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Honour Killing

Chapter one

Slight

The boy's face was all to pale and sweaty when Damian ran a hand over it.

He was hot, far too hot and every breath shook his ribs, making him look weak, fragile. Damian wasn't an emotional man, pity wasn't a feeling he was intimate with nor one he cared to be, neither was sympathy. However seeing the younger man in pain evoked a tight feeling in his chest, made Damian want to ease the pain – if only to ease his own.

He hadn't even realised he'd become so close to the boy. But of course, training someone as intensely as the Bats did tended to secure emotional bonds, however reluctantly.

Terry coughed again, his whole body shuddering with exertion and Damian's lips tightened painfully. He wanted to hurt someone, he wanted to hurt someone more than what he usually did. He wanted to force someone to feel every ounce of pain that Terry did - because who had the right to do this? What man felt he was powerful enough to challenge Damian Al Ghul-Wayne by striking down his student, his – No one!

No one could hurt Terry, except maybe him. But that was a completely different thing. So Damian was angry, very angry – whoever was responsible for this was going to pay for slighting his...family like this. He didn't do pity and other sickly, weak love emotions. He did do the relieving of that familiar rage curling in his stomach. Soon...soon...

"Can you fix him?" Damian's voice was calm; he removed his hands from his brother carefully, making sure his father didn't see. No need to make the man think he was getting soft in his old age. Not like Bruce was, anyway.

"No." The old man stepped around him, injecting more medicine. Terry whimpered beneath the fever but the restraints stopped him from thrashing around again.

"Why-"

"I can't isolate the compounds; either I get a sample of the poison or the antidote." Damian's fists clenched as the unsaid, 'You get them', hung around. He stopped taking orders from his father years ago, and he didn't like being controlled, by anyone. It was a trail both he and Terry shared in depth.

"How did he get like this?"

How could you let him get like this?

Bruce shifted, his glare burning into his elder son's back – Damian refused to face him, knowing he'd end up hitting his father if he did. And that was normally Terry's role.

"He was undercover with the Fairweathers. Someone must have discovered him and slipped him something."

"You didn't have someone covering his back?" Damian's lips thinned; how senile was his father getting?

The reproach in his father's voice was enough to still any other thoughts, "There was no one else to put in, Damian. Not without risking their lives."

"Just Terry's." He muttered under his breath, not sure why he even cared. So what if he trained the boy? Terry was slow, thick-headed and too quick to fall for his baiting. He was almost unworthy of his time...except... except Damian knew there had to be something there. Something that had caught his father's eyes, something that against his will was making him consider the possibility that Terry could one day step into their father's cowl. If nothing else, the kid had potential, a lot of potential. Maybe one day, Damian might not balk at the idea of people knowing that they were, somewhat, related. Someday, but not today.

"Fairweathers?" he asks instead, turning around. He didn't look his father in the eyes but moved over to the computer, blocking out his student's broken cries.

His father followed, tapping the keys to bring up an image containing his targets. Three people dressed as socialites, decorated richly for the cool night time. Damian raises an eyebrow as he studied the one in the middle. He hadn't realized Terry would...clean up so nicely. If he hadn't been able to spot the similarities before, then now anyone could. He felt like he was look into the past, with his father staring back at him with those eyes. He swallowed and moved on.

To the left, a young red haired woman was half curled around his brother affectionately, her smile bight but seductive. Together, it only enhanced the resemblance to their father. Damian suddenly become very aware of his father's close presence and wondered if the man saw what he did, or if Bruce was cold enough to see nothing but two possible criminals and a young vigilante. The man on the right resembled his sister greatly, although he was a good few years older, his auburn hair already flecked with a few premature grey hairs. He was smiling but his eyes were rather solemn and grave and the grip around the wine glass was firm and stiff – a man constantly on his guard and who rarely let go of control. While his presence seemed light hearted, he didn't seem all that happy to be standing where he was.

"Let me guess, the girl fell for Terry and big brother didn't approve?" Damian moved back.

Bruce nodded, "Quiet eager to get into my graces, until his sister started to fall a little harder than he approved of."

Damian rolled his shoulders and causally began to loosen his arms, "Didn't want his sister marrying beneath herself?" He sneered lightly – if the man knew where Terry was going to be when Bruce died, he'd be throwing his sister at him. Gotham had been without a queen for so long after all...

Bruce glared disapprovingly, "I believe you've done the same yourself."

Damian turned away, "That was different. The girl was nothing more than a pretty distraction. He needed to concentrate on his job, not on his girlfriend's nagging. That had nothing to do with her worthiness -it wasn't going to last anyway." That was why he had convinced Terry to end it. Not because the girl wasn't worth him, which she wasn't. For an assistant, Dana was acceptable – but Mrs. Wayne? Damian would kill her himself if Terry was that foolish. There were far more reasonable women for his brother to fall for when the time was right.

He moved over to the changing area, pulling his own costume from his bag. He ignored his father's not so quiet snort of disbelief. He didn't care. Bruce had no more approved of the girl than he had.

"So, what is the Fairweathers connection?" He kicked his shoes off and stepped into his 'work' trousers.

"Distantly? The Thornes. They're relatively new, to Gotham anyhow, hence the interest in Terry." Ah, so it was both social and economical interest then. Socially being seen in the company of Terry and therefore Bruce would cement their place in the hierarchy of the elite while ensuring that the businessmen clambered to be involved in the Wayne apparent new investment. He finished zipping up his suit and move onto attaching his armour.

"Where and when?" Boots and then gloves, he fastened them tight.

"They should be at their apartment according to records. Although," he could tell that his father's eyes had shifted from the screen to him, he could feel it, "It's not impossible that they have unrecorded ways in and out of the building. Go for the girl first." Leaving the man for whatever she doesn't say. He had no problems with that. Damian's fingers brushed over his sword but he hesitated. Normally he didn't bring it with him; temptation for a quick and easier solution was sometimes stressful in itself.

"How long?" he whispered, pulling the sword from the sheath, examining the way the light gleamed off of the razor sharp edge, pale blues eyes staring back. How easy, how quick to finish...

"Twelve hours minimum." Twelve hours, Bruce was giving him twelve hours to hunt down a cure before he couldn't guarantee what condition Terry would wake up in. Damian didn't ask how long until the boy wouldn't wake up at all.

He re-sheathed the sword and attached it to his hips. It was comfortably within grabbing range. Twelve hours would be more than enough.

Hmmm, Damian seems mildly pissed off. Wonder who's going to get hurt first?