Hello! So, this is another of the 100 prompts; 10, 'Breathe Again', with some requested TimDami. Probably not what anyone expected, but I'm good at that. XD For reference, in case the summary doesn't make it totally clear, this is an AU in which Damian never went to Bruce. So he's about 18/19, and has been in the League his whole life. Have fun!
Warnings for this chapter: Nada; next chapter gets all the warnings.
The man comes out of nowhere.
A whisper of sound, the slightest sense that there's someone else in his space, and Tim's reflexes kick in. It's just not fast enough to stop the arm looping around his throat, yanking him back against a broader, harder chest and actually lifting him off the ground so he's hanging purely by that arm. His mouth opens to gasp air he can't even start to get as he struggles, hands rising to grab that bare, corded arm and try and get some of the pressure off of his throat.
He kicks backwards, hits something solidly enough that it buckles, dropping both of them. His other foot hits the ground, but he's dragged further down along with his attacker, who seems perfectly content to go all the way down to both knees. His legs slide out, and a fist hits his side with enough force to make him jerk and bow in, any hint of air he'd gained gone again just like that.
Desperation threatens to take hold, but he bares his teeth into a snarl and pushes it away, forcing himself to just think.
He has to get loose, at least long enough to get a breath. Whoever this is doesn't want him dead, or there would have been a knife in his back or against his throat instead of this arm bar. There's no way someone skilled enough to sneak up on him, and willing to attack him without warning or apparent reason — he was just scouting — doesn't have a weapon capable of killing him. So he just has to do enough damage to get his attacker to withdraw, before he's choked out and is vulnerable to whatever goal this man has in mind.
He's being held too low for a headbutt, his legs are at too awkward of an angle to give him much leverage, which means his only weapons are his hands, and whatever he can reach with them.
Luckily, he's got plenty of weapons in his belt. The trick is not letting his attacker stop him from grabbing one. Or several.
He lashes backwards with his left elbow, towards his attacker's side and the arm not strangling him. His arm is grabbed, as expected, but his other hand is already dragging the sedative spray from its pouch and yanking it up. He sprays it up over his head, towards where he's nearly positive his attacker's face is. He knows he's guessed right when the arm around his throat loosens — he gasps a breath — and there's a hard cough from behind him, breath rushing against the back of his head.
He manages to get his hand up between his throat and the arm, yank his other arm free from the loose grip, and slam his elbow back into what he's almost positive is a very solid side. Another rush of air, accompanied by a grunt, and he jerks free of the hold. He falls forward, twists and brings his legs around so he can slam one heel into the center of his attacker's chest.
It's less effective because the man is already shifting backwards, and the kick really only propels him further into the roll he'd already started. He scrambles back a bit, gets to his feet, and his attacker ends up in a crouch, looking up at him through the gap of a black head wrap. That, in addition to the close-fitting, arm-baring, black uniform, makes him grit his teeth. He nearly throws his hands in the air too, he's so sick of this.
"Are you kidding me?" he asks, his voice coming out a little hoarse. "No. Look, just turn around, go back to Ra's, and tell him I'm not interested. I don't care what he offers me, I don't care how many times, he's creepy and obsessed and I'm not interested in being evil. Just no. Go away."
The blue eyes watching him narrow, and his attacker stands. "I am not here to recruit you, Drake," the man all but spits.
He stares, considers the words, blinks. "Really?" he asks, with maybe just a bit of hope behind the question. "Because usually when League of Assassins members show up and attack me — and aren't interested in immediately murdering me — it's another of Ra's' weird attempts at seduction. Should really give him a heads up; I wouldn't say no to some flowers or chocolate, for once."
He has to pause, actually think about that idea.
"Actually, nevermind. I prefer my wooing attempts to not need to be screened for poison, just in general. Not even flowers could be innocent with that man. There'd be some kind of hidden message in the bouquet to have to figure out how to stop a bomb or something. Would it really be so hard for your boss to just like, I don't know, be a normal person or something for once?"
His attacker scoffs, chin raising in something that looks a lot like arrogance. "Do you truly believe yourself so important, Drake?"
He supposes it should concern him more that Ra's' minion is using his real name, but frankly it's happened too often for him to care anymore. He only vaguely still holds out hope that his name doesn't get circulated to every single new recruit Ra's get, and that hope dwindles every time one of them shouts it at him. If Ra's' eventual plan is to make sure his identity gets blown by some ninja yelling his real name in public, well, it's probably going to work at some point.
"Well, all evidence says I am that important, considering Ra's has put so much effort into studiously not killing me." He takes the break as an opportunity to scan the man for weapons, and strangely not come up with any. There might be something hidden, but there are no obvious blades and the uniform is fairly skintight, so anything in there would have to be small. "So if you're not here to woo me, than what? I'm pretty sure if Ra's had changed his mind, he'd have at least sent me an encrypted note to tell me or something. I'd have known the rules had changed."
"Perhaps you missed it," his attacker offers, and then moves.
Fast, for someone with a decent amount of height and a long, lean build. Not fast enough to stop him reacting though, so he manages to pull out his collapsible staff and flick it open, trying to divert the nearly head-on charge with a swipe of the metal. The duck underneath it is smooth, transfers into the brace of gloved fingertips against the wooden floor and the twisting sweep of legs for his. He jumps over that, almost immediately has to retreat backwards from another powerful kick and then yank out of the way of the flash of thin, metal needles aimed towards his throat.
One still slices the side of his neck on its way past.
"Hasn't Ra's got better things to do then send ninjas after me?" he gripes, as he returns the favor and bashes his attacker's shoulder with a quick jab of the staff. It only wins him about half a second before the man is back on his feet.
"I am not here on Ra's al Ghul's orders," the man spits at him, as he makes a grab for the staff. And gets a hold of it.
He tries to pull his staff away from the man, tries to twist it over the delicate wrist and bear down to force a joint lock, but his attacker is a little bit too good for that and keeps his grip. "Some other faction?" he guesses, ducking away from another spray of needles. Towards his face this time; that's rude. "Look, if you're here trying to eliminate Ra's' heir or something then just don't bother, please? I'm not interested and I'm never going to take his offer, so you can just let it go. This doesn't need to happen."
The man scoffs, drags him closer by the staff and lands a painfully solid knee in his gut. "Your lack of interest in being the Demon's Head has no bearing on whether it will occur. You are unworthy of the title and I intend to prove it."
He kicks back, gets blocked with a free hand before that hand hits his arm hard enough he automatically jerks it away, letting go of the staff in the process. The staff gets knocked upwards, hits the underside of his chin, and his other hand lets go too. He staggers back, and his attacker flings his staff across the room, towards the opposite wall.
"So this is some kind of jealousy thing?" is his next guess, as he flings a birdarang towards somewhere in the middle of the man's chest. Not that it hits, or that he expects it to. "Or is it more like the protective parent, trying to prove the prom date isn't good enough for the girl? You know, I think Ra's might be a little offended at either of those options, honestly."
He gets rushed again, but is a little more prepared for it this time. The way his heart is pounding and he's still breathing hard from the attempted strangulation is not lending him much help on the 'endurance' side of this fight, but some careful judging says he's probably just about as good a technical fighter as his attacker, and he's got more gear. Not that it's helped so far, but he's got faith in his own skill. He's beat plenty of people of his own skill level, almost all of them bigger and physically tougher.
"I mean, does Ra's even know you're here? He's not going to be happy about you coming after me without permission."
"Do you always talk so much?" the man growls, right before kicking him in the gut. Something by all rights he should have dodged.
It knocks him back against one of the not-so-solid walls, which crunches a little alarmingly beneath the impact, but luckily doesn't buckle. He forces himself to straighten back up, feels a little tingle in his fingertips, a bit of a tightness to his chest. Something isn't right.
The man sounds very pleased when he says, "Slowing down, Drake?"
Which clicks everything together in his head. "You drugged me," he exclaims, raising his hand to brush the thin slice on the side of his neck and glance down at the smear of blood on his gloves. "Oh, that's not fair."
There's a weight in his feet that feels like it's holding him to the spot, a slight mist to his thoughts that he's really not appreciating. That's not good. That's not good at all.
"Do not be ridiculous," the man says, moving towards him with all the confidence of someone assured of victory. "I drugged you when I had you pinned. That was merely a secondary dose, since I believe I may have underestimated your tolerance with my first."
Alright, time to give up the idea of doing this on his own. He's still in Gotham; hopefully his family is close enough to intervene. If not, if he shouts loud enough Kon might hear him. He'll keep that as the backup plan.
He jerks his hand up, going for the button to activate the com in his ear, and suddenly his attacker is right in front of him. A hand grabs his face, slams his head back into the wall. Yanks him forward, does it again. The first time he gasps, the second time he blacks out.
He comes awake to the sensation of movement, to the feeling of his legs dragging over rough stone and the hard pressure of fabric against the front of his chest and shoulders. Uncomfortable, but not outright painful.
It takes a couple seconds of gathering himself to open his eyes just a tiny bit, to try and figure out where he is and what's going on, without alerting whoever's carrying him to the fact that he's awake.
The first worrying bit, apart from the whole being dragged thing, is that he's out of his suit. He's in some kind of rougher, slightly loose set of pants and a t-shirt, no shoes, and he's pretty sure that his mask is gone too. The second is that there's a piece of cloth between his teeth, tied roughly into the hair at the back of his head. Then there's the floor under him, which is transitioning from large, rough, stone squares into much smoother marble. It looks distractingly familiar, which connects in his head all too well to the memory of his League of Assassins attacker. Probably the worst bit is that he can feel that his arms are bound behind him from wrist to elbow — his left arm's starting to go a little numb, which implies he's been like this for a while — and his legs are bound too, at his ankles and thighs.
None of that bodes well for any kind of escape attempt, and means that whoever took him is on the side of competent, not lucky. Shame.
He's being carried by a grip on the back of his shirt, which also means that his attacker — assuming that that's who's carrying him — is pretty strong. He's smaller than most of his family, but he's still all muscle, and dead weight is never easy to lift, even if it's just being dragged.
He shifts his head a bit, peering over towards the sound of footsteps, but can only see legs, dressed in dark green fabric with a gold accent at the hem, up to about the height of knees. Any higher and he'll have to actually turn his head to look up, and that would give away that he's aware again. Whatever plans this guy has, maybe he can get a better chance at foiling them if he doesn't immediately give the game away. People usually don't make the effort to be wary of the unconscious.
He hears a door creak open, and glances up just in time to be pulled through a large double door, over a threshold, and onto a darker style of marble. It's lit by firelight, and with a sinking feeling in his gut he realizes he does recognize this place. It's Ra's' throne room.
The question is, is this good or bad?
On one hand, Ra's is creepy, obsessive, and prone to trying to outmaneuver and steal him away whenever possible. Being presented on a silver platter might be all the incentive Ra's needs to lock him away in a cell and keep him like some kind of pet. That would not be a good outcome, for obvious reasons, even if he could probably break free eventually, or maybe get rescued.
On the other hand, Ra's is also possessive, and whoever his attacker is might not get a great greeting for having attacked him without permission. He's not going to cheer for the death of the man but, well, it is completely not his fault if it does happen. Getting between Ra's and his obsessions is not a good idea, most of the time.
There's a tense sort of silence, punctuated only by the tap of his attacker's steps and the slight rustle of him being dragged alongside, before he's unceremoniously dropped to the floor. He hits face first, unable to stop it, and has to bite down on a groan at the pain of the impact, glancing over through the fall of his bangs to gauge the distance between them and Ra's' throne.
The small flight of stairs up is barely a foot in front of them, so they're close. Probably closer than he's ever seen a subordinate get to Ra's without explicit invitation.
There's a moment of pause, and then Ra's speaks from above them. "There's a sight I did not expect to see. I believe you owe me an explanation, Damian."
The name sticks in his head, and he almost looks up before squashing the urge.
"I should have the right to challenge my potential rival, should I not?" the man above him says, fearless in the face of Ra's' smooth drawl. "I know you value his mind but Drake is unworthy, Grandfather. Is this not proof enough for you?"
He can't help sucking in a sharp breath at that word. Grandfather.
Throwing caution to the wind he looks up, finds Ra's first — reclining in his throne, with a faint edge of disapproval to his gaze — and then twists his head to look up at his attacker.
Short black hair and jade eyes meet his gaze, set in a glare that's way too familiar for comfort. The man is fairly young, maybe eighteen or so, but he looks a lot like Bruce. The same sharp jaw, the same shape to his eyes, the same expression. There are enough differences for him to immediately discard the idea of cloning, luckily. Darker skin, closer to Talia's copper shade, longer eyelashes, a different mouth, and the build is completely different from Bruce's bulk, but the resemblance is unmistakable.
Ra's' grandson? He had no idea that Talia had a son, and it must be Talia's, because who else could get close enough to have what has to be Bruce's kid? There's no way Bruce knows, right? He can't possibly know that this Damian exists, which brings up some weird questions of whether the son was more natural, or if Talia was sneaking around stealing condoms or something.
God, things he doesn't want to think about.
"We have had this conversation, Damian," Ra's says, with an edge of irritation. "When or if I ever require a true heir, I will choose one. Until that time, you are one of several and you will respect that fact. Do not try my patience; I have no tolerance for disobedience." When he looks back at Ra's, green eyes look back at him. "Detective, apologies for the method of your transport. I shall have you settled in appropriate accommodations."
One hand rises, and then Damian is cutting in with a sharp, "I will do it, Grandfather. I brought Drake here, I should be the one to make sure his stay is comfortable."
He's not positive that he wants to find out what that means.
Ra's' eyes narrow just a touch, before his hand lowers. "Very well. Ensure he's treated well, Damian; I expect to find him relatively unharmed next I see him."
A small, stiff bow. "As you wish, Grandfather."
He almost protests when he's grabbed by the back of the shirt again, but thinks better of it. As bad as the 'comfortable' accommodations might be, he still probably wouldn't trade them for having to stay in Ra's' company. He'll take an uncomfortable cell that he can work on escaping from over having to do one of those weird verbal sparring matches with Ra's, where he inevitably feels like he gave more away than he wanted to, and gets examined in ways he's definitely not comfortable with the whole time. Ra's may look way younger than he is, but his whole attitude still screams awful, molesting uncle or something.
Damian drags him from the room, and he does his very best to ignore the way that he can feel Ra's' gaze lingering on him all the way up until those doors close again.
He keeps track of the directions they head, building a map in his head so that once he gets out of all this, he can at least stand some chance of actually escaping. He already knows a bit about the layout of Ra's' place, but he hasn't really been into the deeper levels much, which is where Damian seems to be taking him. Probably to a cell.
Which actually isn't what happens. Damian opens a door, pulls him in, and it's an actual room instead of a cell. There's a real bed in the center of the room, a section that dips downwards into the floor, arranged with pillows and a low table, and a door he'd lay bets on leads to an actual bathroom. Not at all what he was expecting, but he'll take it over bars and guards.
He gets pulled down into that recessed area, set none-too-gently against one of the firmer pillows before Damian stands back up. He wiggles around so he's at least facing up, towards the taller man and the scowl aimed down towards him. He bites down on the gag between his teeth, and Damian scowls a little deeper and stalks away, towards the door.
It opens before Damian can get there, and it takes him just a second to recognize Talia slipping inside and closing it behind her with a soft rasp of metal over metal. Damian stops short, looking at her with slight wariness, and she glances down at him before stepping forward to touch her son's arm.
"Damian, speak with me for a moment?"
Damian follows her gaze, glancing at him too, before bowing his head a touch. "Of course, Mother."
He watches as the two of them cross the room, backs to him and heads bowed together as they murmur far too quietly for him to hear, and the wrong direction to read lips. He sets to work trying to work his arms out of the bonds, as well as his ankles, while they're not looking. Not that it does much good; unfortunately they're both tight, and very sturdy. The mystery son of Talia — and probably Bruce — definitely isn't new to the art of tying people up.
He could get out of this with gear, or a fair amount of time, but probably not the minute he has, while he's stripped of all his weapons and tools. He's not that good and not naive enough to think he is.
Well, at least his life is basically guaranteed. Not even Talia would risk making Ra's that mad.
After a few minutes Damian turns back around, looking even more pissed off, if possible. He wiggles against the bonds as Talia's son stalks back over to him, right up till Damian crouches over him and roughly tugs the gag down from between his teeth to under his chin.
"Drake, I have a proposition for you."
He narrows his eyes, taking the opportunity to wet his lips. "Why should I listen?" he asks, keeping his voice low, and taking a glance back at Talia, who's standing at the opposite side of the room, arms crossed and hips cocked to one side.
Damian taps fingers against one knee, holding his gaze. "Because it will make you untouchable to my grandfather, at least as far as is possible. That sounds like something that you would be interested in. Am I correct?"
Oh, it is, and Damian is.
He pauses, beats his better judgment down — near anything is better than Ra's — and murmurs, "Alright, I'm interested."
"Good," Damian agrees, and then reaches forward and — despite his immediate protest — drags the gag back between his teeth. He glares as Damian stands and looks back towards Talia. "Set it up, Mother? We will need a distraction."
She smiles, slow and dangerous. "Of course. I will get both you and dear Timothy something more appropriate to wear, and collect an official. I'm sure I can arrange for something… distracting, to occupy my father's attention. I will be back soon, Damian."
He tries to connect all those words in his head, he really does, but it doesn't work. Talia leaves the room, and Damian turns back to him.
"Faster than I anticipated this occurring, but I will do what I must to secure my future at the head of the League. You will not stand in my way, Drake, no matter what promise my grandfather may see in you." Damian crouches again, balancing easily on his heels. "I may not be able to eliminate you without consequence, but I can tie us together so we are beyond the grasp of my grandfather."
He pulls against the bonds, trying to speak past the gag but not managing anything but muffled, completely incomprehensible sounds. One of Damian's eyebrows rises, and the gag gets pulled from between his teeth again after a moment.
"Yes, Drake?"
He swallows. "What are you talking about? What's going to stop Ra's?"
Damian, for the first time, smiles. It's just as slow and dangerous as Talia's, though smaller. "What will stop my grandfather from seeing you as his inevitable conquest? That is simple, Drake. Our marriage."
He stares, and then only manages a shocked, "What?"
Damian reaches forward, hand sliding around his throat and dragging him up half an inch off the ground. "You are my grandfather's favored choice as an heir, despite my superiority. If I cannot eliminate you, then I will ensure that even if you are chosen, I will wield just as much power. It is a simple business transaction, Drake, do not make it more complicated than it needs to be."
"No," he says, flatly. "No, no, no. There is no way I'm getting married to you; not a chance."
"Then it is a good thing I do not require your consent. Now hush, Drake. Your chatter is irritating and I have plans to make before this is done." He puts up a lot more of a fight this time, but Damian still manages to get the gag hooked back through his mouth. "When you are mine, I shall consider letting you speak freely again."