Chapter Text
Bruce shrugged off the hands of the guards next to him, glaring as they fell into step with him. Talia led them to a familiar dining area, an area meant only for the Al Ghuls and their most trusted allies. He was once welcome here. And once again, but no longer as an ally. Now, he was a prisoner following his captor into a life he did not want. His bare feet scuffed the floor, not quite dragging, but a different walking pattern than his typical measured, silent steps. Talia wanted Bruce to be her partner, a fellow assassin; the future of the Demon’s Head. She wanted another child, but he stuffed that thought to the back of his mind, refusing to give in to the tight panic in his chest when she initially brought it up. She was willing to kill their only child to ensure Bruce’s compliance, unless Damian was willing to resume his League training and take on the role he once had.
For now, Talia wanted to pretend that they were a family. Her eyes had followed the movements of the father and son, seen the gentle gaze in Bruce’s eyes when he had woken up from the very long drug induced slumber after their retrieval—her face blank as Bruce nudged Damian behind him, face hard; eyes downturned from the ache of betrayal. Damian had been dragged away from his father and taken elsewhere, but Bruce had been left in a reinforced room with a warning and two guards. Try and escape, and Damian would be killed within minutes. Talia watched her love in his room through the cameras that were installed long ago, saw him take stock of the room—including the cameras—and then sit on the floor and slip into meditation. Presumably thinking through the situation and wondering when she would come back. She was content. This father would not be putting his son in harm’s way. Desperation was too strong a motivator.
Bruce only had to wait about a couple hours before seeing his son again. He still didn’t have a plan, but he had faith that Alfred was already on it. The time change was disorienting, even more so with the sedation he endured during the travel. The ornate gold details of the area were highlighted by the blood orange sunset shining through large bay windows. Rich colors were tastefully strewn across the décor, shades of emerald green and blood red, interspersed with deep blues and iridescent black. At the large dining table, Damian sat rigid, eyes forward and back ramrod straight. His uniform casual, but undisputably Al Ghul. Green and gold trim across light linen, a high collar with short sleeves and palazzo pants. Different from what Bruce had woken up in, the same material but black. A long sleeveless fabric crossing over his chest to button on his side, neckline high but not creeping up his neck. He was fortunately wearing his briefs under the palazzo pants. Two men stood at attention, three feet behind him. Dressed in black, daggers strapped to their hips. Bruce knew they would also have at least several types of poison, sedatives, and drug concoctions on them. There was no doubt that these men had been assigned to follow his son, just like the larger ones flanking him had been ordered to keep an eye on Bruce.
Ra’s sat at the head of the table for this early dinner, only four places set with mild curries, dumplings and seasonal vegetables prepared—steam and delicious scents rolling off the dishes. Ra’s had two seats empty to his right, his grandson seated to his left, with one empty chair in between the two. The seating was purposeful, Bruce and his son had not earned the privilege of sitting beside the Demon’s Head. Bruce would not be sitting next to his son because Ra’s would not allow it. The man could command without a word, a skill he had imparted onto Bruce, once upon a time. The moment they entered the room, Damian shot out of his chair to stand at attention, head bowed towards his mother. His heart ached at the compliance that had been tortured into his son from such a young age, habit easy in the familiar environment. Ra’s stayed seated, eyes shining with something indescribable as he met Bruce’s eyes. A sharp kick to the back of his right knee sent him stumbling forward, one of the men grabbing him by the shoulder and completing the journey to his knees. The one that had kicked him grabbed him by the hair, silently holding his head down in a facsimile of a reverent bow. He didn’t struggle. Not the time.
“Detective.” Bruce heard Ra’s stand up, imagined the nod he must have given to the guards when the hands on him disappeared. When he looked up, Ra’s was smiling, one hand fanned out over his right. “Please, take a seat.”
Bruce got up, face neutral as he moved with Talia to take his seat. He had been here before. He knew how to act in Nanda Parbat, knew what was expected of him: total obedience. Before, it was to Ra’s – now, it seemed like control over him, however slight, was passed to his daughter.
When they were covered in the glow of youth, himself with fewer scars and more righteous anger, he had loved her. She was fierce, beautiful…cunning. She was a force of nature and Bruce was lucky enough to be swept along in her tide. Her passion matched his, but the nature of their relationship petered out when their incompatibilities became clear. He ventured out on his own, escaping Nanda Parbat and leaving the daughter of the Demon’s Head in his wake. Then she called on him for a favor, using their love—his love—to take more than what was freely given. He still felt her like neon in his veins, dizzying at times when he thought too much, when the sensations and his body grew heavy. As his gaze swept over her olive skin, the accent of her deep green dress hugging her body, he couldn’t sift through the mess of pointless strategies and plans to get him and his son away from here. His was heart was beating too fast, sensations contradicting themselves—somehow sharp and dull. He felt dryness in his throat, surely the heat of the region, his lips numb. It was too bright in here, but he didn’t see details as he was sucked into Talia’s sharp gaze.
Bruce absently noted the hard wood of the chair under him, Damian rigidly following his parents’ motions. Talia grasped Bruce’s hand on the tabletop, familiar in a way they had been before...before that. He was still as she did so, limbs weighted down with cold cement. He took a measured breath, eyes roaming over his son with resolve and a small flicker of determination in both their eyes. He didn’t want Damian here, had given himself up willingly because Talia had promised to leave her son be if Bruce didn’t fight.
She had attacked the manor unprovoked. League assassins cloaked in shadows descended upon them in the night. She had done her research, no one else was inside the home besides Bruce and his youngest son; he had thought it by chance, but Talia was too smart to leave things to chance. Dick and Tim had been in Jump City with the Titans. Duke had been studying at a friend’s house and had decided to stay the night since he was tired, evidenced in the notification on Bruce’s phone screen; Hey, B. Gonna stay over, too tired, lol. Seeya tomorrow! Jason was patrolling Gotham early with Roy; Cassandra and Stephanie visiting Oracle for a girl’s sleepover. Alfred was due back in the morning, his plane landing back in Gotham at 9:35am from a short vacation abroad. Bruce was going to pick him up after an uncharacteristic night off. He was too relaxed, tuned out from chamomile tea and a heaping of warm pasta just before he had taken a long, aromatic shower. Gotham was in capable hands and there was nothing major happening in the larger scheme of the superhero world. J’onn and Diana were on call for world emergencies; Hal and Clark still off world negotiating a peace treaty for the Green Lantern Corps, due back any day now depending on how annoying Hal decided to be and how charmed the negotiating species was by the last known survivor of Krypton. He let himself get comfortable.
He had no time when they came, feet too slow to grab a communicator or distress signal; mind calm with the peaceful night off and the warm comfort of home, his shower hot and fragrant in the low light of the master bathroom.
Stupid. Unprepared.
They had been watching them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Damian had been on his way back to his bedroom with a glass of water, not yet ready for bed but getting close. Bruce had been just getting out of his shower, stepping out into his bedroom with only a pair of sweatpants on and water droplets running down his neck from towel damp hair, muscles relaxed from the massaging heat and indulgent soaps. He hadn’t even heard them. He was caught between doors, room full of assassins with swords in their hands. Talia with a dagger to Damian’s throat, hand clamped over his mouth. Somehow, a thought popped into his head, one that didn’t appreciate the danger of the situation they had just found themselves in. I was just going to go check on him, ask if he wanted me to read a chapter of that new book he borrowed from his school library. Talia then telling Bruce that he could come along willingly, or she would take Damian instead. The sinking feeling when Damian was knocked unconscious by a sedative in his mother’s hands. The prick of the needle and the devastation when the last words he heard before it took effect was “Bring them both.” Talia smiling in slow motion, her slim hand on his cheek.
She was smiling like that now, hand in hand with him as the other reached over to brush across his cheek. Involuntarily, he flinched—near unnoticeable if he had been anywhere else. But he wasn’t at a gala or running a board meeting. He was here, and everyone in this room was trained to notice each imperceptible glance, any minute shift in the air. He regretted it immediately when he saw the lines in his son’s face deepen, eyes tightening, nostrils flared. His son averted his eyes quickly. Bruce had to pretend it wasn’t that bad, that he wasn’t physically repulsed by the touch of Damian’s mother. He couldn’t do that to his son. He could pretend, but he needed to breath. Just a second. He looked back at Talia, swallowing and speaking low.
“Talia.” He whispered, close to a plea. They knew each other well, too well. He tried to convey his request with the movement of his eyes, tight tremors controlling his brows and mouth to express his deferential discomfort, a promise for what he would give, if only later.
Just—give me some time. Don’t—don’t let Damian see it. I can’t. He stroked a thumb against the hand holding his, “One day.” That’s all I’m asking for. Talia’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She chose not to speak in a whisper, sardonic, “No.”
She reached forward, pulling him forward by the nape of his neck to meet in a chaste kiss. Just a small peck ghosted across his unyielding lips, the non-reciprocation noted by the way Talia stiffened when pulling her upper body back. He could see the deadly anger, well contained as Bruce leaned forward again, voice still hushed but now more serious, the lump in his throat choking the words.
“I don’t want Damian to see me…inattentive. I can –” Just a day. Please. She read him like a book, always could. From the very first week of his training, glancing blows betraying passion and lust when they sparred. She parried his moves, his words, waltzing into the pocket of space between what he said and what he meant.
Something softened in her gaze, some trace of who she used to be swimming by in the gem green of her eyes. “As you wish.” She disentangled their hands, aiming a pointed look at her son, sensed more than seen.
The rest of the meal went by in a blur, Bruce hoping to speak to his son, even if they were being watched by their captors…But never able to because Ra’s and Talia only had attention on their real quarry. Mostly meaningless conversation, solely spoken to prop up this fantasy that Talia had formed in her mind. Ra’s didn’t speak at all to his grandson, and Talia only asked her son if he remembered his way around the old quarters and training areas. She may as well have asked him something biting and meant to mock, “Did you ever think you would be back?”
As Ra’s dismissed them, Talia motioned to Bruce and Damian’s shadowed guards. They were herded down a wide hallway, Talia’s swift pace leading the group with Bruce. He detected the silent steps following him, but his sons were more deliberate. Maybe he wanted to ease the tension. Father, I am right here. Damian would say, if he didn’t fear the perceived look of weakness. Bruce would answer back if he could, framing a comforting hand on his youngest son’s cheekbone.
But I wish you weren’t.
An apology was stuck in diaphragm, Talia was not always so easy to read, not anymore. But here, she could have been screaming and waving a blade and it would have had the same effect on him. She was cold, her measured pace a front for what he knew was a desire to race forward to their unknown destination. He kept up with her, back straight and eyes forward. A far cry from the corrosion of his insides, the few bites of a light lunch a luxury he now appreciated. He didn’t know why they were all walking together. Damian’s quarters were deliberately kept on the opposite side of this compound, making any kind of escape that much harder to implement or plan. His breaths stuttered when Talia stopped in front of her quarters.
She pushed into the handle, turning the bronzed metal and stepping inside. An icy feeling crept up his spine, engulfing him in the cold when Talia turned around and faced them all, “Bring them in.”
He was shoved inside, his guards closing in to latch onto Bruce’s biceps, twisting his arms back in a restrictive, bruising hold. The thick wood of the door thunked behind him, a lock twisting into place. He twisted his neck back only to see Damian held in a similar position. Damian. Damian. Damian. Thoughts so consumed with the safety of his son, he almost missed the sharp inhale the boy drew through clenched teeth. His son’s eyes were wide in shock, a deep green shine, prompting Bruce to follow the young boy’s line of sight. His gut dropped out from under him, an ice water bath that made his extremities numb. Static.
Restraints. Unconventional, meant to humiliate and vulgar in their implicit purpose. A thin gold-plated collar; a chain trailing down with three matching sets of cuffs attached along its length.
Talia padded over to an upholstered chair, wine red and gold trim in the corner of the room, lazily motioning with one hand. He swallowed, resolutely looking away from his son, even as he heard the small, muted growl when Talia spoke again.
“Strip.” The blood drained from his face, and this time, he couldn’t help but look at his youngest son. His heart raced, eyes wide and anxiety on display before he took a breath. Damian was looking away. His son wasn’t watching.Thank God. This was just a game to his ex-lover. He needed to reason with her, appeal to her vanity and controlling nature.
“Ta—” She ignored him, making eye contact with the guards at his sides. But when had she ever heard him out, when what she wanted was right in front of her?
“Strip him.”
He pushed away from the men, as much as he could, but one grabbed him from behind and held his arms tightly to his sides while another yanked his pants down with efficient strength. He kicked and tried to disengage the hold. No technique, pure panic and disordered movement. His heart jumped into his throat when Damian looked up and moved in place, the guards tightening their grips.
“Okay - okay! Talia...I - I’ll do it.” The man grabbed for his underwear, unstoppable until Talia huffed. She nodded her head, letting the men abandon their swift movements as Bruce was shoved forward.
“Strip.”
He locked his limbs with a concerted effort to keep the trembling at bay, refusing to break apart from what he thought—knew—was coming. He made another effort to speak, submissiveness leaking into his words as he undid the buttons on the side of his top and twisted out of the material, pausing at the hem of his briefs.
“Everything, Beloved.” She pointed her eyes towards his lower half. He choked when one of the men stepped closer,
“Stop…just—” He just needed a second to breath, he peeked back at his son who was still staring in wide eyed horror. His knew his own eyes had conveyed what they needed to when he reached for band once more and Damian’s head jerked downwards, unwilling to look.
It wasn’t like he and his sons hadn’t seen each other naked, many times. Whether in the throes of serious medical emergencies, helping clean each other when injured enough to necessitate it, or just within the lack of modesty that came from being vigilantes in close quarters. He wasn’t the one who started this attitude. Dick was used to it with his past in the circus, and the first time his son had casually walked in on Bruce when he was in the showers, he almost had a heart attack. Up until that point, Alfred or Leslie was actually the one to take care of anything involving nudity with either of them. Bruce was not used to affection, let alone the kind of casual platonic intimacy that his first son was used to. Dick explained to him that it was pretty normal, and it wasn’t like Bruce was some creep…he was family. Their relationship more like that of siblings with a large age gap, Bruce only nineteen when he adopted eight-year-old Dick. So, Bruce respected all of their boundaries, making Dick do the same when Jason came to the manor and refused to even change without a locked door between him and anyone else, only becoming more comfortable after years and many small changes. Before he came back, the only time he saw his second child in the nude was when he was dressing his dead, torn apart body; unwilling to make anyone else suffer when he was the one at fault. Tim had trouble grasping what was normal due to his upbringing, absorbing a lot of social cues from Dick and Bruce, despite Bruce emphasizing that what was normal was just what made him and others feel comfortable. Damian though, born and raised in the League, cared little about personal boundaries and nonsexual nudity.
That said, it was never an issue, because it was just how things were. Selina had told him one time that women, even acquaintances, didn’t care about changing in front of each other. So it didn’t matter. Here though, this was different. He was being forced to strip for an undoubtedly sexual purpose in front of his youngest child. He didn’t know if the fact that it was also his child’s mother commanding it made it better or worse.
The underwear pooled on the ground and one of the guards kicked them to the side. Then he was falling to his knees in nothing. He kept his voice steady; only small, sharp inhales to betray the outward appearance of self-control and reverence.
“I’m sorry, Talia.” He would do anything for his son. He met her eyes, begging her to stop this. He dropped his gaze, head down in a last-ditch effort to appease her. She always did like him just a little bit pathetic. “Please forgive me. I promise I’ll listen.” The pleas were sycophantic as they escaped him, but only one thing was important right now: sparing his son grief; the disgust of seeing his father forced into another’s bed, even if it was his mother’s. Something no one should have to see.
“Anything, Talia.” He ignored the voice in his head that sounded concerningly like Alfred—and nothing anyone, including you, should have to go through—He heard her approach, the padding of her feet on the smooth floor making each heartbeat pound in his ears. His hair was yanked, forcing his gaze upwards with painful pricks across his scalp.
“I know you will.” She gentled her hand, a soft caress soothing the burning follicles before he was backhanded hard enough to throw him to the ground, splitting his lip. One of his assigned guards grabbed him by the back of the neck, bringing him up again as his eyes involuntarily teared up at the rough treatment. Talia looked approvingly before digging her nails into the underside of his jaw. He winced, tension flooding the room.
“I know you will, Beloved. Because you don’t have a choice. You will learn to never say no to me, because if you do not, then you will have one less child to coddle.” The grip on his jaw tightened, his head forced to the side to meet the face of his son.
Damian was horrified. He was furious. He was disgusted and wanted to scream his vengeance. He was helpless to watch his mother touch his father, to – to debase and humiliate him. All because of him. He never should have been born; he was his father’s punishment. A child born out of hurt. He was going to throw up the little bit of rice and vegetables that had made it into his stomach at lunch. He could admit that he missed the rich spices and warmth of the food in Nanda Parbat, but today…today it had tasted like ash and anxiety. His father’s cheek was red and bleeding from the hit Talia dealt, blood welled at her sharp, manicured fingernails. There was a sad look in his eyes, inexplicably sad for him. Damian. But he did not deserve his father’s sympathy, not when the man was going to be...hurt. Because of him. If Damian had not been born, would his mother have forgotten about his father, let him live his life in peace? He wasn’t sure. He hoped. Maybe then the feeling of self-deprecation would make sense. He couldn’t hate himself for no reason, so there must be something. My fault.
His mother spoke again, mocking.
“What are you waiting for, Beloved…an invitation?” her eyes moved to the bed, then to the larger men towering over his father. It was difficult to seem more intimidating than The Batman, yet these men made it look easy with their stature and Talia’s leverage. His father softened by circumstances and love—pure weakness his mother and grandfather said.
His father stood up, a drop of blood rolling off his jaw and silently hitting the floor.
Weakness when he asked them to spare others. Weakness when he cried after his instructor was slain after outliving their usefulness. Weakness when he left and took on his father’s code.
Climbed onto the bed.
Weakness, his mother explained when telling him of his father’s inability to fight her off. How he had let her win—Damian merely a spoil of a larger war he did not yet understand.
Let the collar be secured onto him. Let the cuffs lock above his elbows and over his wrists and ankles.
Damian was the weakness, seeping into his father. Both the seed and the fruit.
Bruce was silent as the restraints were attached to him. The collar was thin (about an inch wide) but sturdy, cold and biting into his neck, the lead trailing down his back and attaching his wrists to the opposite bicep directly above the elbow and tethering those bonds to his ankles. Still breathable, even with the minimal slack. Still escapable… if he had the nerve to gamble safety over pride. He couldn’t, not when he could feel Damian’s tension and fear permeate the room. Or was it his?
The men were pitiless, but panic and helplessness kept him silent. He was caught between despair and anger. How dare she do this to him again? To her own son? How could she be so cruel? It wasn’t the Talia he had once known. It wasn’t the woman he fell in love with, his first real love. He shook, the cuffs tightening with the involuntary tremors. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life, not even when she hurt him the first time. This was an entirely different kind of violation, and he almost wished that he had been drugged again. Forget about the fact that any kind of roofies, drugs, or poisons was enough to put him into a state of panic. He was already there, just more aware than before. And it was somehow worse than his nightmares.
Talia reached for him, another kiss that he snubbed. He couldn’t make his lips move, couldn’t relax enough to physically bargain for mercy. He gulped when she pulled back, nausea ignored as he looked into her dark eyes.
“Talia, please. Please let our son leave.”
“But Beloved, who would keep you in line then? You and I both know that these men –” She gestured deliberately towards the assassins flanking the bed “ – are not enough to keep you from acting out. You would best them easily…” The men didn’t react to the insult, instead keeping their shoulders squared and expressions neutral. “In fact, you were destined to lead them.” She paused deliberately, a lock of silk hair brushed aside mindlessly, “Yet here you are. So he is your motivation. After this, you will know what your disobedience costs.”
“Anything—” he exhaled, suspiciously close to a whine, panic sucked the air out of his chest. “Anything, Talia. Leave him out of it. You are better th—"
“I am NOT better. I am the best. I am the Daughter of the Demon’s Head.” She snapped her fingers, and then there was a dagger at his son’s neck. His dry mouth snapped shut, and cold sweat broke across his forehead when the blade drew a shallow line of blood. “But if you don’t listen, there’s no incentive, is there?” any protests quieting at the look of fear in his son’s eyes. The younger boy feigned nonchalance, but Bruce knew his son. Knew him better than Talia. Damian had counted the cards, lined them face up, and deduced that his mother would kill him just to make a point. A son should never feel disposable, especially at the hands of a parent. Yet, here they were. A standoff.
He choked at a harsh yank on the chain connected to his collar, her hand playing with the tension behind his back while looking into his eyes. The angle made his neck ache, breathes coming in shorter and shorter. He didn’t have much of a choice except to stare at the ceiling, throat dry and mind spinning. His face burned in humiliation, ruddiness stippling cherry spots across his chest. The tension of his restraints branded deep crimson lines where the metal touched.
“Nothing to say?” The grip lessened, his head flopping forward. He closed his eyes, another act of subservience in his reply.
“I’ll listen, Tal—Beloved.” He winced at his own words. Please, Talia. Only one thing. I’ll give you whatever you want. Body, soul, anything. “Don’t punish him for my mistakes. Please.”
“You act as though our son doesn’t know how he was conceived.”
He knows? Bruce internally screamed, tension like a wire pulled across his frozen body, only the smallest flinch betraying his surprise. He knew Damian was aware that Talia and Bruce hadn’t parted amicably, that there was tension within their relationship. His son knew Bruce did not want to be near Talia, too much of a danger to them. But he didn’t know that Damian knew. Only Dick and Alfred knew. Only Alfred was supposed to know. Dick was too sneaky, he had been there when Alfred flushed the drugs out of his Bruce’s system, had observed the dissociated state and stifled sobs from his hiding spot in the cave. Put the clues together and had to be stopped from enacting a revenge that would have certainly ended with his own death at the hands of the League. But Damian—Damian was never supposed to know.
“He’s not a child, Bruce. Don’t be so sensitive.” He is a child. OUR child.
She shoved Bruce down by his neck. His ankles yanked back as he was pressed chest first onto the large bed, left cheek pressed against the silk bedspread. His elbows and wrists ached with the pull across their connecting tether. From his strained position, he saw Talia move towards their kneeling son. Bruce held his breath as she patted him on the head and waved away the dagger with a flick of her wrist.
“Damian.”
His eyes were downcast, fury making them tear up and his hands tremble. He was still as a statue, looking up and meeting his mother’s cold eyes.
“Yes, mother.”
“You may resume your studies.” Damian’s eyes widened in surprise, quickly meeting his father’s stunned expression as the man breathed out a sigh of relief. A vision at contrast with his position on the bed.
“Thank you, mother.” Her eyes landed on Bruce’s guards, mouth a tight line but clear amusement lifting her voice.
“You have been faithful to the Demon’s Head. He is yours until midnight.” She stepped in the direction of her armchair, back turned.
Bruce couldn’t think. He wasn’t ready. He hadn’t been ready for Talia, let alone the two men tasked with watching him. And men… this kind of—he needed. God.
Would they prepare him? It had been a while since he had been with a man. He couldn’t—he.
Stale air caught in his throat, steel blue eyes blown wide in surprise and dismay. Relax. You have to relax. His fingernails scraped his elbows before he could form tight fists, restricted by the sharp edges of the metal cuffs. He noticed wetness on his skin. Moving too much. Blood. Relax. He could handle this. He could do it. Pain is pain. Wetness on his cheeks, but there wasn’t- that couldn’t be blood. Could it? She had got him on the cheek, and her nails pressed into the underside of his jaw just moments prior. But trailing down. Tears. He jolted when a large hand caressed his back. Cry all you want later. Not now.
With Talia, he may have had to be more present to appease her. He could—he could just go away in his head. He had done it before. Talia didn’t need his attention, she just wanted it. The robotic movements of the men indicated they didn’t care either way. He was merely their reward, they were his punishment. And when they were done, he wouldn’t care if Talia climbed on top after. He wouldn’t even know, depending on the damage inflicted. Humiliation would make the scenery soft, this kind of degrading pain turning everything into molasses, not the sharp kind that he used almost like a tool to stay alert.
Damian felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs, body temperature rising as he heard his father’s sharp intake of air, turning as the guard previously holding the dagger at his throat sheathed it in preparation to leave. Damian lunged forward, anguish melding into aggression—just like he was implicitly taught. He was caught by the one on his right, muscular arms wrapped around his waist and lifting him off the ground, then brutally slamming him onto the floor with a knee at his neck. The air was knocked out of his lungs, internal muscles spasming as they fought to move from the temporary paralysis. Talia spun and stalked forward, kneeling to meet Damian’s eyes as he snarled and fought the two men holding him down.
“Damian, did you want to watch?” the boy gagged on the little air afforded to him. His father’s guards stilled when Damian had leapt forward, but now they were looking on, waiting for Talia’s direction, even as one had paused in the process of removing his own garbs. “No! Tali- mmph…” his father’s voice became muffled.
He was yanked up from the floor, head now level enough to see the larger of the two men holding one hand over his father’s mouth and the other with a painful grip on the thick, black hair. He saw the veins popping on the side of his neck, a red flush overtaking the paleness.
DON’T TOUCH HIM.
Damian couldn’t—he—
“Fine.” The exasperation in her tone whipped across Bruce’s skin, even though she was feet away. Her eyes never left her son’s, despite her sharp words being aimed at the man on the bed. “But, one good deed deserves another. I think you owe these men for their quick thinking that just saved Damian’s life. Because, believe me…” Damian huffed, stilling. “If he had gotten one inch further, I would have slit his throat right here.” The young boy swallowed in tandem with his father. The large man removed his hand from Bruce’s mouth. He sucked in a breath, panting, eyes blinking slowly.
“Th-thank you.” He looked the men in the eyes, pointedly keeping his son in his periphery. Talia stood up, turning back to Bruce, head shaking,
“No, no I think you can do better than that, Beloved.” She stopped, leaning down and facing her captive. What? Did she want him to beg for forgiveness from the men serving to imprison him and his son? “My men have heard of you. Your reputation in Gotham precedes you, just as it does here. Don’t they deserve a taste of what you so freely give to everyone else?” Oh. Of course. He wondered if the constant choking from the collar was making his thoughts muddled, or if it was the early signs of disassociation. He was lightheaded, numb.
“What’s a couple more when you will already be of service?”
She straightened up, looking over her shoulder at the two men holding her son. “Leave him in a cell. Grab two others to watch him. Come back and reap what you’ve sown.”
She looked down at Damian before he was dragged away once again.
“If you try to escape, you will watch while I tie him to the whipping post and let every League member in attendance have a turn. Then…I’ll kill you in front of him.” Damian heard a rush of air, the memorable swooshing sound the last thing he registered before sharp pain at the back of his head. Then, nothing.