutes out and checked all his phones. how did he already have five texts on his work phone?
The one for his goons was going on do-not-disturb, only. His seconds and lieutenants knew that if they had to disturb him, heads would roll. His burners were all on silent, with the exception of a few…rather interesting ones. Slade’s stayed on, but Talia’s was turned off out of spite.
Jason’s gloves were on, his clothes were as clean as they were going to get, and his makeup was-- still holding up. If it could hold up to a damp motorcycle ride, it would be fine.
He could see Dames soon. And they wouldn't have to complete a mission designed to kill either of them in order to make it happen.
Jason rode one of his ‘civilian’ motorcycles at exactly the speed limit all the way through Bristol. It was relatively quiet, as far as motorcycles went, and it wasn’t as modified as the rest of the motorcycles he rode. It could keep up with a Batcycle for a short distance, probably, but it wouldn’t be his choice for precision handling in a race.
Man, Jason should never have agreed to this.
He was trying to be all normal, pretend like he was Peter, just some guy from the League of Shadows who had a bout of conscience and dug in in the only city Ra’s was cautious in, but-
Fuck. What was he thinking? He wasn’t going to be able to have a normal dinner across from Bruce and Dick and Alfred and pretend everything was fine? Why was he-
Unfortunately for him, the gates opened in front of him and he drove in. Like the idiot he was. He didn’t turn his bike around and gun it for headquarters and the reasonable, reasonable world of gunrunning and drugs.
No. He fucking parked his motorcycle in the circular guest parking designed for galas and other events, and pulled off his (black) motorcycle helmet. He wasn’t stupid enough to wear a red helmet, but man, he was stupid enough to walk into Batman’s fucking house so really, he might as well have worn the Hood. And his jacket, cuz why not!
Pit exercises. He was doing Pit exercises.
He wasn’t even in the front door yet. Fuck his entire life, this was not going to go well. Why did he agree to this again? He couldn’t have thought it was a good idea.
“You’ve arrived,” and Damian wasn’t running, but no one would accuse him of moving slowly.
Right. That’s why he agreed.
Dames was here and looking healthy.
If he wanted to see more of Damian, this was where Damian lived, full time now. Which meant Jason should spend time with Damian. Time that was approved by his other caretakers, not just try to sneak past their (ever tightening) security as often as he could.
Which was okay! If this didn’t work out, he could just go back to doing that, or kidnapping Damian more often, or whatever else they ended up needing to do. Damian was getting bigger now, and as he got older and grew more confident as Robin, Batman would let him patrol alone more often.
And Jason would keep a closer eye on him, of course. Because no more dead Ro-
“Be at peace, akhi,” Damian said, quietly, in League. “I am safe with you. You are safe with me.” Damian was holding onto the rib-handle on Jason’s coat, from the front, with a foot testing the sturdiness of Jason’s cargo pants. At least the kid wasn’t just going for it. These weren’t the ones he wore on patrol, so they weren’t the ones he reinforced the straps on.
The Pit screamed that someone had sight lines to their center mass and tried to make him throw Damian to the ground, with himself on top. Which was rarely ever the right decision.
It was Dick, but that didn’t help anything. Dick wasn’t standing like a civilian because Dick frankly couldn’t stand like a civilian, and so-
“Be at peace,” and Damian was now climbing him like a rock wall. He’d be lying if it didn’t make him feel so much better. ”I am safe with you. You are safe with me. The only green is the grass and the trees.”
And that was true. Jason breathed along to the little chest that had very purposefully pressed itself up against his for a few breaths. He was loath to let Damian get down, and Damian had chosen to initiate touch, so he didn’t have to try to not-touch the way he sometimes did.
“Richard,” Damian called, like the little princeling he sometimes was. “This is Peter. Peter, this is Richard. He insists on being called Dick.”
And as fake introductions went, it was well done. Damian’s face was hidden, so neither of them could see it to theoretically catch him in a lie, and they were outside, so there would be no discussion of other identities.
“Nice to officially meet you,” and it was the Richie Grayson-Wayne smile that Jason was treated to, which, yeah, figured. There was no reason for that to smart the way it did. “Why don’t you come on inside?”
Jason tried to decide what to do with his barnacle of a child. Removing him wasn’t necessary or even something he wanted to do, but he did have to move.
Damian decided for him by sliding to the ground and holding onto Jason’s pants.
Which.
Neither Jason or the Pit particularly liked that solution, but he could still feel where Damian was, so it was manageable.
As they walked up the drive, Jason felt Damian loosen one or two of the most easily accessible sheaths out of habit. Of course, because it was Damian, the most accessible sheathes were the ones around his knees, but that was part of the charm.
There was a strange moment when they reached the front door, where Dick wasn’t sure whether to go for a handshake, motion them in first, or frisk them. Jason’s muscle memory screamed for a hug or a handclasp into a brohug.
Alfred saved the day, as he so often did. “Now, Master Peter,” and Jason was rather dizzily aware of Dames tugging on his cargo strap again. “I have been informed that you are a rather accomplished cook and baker. I am very pleased to have finally met your acquaintance. Now, it seems as though you might prefer to keep your coat on. Is there anything you’d like me to take to the coat closet for you?”
And that was Alfie. Delightfully practical about the number of weapons in Jason’s coat and putting him at ease with hobbies that were a) deeply inoffensive and b) so complex that they could be discussed for an entire dinner, if the conversational choices were otherwise limited.
Damian was looking a little concerned, which -- yeah. He hadn’t seen Jason interacting with anyone from his own family outside of the costume. He’d heard stories but that was always different.
Jason put a hand on Dames’ head and the kid felt like he was pouting about it, even as he relaxed fractionally into Jason’s leg.
It looked like Dames was comfortable enough to be affectionate here. That was good. It had been far too long since the kid felt any kind of comfortable with genuine expressions of emotion-- he wondered which of them had been putting in the work.
Obviously Dickie, because, well, if physical affection was involved, it was going to be him - but maybe Alfred, as well? It sounded like Damian might have been in the kitchen with Alfred and talking, which was more than Jason could have ever hoped for. Dames had a few issues around food, and a few more around trusting the cook or needing to cook for himself, and if he had a good relationship with Alfie?
Jason might worry a little less. And Damian might heal a little better.
“Thank you,” and Jason handed over his motorcycle helmet. “The helmet is a bit unwieldy.” They might try to get shed hair from it, but…that would only provide them with mitochondrial DNA, not his whole genome. And his mitochondrial DNA, in particular, wasn’t particularly useful for narrowing down his identity. He remembered that conversation from Robin training and then again, later, from the League. So long as the root of the hair wasn’t attached, he wasn’t worried.
“Certainly, sir,” and Alfred took it off to the coat closet with a gleeful professional haste. Alfred really did like his job, and he enjoyed being able to be a butler and entertaining more than just about anything else.
“Why don’t we go sit in the front parlor before dinner,” Dick offered, Richard Grayson-Wayne persona easing up a bit. “B will meet us in there when he gets the chance.”
Jason would rather have all his teeth removed without anesthetic, personally. Except that Damian was already tugging him along determinedly. So, to the parlor.
“Hey kid,” and Jason ruffled Dames’ hair. “Remember that these aren’t reinforced, yeah?” And he was teasing. Mostly. Damian was not being gentle to these pants, and they were not designed to handle sharp movements from tiny, well-trained hands.
“Why would you even wear them, then?” Damian grumbled, and he let go to open the parlor door. Jason didn’t grab him, but it was a close thing. The Pit was still right there and making him antsy and paranoid in a way that wouldn’t ease unless he was holding Damian and erradicating local threats with extreme prejudice.
The parlor was much the same as it always was -- the furniture was beautiful instead of comfortable and it was a rather imposing beauty, at that. That was part of the goal, of course.
It was often used to scare off company that was too nice to leave on the front porch and too irritating to let into the more intimate areas of the house. They also used it, occasionally, with guests immediately before dinner -- for fancier dinners.
Which was strange. Jason wasn’t in the social class that should be relegated to the front parlor. If anything, they should be stuck chatting in the entryway or out by his motorcycle. But no, they were in the Parlor.
Was this a sting operation of some kind? Did they have cameras or bugs in the parlor that they wanted to use that they didn’t have set up elsewhere, for some reason?
Damian chose the couch and crawled up onto the middle seat, tugging Jason down beside him. This left Dick to take the winged armchair opposite them -- arguably the most comfortable chair in the room.
“Did you get here alright?” And it was mostly the Richie persona, again. Gah.
Pit exercises. Damian was there, next to him, and safe.
“Traffic was lovely.” If his smile was a little too much like a grimace, well? Who could blame him?
“Peter,” and Damian was being insistent in the way that he was only when they were alone or he was Pit Wrangling. Dammit. “What pastries have you been making?”
Baking was a good choice. And— he would have brought some as a gift if it weren’t taunting Batman just a little too much. “Practicing phyllo, lately, but I’m looking for things to do with it. Got any ideas?” And he could do just about anything with phyllo, of course, but if Dames had a preference, then—
“Is that how you make baklava?” And it was. It was why Jason was practicing his phyllo, instead of buying it store made like most other people did. well, that and he needed the distraction.
“Sure is,” and Jason could breathe through the green now, and better yet, could see things more detailed than ‘threat’ and ‘potential hiding place’ and ‘must protect’. That was always good. “Do you have a version you’d like?”
Dick, fuck him, had gone dead silent. Maybe Damian had signaled him, or maybe he had just gone quiet on his own.
“Walnuts, maybe, this time?” And sure, Jason could do that. Walnuts were easy.
“Sure, kid. What about you?” Loathe as he was to focus on someone other than Damian, he should probably include Dick in the conversation sooner rather than later. “D’you have a favorite baklava? If I’m going to be dropping batches by?”
Jason did his best to communicate with his eyes that, were it not for the kid, he would deliver knives instead.
Dick shrugged airily. Christ. “I’m sure whatever it is will be delicious! The food you drop by always is!” And fuck Dick for being able to deliver that with earnest, air headed sincerity.
A hand was fidgeting with the knives around his knee. This was good. Damian was safe, well, and armed. Jason was there to protect him if he needed-
The door to the parlor flung itself open, and Jason tossed Damian over the backside of the couch. Dames would be able to retreat to somewhere safe (hopefully behind Jason) until this was handled.
“Be at peace,” came Damian’s voice, in League, from behind the couch.
When Damian reappeared, though, it was with Jason in between him and the parlor door.
“B, what did I tell you-“
And Jason didn’t quite green out, but all of his attention was on the warm little body in the harness on his back, and his knife in the wall next to someone’s face.
He needed to not draw another knife unless Dames gave him the signal. No matter how much he wanted to-
Pit exercises. No new knives. Paying attention to Damian.
“-further. If you are to remain, you will do it exactly as I say. Otherwise, please withdraw slowly.”
Damian was giving orders, but he was probably being listened to. No punishments had been issued yet, and nothing was moving that shouldn’t be.
“Put your hands up slowly and withdraw to the loveseat,” and that was good. The other fighter in the room was tense, but hadn’t moved yet. Jason would be ready if they did.
Jason moved his knife just enough to allow for movement in that direction, and didn’t feel bad for keeping the knife at face height until the threat actually finished following instructions.
Then he turned his attention to the other threat. Damian would watch the one he’d given directions to, and he was in Jason’s peripherals, anyway.
“I’m just going to back slowly up and sit in the armchair,” and good, this one could intuit the proper instructions.
Damian slid out of the harness and tapped that he was safe and uncompelled on the back of Jason’s leg before standing with his back to the more obedient of the two.
But both of them were far too dangerous to be allowed to have Damian’s back. Damian hadn’t given the order yet, and to act without orders in a situation like this could mean signing Dames’ death warrant.
He was not going to draw another knife. He wasn’t going to draw another knife.
“I am safe with you,” and shit, Damian was speaking English. That couldn’t be good. Damian only spoke English when they were unlikely to be understood, during lessons, or when Jason was partially incapacitated.
“Be at peace. You feel the knife in my hands-“ and Damian drew one of the blades he had been loosening and forced Jason’s free hand to feel how well the hilt was gripped. “Know that I am armed.”
It was easier, to shove the Pit back, then. Dammit.
English? Why would Damian be speaking English if anyone else was around and he was Raging? Did he recognize any of them-
Well fuck. That just about explained that, didn’t it? Fuck.
“We are going to sit on the couch and you will guard me,” and it would help, to have the instruction at the forefront of his brain. It was almost impossible to think of what he should be doing, except for what the Pit wanted him to do.
Unless, of course, they had learned something the hard way— with enough emotion and repetition that he couldn’t forget it even in the Pit.
Jason stood next to the couch, instead of sitting. the idea of slowing his reactions even an iota was unconscionable.
“Peter,” and okay, right. He could answer to that. “Do not attack anyone unless they attack you or me directly.”
”Yes, Your Highness.” And it would be in Jason’s best interests not to contemplate who it was in the room with them. Not until he was better grounded. For now, he was Damian’s guard, and Damian’s guard only.
Pit exercises. He could do those. Damian was here and whole and safe. The two possible threats in the room were seated and currently listening to Damian. Neither Talia nor Ra’s were anywhere nearby, nor were the primary members of the faction that wanted Damian dead.
“We will discuss this later.” Damian was addressing the two threats. “Father, how was work today?”
Pit exercises. Jason was supposed to be doing Pit exercises, not falling further into the pit. Damian was supposed to be free of his Pit Wrangling duties, here.
“-Lucius’s opinion, but I’m not sure what the rest of the board thinks. I’ll have to attend the next meeting to find out.”
“Or you could ask the board members,” the second threat pointed out, and the threats weren’t allowed to have names right now. Jason didn’t want to think about why. “Y’know, schmooze the way you’re supposed to.”
“Now,” the first threat’s voice was dry and amused. His body language was less threatening now. “Why would I do something like that?”
There were steps coming down the hall. Jason tapped out the sign for ‘incoming third party: unrecognized.’
“I believe it is time for dinner. Peter, you will escort us and eat with us.”
And Peter could do that. He would do his job as Damian’s poison tester, hopefully without interference. He wasn’t sure he would be able to handle interference with the Pit as close to the surface as it was.
The threats walked in front of them, but neither of them liked it. That was fine.
Encouragingly enough, they seemed moderately worried for Damian, not that they were doing anything concrete about it.
Pit exercises. Following orders. Damian was safe and whole and within arms reach.
It was. Hard to focus on something other than his grief-rage-anger-loss-grief. Pit exercises.
There was a ding in the wallpaper that would be invisible to anyone but the person who made it. Jason had been racing down the hall on his crutches, one of the first times he’d been injured as Robin, insistent on proving that he hadn’t been slowed down at all. He’d rebroken that ankle.
Jason blinked. His knife was in the wall, a foot and a half above that spot. Making a new hole in the wallpaper. The Pit exercises were insufficient. He was going to focus on not drawing any new knives, on following orders, and on-
“Breathe,” and there was a warm body pressed against the line of his leg. “I am safe with you. You are safe with me.”
Right. Damian. Damian was safe. That was good.
Jason didn’t know if he could breathe in the pattern Damian was demanding of him, but he would. He would do anything Damian asked of him.
“I am safe with you. Breathe with me.” And Damian was somehow plastered against his chest. Jason would keep him there forever, if he had the chance.
Jason carefully brought his free arm up to support Dame’s little frame. It wasn’t safe to let go of his knife, but his free arm could be trusted with this, if he was careful.
Damian was warm and soothing. Not only that, but he kept watch while Jason wrestled with himself. Jason could either fight the Pit down, or he could protect them. He couldn’t do both. Damian helped with that.
“Are you able to move now?” And Damian’s little hands were readjusting his jacket and sheathes, even as he spoke League. “If so, there is food, and you may guard me.”
Jason took another deep breath. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Damian nodded and hopped down to lead the way he was supposed to. Jason didn’t lunge to pull him back, but it was a near thing. The Pit snarled about the distance between the two of them, as well as the threats that had settled several body lengths away.
“They will be accompanying us,” and that was that. Jason didn’t trust them, because many people accompanied the Heir who couldn’t be trusted, but that wasn’t his concern. Only Damian’s safety and well-being were, and those he couldn’t ensure by watching carefully and acting quickly.