Guardian Angel

(rough draft)

A Batman fanfic by Raberba girl

Summary: A "Dick & Damian as Court of Owls assassins" AU. Trapped in the soul-crushing life of an assassin, Dick does his best to take care of his little brother. He tries hard not to think about the way Damian's eyes sometimes don't match his expressions, or why the targets Dick can't bring himself to kill always end up dead anyway.

A/N: I'M REALLY NEW TO THIS FANDOM, sorry for any mistakes...! More notes at the end of the fic.

o.o.o

For once, they didn't underestimate either of us.

There are a lot of things these days that I don't think about, and the implant is one of them. ...Though sometimes I'm kind of forced to think about it, like when I find my neck and fingers streaked with blood because I've been scratching at it again. As if my stupid fingers think I can scratch it right out of my flesh. And maybe I can, certainly thought about it a few times, but even if I was depressed enough to let my head get blown off, there'd be no one left to look after Damian.

Kid thinks he doesn't need looking after, and he doesn't, not in the ordinary way. But things are not ordinary anymore - we were never ordinary even before the Owls got us - and just because he has more life experience than most adults doesn't mean there's nothing left to protect him from. He's ten- Well, eleven, now. He vowed to never take a human life again, and I'll do anything to make sure he never has to break that vow.

"Dami~ What's the mission for today?"

He starts awake on the couch, then looks disgusted with himself. Mellow as he's gotten, sleeping is the one thing I can't get him to do, and he always acts like it's a betrayal whenever his exhausted body gives out on him. "Mmrggh." He reaches for his cold mug of coffee. I pick it up before he can grasp it, and in its place set down a mug of the fresh, steaming brew I just made. He nods at me in thanks as he sips at it. "Mission..."

"Recon, right?" They always give him recon missions because of how young he still is.

"Recon..." He clears his throat and looks more alert. "Recon, right." Brisk now, he taps a few buttons and calls up a file on the computer that's never more than a foot away from him these days, the computer he fell asleep in front of a couple of hours before. I would have let him sleep longer, but I do need enough time to get his mission done before mine, otherwise there are...consequences. He says he usually catches up on sleep while I'm out, anyway, and I believe him because...otherwise I'd have to think.

"There, I've sent it. You want me to go over it with you first, or you just gonna read it on the way?"

"I've got a little time." I spend every spare minute I can with him these days, because I can't take that for granted anymore. I flop down on the couch and wrap my arms around him and rest my chin on his head, basking in the contact with the one precious thing I have left. He makes his usual obligatory grumbles but doesn't dislodge me, and I watch as he gives instructions and points to things on the screen. I really am listening, which distracts me just enough that tears don't form in my eyes. Just enough attention to treasure this moment; not enough to let the fear in.

"You got all that, Grayson?"

"Hm-hmm."

"Check in with me before you start yours."

"I always do. Say, I have to go shopping again this afternoon - you feel more like pancakes or muffins tomorrow?"

"Pancakes."

"Pancakes it is." I always do the shopping, even though he's the one with far more time on his hands. Since I always do his missions for him, he keeps busy busy busy on that computer of his instead. I know better than to ask what he's always working on, or to look too closely at the screen. "Welp, I guess I'm off." I plant a quick kiss on the top of his head.

"Grayson," he growls, but, again, doesn't make any move to push me away. Of course he has his little tough guy act to keep up, but I know he needs comfort and reassurance as much as I do.

"Love ya. See you later." It hurts to let go of him, to wonder as I always do if it'll be the last time I ever see him. I don't know why I always took him for granted before, our lives were just as dangerous before the Owls, but for some reason, these days it's never far from my mind how closely the two of us walk the edge of the pit of death.

"Don't die, Grayson," he mumbles absently, eyes still on the computer screen.

o.o.o.o.o

Before the Owls, I'd seen a lot of blood and smashed a lot of bones and even indirectly caused some deaths, but I'd never broken the absolute rule. I'd never killed a human being with my own hands until they took me. I killed that night to save Damian's life, and though I will never regret doing what I had to do to keep Damian alive, I'm still haunted by the memory of that murder. I feel like the act really did stain my soul, like it's slowly eating me up from the inside. If I was...if I was him...the true Dark Knight, I'd have done the impossible and figured out how to save them both, but I'm only me. I had to make a choice between Damian Wayne and a criminal stranger, and I chose my brother.

Maybe that made me unfit to ever fight alongside the Knight again, even if I somehow escape this hell someday, but I still tried for a while to live up to what he taught me. The implants mean that I can't disobey directly, I accept their missions and defeat the targets, but I still refused to kill at first.

The physical punishments were bad enough, but it was the threat of losing Damian that broke me. Suffering for so long, over and over and over again, then watching him suffer...then not seeing him at all... In the end, I agreed to finish my missions properly.

Except I couldn't bring myself to do it. Without Damian tied down with a gun to his head right in front of me, I couldn't make my hands take another life. I tried cheating for a while...lured a couple of guys to fall to their deaths, left a few more subdued where their worst enemies could find them... The problem was, it was too messy. Not all the targets died, and even some of the ones who did still got me into trouble.

"I'm tired of hearing you scream, Grayson."

"Sorry..."

"And always cleaning you up. You bleed too much, I don't have time for this."

"I just...I can't do it, Damian...I can't...I can't...!"

One night, when my target was sprawled barely conscious at my feet, and I held a blade poised over his heart, and kept trying and trying to force my arms to drive that blade down and end it...a single, well-placed bullet made the decision for me.

From then on, it's been happening every night. Just one bullet every time. I've never caught a glimpse of the mysterious sniper; he - or she - never interferes with my battles; there's never been a bullet for me, only my targets. Every night. The Owls never say a word about it, and there are no more punishments or threats. My supposedly improved performances are acknowledged as if they think I'm the one who started shooting all my targets in the head.

The sniper in the shadows is another thing I never think about.

o.o.o.o.o

After the second time it happened, Damian gave me a gun. He knows it's not my weapon of choice, but he still pressed it on me.

"Just for my peace of mind." He did that thing he's been doing a lot these days, stretching his mouth in an obviously fake smile, making his voice soft and childish as if he thinks it will tug on my heartstrings. (It does. Even though his eyes have no warmth in them, the fact that he even tries to charm me works all by itself.) "Please, Grayson. I worry."

"I can take care of myself without a gun, kiddo. I've been doing it for ages, I'll be fine."

"You don't ever have to use it if you don't want to. Just...carry it. That's all I'm asking."

"...Aw. You know I can't resist those puppy eyes, Dami."

"These are puppy eyes?"

"Hah. You definitely need to practice more before they'll work on anyone but me, but yeah."

"I see."

o.o.o.o.o

I spend most of the day doing recon, exchanging texts with Damian whenever I get a chance. Chat with him some more while I shop. Bring home bags of groceries, put them all away myself because he never lifts a finger to help. That's fine with both of us - he's got his mysterious never-ending computer work; I need to keep busy. I need to keep my brain occupied, stuffed full of every mundane thing I can cram into it, so it'll drown out all the things I don't think about. "...and you should have seen how many kids that lady had! She had two babies crammed into that child seat thing on the front, I don't even know how they fit, maybe that's why they kept shrieking; another kid playing a video game in the cart, she was, like, half-buried in groceries; at least three other kids hanging on the outside of the cart or grabbing food off the shelves and yelling...!"

"Uh huh."

"Heheh, reminded me of some of our own shopping trips- er, back at the manor."

"Mmn."

"Ooohhh, Dami, I think it's actually gonna turn out pretty good this time! It's not burned, and there isn't a ton of oil on the bottom like there was last time."

"Smells good, Grayson."

Sometimes he'll talk to me for real, when he sees I need it. Most of the time he just humors me, which is fine. The sound of my own voice helps drown out my thoughts, and he never complains about my rambling. "Aaaaand I made garlic bread, too! I tried one, they actually taste like garlic this time. Sort of. How many pieces for you, Dami?"

"Three."

"Hey, let's watch How to Train Your Dragon while we eat!"

"Whatever."

I pile spaghetti and garlic bread and salad onto plates, take them and a couple of glasses of water to the coffee table. Gently push Damian's legs out of the way so I'll have room to sit down. As I get the movie started, Damian sets the laptop aside and stretches, rubs at his eyes, then slumps wearily. As soon as I'm ready to settle, I hand him his plate and put my arm around him, using only my other hand to eat. He leans against me, heavy and warm and precious.

I have lots of commentary on the movie. Damian chuckles at all the right places, but that doesn't really mean anything. I have the volume turned up high enough that I won't be able to hear the clacking of a keyboard, if one happens to be in use. I never once look down at Damian, so I won't notice if he's working on his computer again instead of watching the movie.

o.o.o.o.o

I wake up with a gasp, feeling sick. I hate sleeping as much as Damian does. My...?

Blood on my fingers again, damn it; I stumble to the bathroom, peer into the mirror and hiss in aggravation. It's smeared all over my neck, I need a towel...

Blood on my hands. He didn't scream when I killed him; that agonized, gurgling sound was so much worse...I've heard sounds like that before, but never caused them...maybe I did and just don't remember, only remember this time because...because... Oh, God, I saw the life leaving his eyes...

"Grayson."

Damian is so calm as he props me up. I think I'm...missing a few minutes; the blood on my neck is turning brown...

I feel numb as I sit there, dizzy. Damian's voice is mild as he cleans up my neck and treats the scratches I gouged deep into my own flesh. "...quite commendable, the taste bore some semblance to actual Italian food this time."

I failed, let the thoughts in, they froze me. I can't find my voice, so Damian's rambling for me. Tears of gratitude sting my eyes.

"I think the garlic bread does need more work, but with practice, I'm sure you'll master that one in time, or at least make it edible."

I finally manage to speak, though my voice is weak. "You ate...all three of yours...'n' some of mine..."

"Yes, well, perhaps 'edible' was the wrong word. 'Acceptable.' To a connoisseur, I mean; I, personally, don't care what I eat as long as it has enough nutrients to keep me functioning."

My neck is bandaged now, the blood gently scrubbed from my fingers. I stare at my own hand. There's still blood on it, just...not the kind you can see. There will always be blood on it. "Damian..."

"Wasn't there another movie you've been wanting to show me?"

"...Yeah. Yeah, I...here, help me up, will you?"

o.o.o.o.o

In those early weeks, I did manage to hack the implant, but it took longer than I'd expected, and it kept changing. I couldn't keep up with it, didn't even have a hope of freeing Damian from his. If I'd...kept at it, maybe I'd have...if I hadn't given up...

o.o.o.o.o

Damian refuses to sleep (sometimes showers are a struggle, too), but he's okay with the rest. Eats everything I put in front of him without a word of complaint, submits to me combing his hair every day and preparing his outfits for him, as if he's three years old and I'm his mother (a normal three-year-old and a normal mother, I mean, not what he experienced in actuality), dutifully spars with me for the exercise, the few times I can tear him away from his laptop... He's even okay with hugs now. Before, I had to steal cuddles and put up with his struggling and whining even though I knew he secretly liked it, but nowadays, he's usually passive when I touch him. Sometimes he even snuggles back.

He smiles at me more often now, compliments me, encourages me. Makes me feel wanted and needed. Sure, he's married to the computer and often responds only in grunts and monosyllables, but when I'm...really having a hard time...when the Thoughts are buzzing and it's so hard to keep them out and the distractions don't work and the training doesn't work and I'm short of breath and pacing and bursting with anxiety and on the verge of stabbing something, maybe myself... It's like he knows exactly when to come to me and say in that small, childish voice, "Grayson, I need a hug."

He's just a kid, after all. Captured just like me, held prisoner by an organization that doesn't see us as people, cut off from our...from our father. From any help other than each other. I'm so glad he's let his guard down enough around me that he'll accept comfort now without me having to fight for it, and...I really like it, too, just holding him like this. Reassuring myself that we're both still alive, still together. Feeling my heartbeat slow back to normal, my breathing ease. "You okay, Dami?" I whisper.

"I get sad sometimes," he whispers back, and I know he means scared, too.

With our arms wrapped around each other, his face buried in my shoulder and mine hidden in his hair, I can't see his eyes. I made that mistake once, but never again. It's his softness and neediness I need now, not the calm calculation of a boy who knows exactly what he's doing.

o.o.o.o.o

I used to draw out combat sometimes just for the fun of it, the adrenaline rush and the sheer joy of leaping, bounding, flying, the exhilaration of countering every move and knowing how good I am. The fun of taunting and joking in the middle of a fight, of seeing the exasperation or incredulity or fury of an opponent thrown off balance by words alone.

Nowadays, I just...stall, basically. The longer it takes to defeat my target, the longer I can put off the end, when they die because of me.

...I've only killed a single person in my life. That's a scar on my soul I'll never heal from, but...it still hasn't been joined by any others. I never kill my targets, but they always end up dead, anyway.

One bullet, every night, as if I'm stalked by some sort of dark guardian angel.

I never even glance up to look for him anymore.

o.o.o.o.o

It's not so much sleeping itself that I hate, but the part that comes before. Lying there in the dark, wide awake whether my eyes are closed or not, the Thoughts pressing closer than ever. I can't do it, so I just work and ramble and watch and take care of Damian until my body falls asleep on its own, wherever I happen to be. An hour here, three hours there; rarely more than that at a time.

I'm lying on the couch, trying to watch TV, and I can't understand why tears are leaking out of my eyes. It's some cooking show I put on to try to help me make better stuff for Damian, nothing in the least emotional, I don't feel anything at all, but tears are pouring and pouring out of me and I have no idea why. At first I try to just ignore it and keep watching, but now my chest is heaving, it's hard to breathe because of the hoarse sobs choking their way out of my throat, what is wrong with me?! What is wrong with me...?

Damian lays down on top of me without a word, like a cat curling up on a convenient warm body, and I clutch at him. I try to speak, but the sobs are getting in the way; dang it, I didn't mean to get snot in his hair, "Sorry...! S-Sorry, Dami...sorry...!"

"Shut up," he murmurs.

I feel like a child, crying myself to sleep with Damian in my arms like a teddy bear, but I'm too exhausted to be embarrassed.

o.o.o.o.o

I wish they'd let us partner up more. I don't mind Damian going on missions as long as I'm there with him, and for some reason, we've never gotten in trouble for leaving our targets alive at the end of joint assignments. (Don't think about it...) It feels a little like old times again, the two of us prowling the rooftops at night, beating up bad guys, falling into familiar banter, grabbing pizza or ice cream or whatever from a 24-hour place on the way home. The Owls disapprove because they say I bring down Damian's efficiency too much (as if he even has efficiency stats, since his only missions are recon...don't think about it...), but even they have to admit that there are certain types of assignments where we work better together than apart.

"Getting slow in your old age, Talon?"

"I'm not even thirty yet, twerp."

Words slung back and forth alongside the blows; at our opponents, at each other. Just the sound of his voice gives me strength, the way it's so scornful and bored on the surface, yet bubbling underneath with how much he loves every minute of this. I can do anything with Damian at my side. ...Except kill, but I know I won't have to tonight. We'll beat 'em up, tie 'em up, leave 'em, and never have to think about them again.

"Nice one, Junior!" (He has a cool alias, but I like how fake-mad he gets when I call him Junior in the field.) "I'll make an acrobat of you yet."

His response is lost in a roar of pain from his opponent. There's a lot of blood, but I don't have the attention to spare to look, and the fact that the guy's still yelling means he's still alive. I've got my hands full with my own target, who's- pulling out a gun-

Something sharp thuds into the guy's forearm, knocking the gun out of his hand, and he howls in pain. 'Thanks, Damian!' I plow into him, rear my arm back to punch him-

A bullet.

The guy goes still, and I stare down at his corpse in shock. "No..." The one night there weren't supposed to be any bodies...the one night I wouldn't need my guardian-

He had a second gun, clenched in his other hand. I realize that when a pressure in my abdomen eases, and I look down to see how close I came to having my guts shot out. The sniper saved my life. The sniper-

There's a slicing sound, the kind a sword makes when it cuts through flesh and bone. Damian's opponent is silent now. There's the sound of rustling, then sheathing. I can't bring myself to look as footsteps approach, and I try instead to stand up, to stagger away from the man I was ordered to kill.

"Talon," Damian says quietly. There is no trace of horror or regret in his voice.

I finally force myself to look at him - he's drenched in blood. I'm terrified at first, until he reassures me that it isn't his. "D...Damian..." I reach for him, not even knowing myself what I intended, maybe I meant to wipe his gloves off, but I'm clutching them instead, covering the red wetness because I can't stand to see my baby brother's hands soaked with blood. That should have been my job, not his. I should have died, I should have killed before I let Damian break his vow. "I...I'm sorry...we'll...w-we'll get this, we'll, don't worry, I...!" My legs are too weak to hold me; I collapse to my knees before him, pathetic. I hate myself, how much I've failed him, when I'm the one person in the world who's supposed to take care of him.

He rests his forehead against mine and whispers, "Let's go home."

It's the last straw. He's only eleven years old, but I'm the one who's the child here, wrapping my arms around him, burying my face in his chest, sobbing my heart out. He holds me tight, strokes my hair, murmurs things that aren't true but that I want desperately to believe... "It's not your fault, Dick."

Later, back in our quarters, my hands are shaking so much that Damian's finished showering by the time I manage to get undressed. 'Guardian angel. Covered with blood. A bullet every night. There's no way they'd waste their best man on recon missions.'

I take my turn but then just stand there uselessly until the water turns cold, until I'm not bothering to stand anymore, until Damian comes in and turns off the faucet and helps me out and towels me off like a mother with her three-year-old. He heats up some leftovers as I slowly get dressed, and sits me on the couch and starts How to Train Your Dragon and pushes a plate into my hands. Lets me rest my head in his lap after I've managed to eat a few mouthfuls. Says to me, in the long silence after the credits have finished rolling, "It's difficult. Their system is tough and I don't have enough time... I have to cover both my missions and yours - don't you dare apologize, I don't want blood on your hands any more than you do - and re-hack my tracker every single day without them noticing, and look after you and get all the research done and make plans and realize why they suck and try to make new plans that suck at least a little bit less...there's just not enough time to do all that and coordinate both implants long enough for us to escape."

He leans closer. "But I'm not giving up, Grayson. I will never give up. I will get us out of here, I swear to you."

My eyes are blurred with tears again. I was never the one taking care of him...all this time, my little brother was taking care of me. I knew it, but I didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to think about all the things I'm so helpless to fix. I want to tell Damian how sorry I am, how grateful I am, or maybe just how much I love him, but I fall asleep in his arms before I manage to speak.

o.o.o

A/N: I want to do a parallel fic from Damian's perspective, but I'm not sure if/when I'll ever get around to writing it.

The friend who pulled me into this fandom told me about a cool-sounding fic with this premise, but she couldn't remember what it was called, and I couldn't find it on my own. (I found plenty of assassin AUs, but none that matched the "Dick tries to protect Damian from having to kill again, while Dami tries to protect Dick from having to kill at all" description.) After she drew some sketches about it (she can't post them yet, but hopefully she will someday), I got inspired to write my own version. I've been wanting to write Batman fanfiction for a while...I don't know nearly enough about the fandom yet to feel comfortable doing so (IT'S HUGE...and OCD makes it difficult for me to read comics quickly...), but the Batfamily's so dang cute I felt like writing them, anyway.