Chapter Text
When Bruce travels abroad, now that Alfred’s gone, the cave becomes Duke’s responsibility. This has become a routine that almost never ends in catastrophe (with a few exceptions) and Duke can acknowledge that by giving him this responsibility Bruce is saying a lot in very few words.
(He’s not a sidekick, he’s an equal. No more Robins.)
And while he can appreciate the sentiment, the importance, the solemn duty of the task, it’s for this reason that Duke begins to dread the days when Batman’s gone. The Penguin is in Paris, for some stupid nefarious plot that is blatantly a ploy for Batman’s attention, which means that Bruce left in the batplane a few hours ago in a foul mood and after a full day of patrol Duke is not in bed like he should be.
He’s spending what should be his off shift sitting in Bruce’s chair in the cave and trying desperately not to doze off, while Bruce’s kids (his adopted brothers, technically) who were socialized by fighting people dressed like Halloween monsters with bat themed merchandise scream at each other through the loudspeakers of the batcomputer.
(The computer might not actually be called the batcomputer, he’s only ever heard Nightwing and Spoiler call it that. He’s been doing linguistic aerobics to not say the name out loud, so as to play for both sides of the situation until his evidence has been corroborated by more reliable sources. Jesus, he needs to start hanging out with people other than Batman again.)
Duke’s mind has begun to wander down the dangerous road of budgeting how many hours of sleep he could potentially get. He could catch a nap right now if he really wanted to, but he’s not a light enough sleeper to fully trust that he’d be able to spring into action if someone tried breaking into the cave. Considering the threat level of the night, there's going to be a lot of cleanup to do when the sun breaks over the streets of Gotham, so once Bruce gets back he’ll be hopping straight back into action.
Practically, he knows he should just sleep and trust Bruce’s highly advanced security to alert him to anything going awry. Realistically, he’s looking at another 8 hour energy drink until he can take a quick 6pm power nap once Tim’s home from WE and shows up to do Titans casework on the (bat?)computer before he goes on patrol.
Luckily Tim wasn’t in San Francisco with the Titans and Dick had come when Oracle called, because tonight (of all nights) a gang war had spilled out of Crown Point and exploded in the East End. Duke’s not EXACTLY sure who’s fault the whole mess is, but Jason has made several vows to never speak to the bats again after tonight so Duke can guess someone was sticking fingers into business they shouldn't have been.
Duke's job isn't to provide backup or command the comms though, it's to monitor the cave. A well-rested Duke wouldn’t be able to resist interrupting the squabbling and going full Squad Captain on these idiots. Tired Duke tells himself that the bats haven’t called for backup, and can handle some punks with sub-military armaments. Shivering, he tugs on a second pair of socks and wraps himself a little tighter in the quilt Alfred once gave him to keep himself warm in the cave at night.
“Red Robin to all callsigns, the Low Boyz are planting explosives in apartment buildings nearby.”
They're planting explosives in apartment buildings nearby. Sub-military armaments could have been too forgiving.
There's a sick crunching noise and unfamiliar whimpering over Tim’s mic before Tim mutes himself. Duke can imagine his tinny voice saying something in that terrifying, icy chill he usually saves for Jason, or Damian (people who have tried to kill him). “Other bombs are planted at Low Boyz owned buildings on Simpson and Law -”
“Nearby,” Nightwing interrupts instantly, “routing there.”
“Hold position until we have a plan, asshole,” Hood whisper-growls, “they’re trying to split us up so they can make a move.”
Tim’s mic flashes back on, “The other building is 1143 Quarry street. These three were the targets.”
The comms are silent for a moment before Jason says, dangerously, “ask him about the fourth building, the Sycamore building.”
A beat later Tim’s mic is muted. They wait in silence for nearly three minutes before Tim unmutes again, voice cold and hard. “The Sycamore building paid up, so the explosives won’t go off unless the Boyz there find out something went wrong.”
From the tone of Tim’s voice, it’s clear they should all be taking this information with a generous grain of salt.
“Right, okay,” Hood starts, “this is how it's gonna go. This is my territory and my mission. We've got eyes on where all the foot soldiers are, so they can’t have many people on any of these jobs, they don't have the hands for more than two or three at each building, and that’s assuming the other’s didn’t duck and run after the shots got fired. Not all of the blood is looking for a fight. I’m sending one person who’s position wouldn’t be a loss to go deal with that and the rest of you stay fucking put and get ready to deescalate again.”
“By deescalate, you mean knock heads again until they scatter?” Dick chimes in.
“Precisely.”
Damian’s mic unmutes and lights up for the first time in an hour. “I volunteer for the mission. My position isn’t valuable. I haven't found any disruptions or signs of gathering on the outskirts of the East End.”
“If you’re going then go now, Robin,” Tim snaps, “The bombs could be going off as we speak.”
Damian’s mic doesn’t always pick up the ‘tt’ noise he makes, but Duke’s spent enough time in the ten year old’s presence to picture the scowl on his face. “I am aware of that,” Damian bites, before his mic is muted again.
Nightwings voice rings across the comms, “Boyz are on the move. Driving east.”
“That's deeper into Street Demonz territory,” Jason warns.
The comms are silent in anticipation, before Nightwing calls out, “Orphan, Spoiler, everything quiet elsewhere?”
Tim answers for them, “they’re on a separate line with Oracle, since they don’t need to hear our comms for this.”
“Focus on preventing open warfare, asshole, then worry about rich folk getting mugged elsewhere,” Jason grumbles.
Duke can hear Dick rolling his eyes, “Just because you can’t use names on comms doesn’t mean you can’t use our callsigns, Hood.”
“And just because I haven’t pointed a gun at any of you with intent to maim in ten days doesn’t mean you can stroll around my turf, starting gang wars, does it NIGHTWING.”
There’s a terse pause across the comms before Tim breaks it, “If you think about it, rich folk getting mugged kinda started this whole-”
“Red, absolutely not.”
“Just trying to lighten the mood,” Tim deadpans.
Jason’s mic comes back online and he cuts them off, ignoring Tim. “How many cars and where, Nightwing.”
“Four, going east down King street. Five minutes out from you, at their current speed,” Dick replies, straight back to business.
Tim adds in, “My group’s staying still for now.”
Jason’s silent for a moment, then speaks up again in his ‘reluctant leader’ voice, “Street Demonz are not the threat here, they're still licking their wounds from earlier, they wont start shit unless provoked. Nightwing, get your group to scatter, or herd them back into their territory. Once they realize their plan to get rid of the capes isn't going to happen they’ll go home.”
“Understood.” Duke sees the light of Dick’s bike blink on up on the screen (the batscreen? that’s going a bit too far). “You joining the party?”
Red Hood’s mic is muted, and it takes a long second before he unmutes to reply. “I'll be with you in a minute,” he replies, voice dripping with malice, “I’m preoccupied.”
“Quarry street building is neutralized, no civilian casualties,” Damian's voice rings out, “Moving on to Simpson and Law.”
After that sign off, Robin joins Hood by muting his mic and it’s only a minute or so before Tim and Dick follow suit. Duke spends a few minutes just staring at the screen, eyes swimming in and out of focus. If he tried he could force his eyes to a level of focus where every single pixel on this, potentially the most high resolution screen on the planet, was defined.
That sounded like a migraine. Duke tries it a bit anyway, and quickly confirms his hypothesis.
He watches the screen and envisions behind the call, Dick in a highspeeds car chase outnumbered four to one, Damian swinging from roof to roof at breakneck speeds to disarm his second bomb of the night, Jason doing… well, Duke didn’t really want to know what Jason was doing in the quiet.
Considering how long Tim’s GPS has been sitting in the same spot, He’s either tampered with the tracking system or he’s pulled out his laptop and is multitasking casework while Bruce isn’t here to yell at him for it. Potentially both.
Duke braves a hand outside of his blanket and clicks with the mouse on the private channel Oracle had opened, where she, Cass and Steph were talking. “Signal has joined us,” O’s voice says immediately as he switches over, making him wonder if they were talking about something he wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Narrows?” Steph asks good naturedly. There’s a bit of strain in her voice, and Duke can imagine how she feels covering the entire city of Gotham while three of their patrols, plus Hood, are all occupied with less than a square kilometer of real estate.
It’s probably similar to how he feels alone on day patrol, except at night (a word which carries considerable weight in Gotham City), and without telescopic x-ray vision.
And you know that the Red Hood is pissed at you. That’s a lot to juggle.
Duke doesn’t have a mic turned on, and has no desire to force his tired brain to figure out how to operate the (bat)computer, so he can’t reply to her. He focuses on sending good and encouraging vibes telepathically.
Maybe that’s a power he didn’t know he had. It’s not like he’s ever tried.
“He’s on cave duty, since B’s out of town,” O tells her, “Press to talk Signal, there's a button on the keyboard with a mic on it.”
Duke looks down and, low and behold, the button is right there next to his finger. “Tired,” he announces to them, simply.
Steph laughs, softly. Cass pipes up, “We need clear comms. And we were gossiping. Go away, girls night.”
Duke cracks a smile. “My bad. G’night.”
There is a chorus of goodnights from the girls as he switches back over to the other channel, interrupting halfway through Damian announcing “-is neutralized, no civilian casualties.”
“Nice of you to join me, Hood,” Dick calls out in a teasing voice. He’s remarkably calm, for someone who's been stunting around trucks on a motorcycle for close to ten minutes now.
“Figured I wouldn’t let you take all the fun,” Hood replies. He’s clearly in a better mood now, the implications of which are no less terrifying than Hood being in a bad mood.
Red Robin joins the others and unmutes, “Robin, are you enroute to secure Sycamore?”
Damian’s ‘tt’ is audible this time. “Of course I am. What are you doing to contribute, other than offer meaningless condescension?”
Duke groans to himself and rests his head on his hand. Any more bickering and his own irritation will wear him down to unconsciousness. “I’m dealing with my assigned group of dangerously armed gangsters, brat.”
“By which you mean you’re sitting around waiting for orders from the Hood on what to do with them.”
“If SOMEONE waited around for my orders, then maybe we wouldn't BE in this mess to begin with, demon spawn.” Jason shouts, “Replacement can sit until his ass freezes off before another one of your fuckers moves before my signal.”
Duke’s hand slips off his chin as he jolts awake. “D’you say signal?” he calls out, “m’ here.”
“Not. You.” Jason growls.
“Oh,” Duke feels like someone poured ice water down his back, “Sorry”. Embarrassing himself in front of the Red Hood now. Definitely not on his list of things he wanted to do tonight.
It’s silent for a moment before Tim says, sarcastically, “Oracle told you how to find the mic then finally?”
Duke blinks, before realizing Red was talking to him. “... Man, fuck off.”
“Explosion at my location. I am injured,” Damian cuts in, briskly. The entire mood of the call shifts, and within an instant Dick has unmuted his mic.
“What's your status?”
“Cognitive function significantly decreased, most likely a concussion,” Damian rattles off, “No lacerations or broken bones, I believe.”
“And the building?” Red Hood prompts him.
“Minimal structural damage, hostiles eliminated, no casualties. The residents had evacuated already.”
“They were given forewarning for their payment,” Jason growls, “how considerate.”
His brothers ignore him. “Can you make it back to the manor without risking further injury, Robin?” Dick asks, worry leaking into his tone.
Damian replies with a strong and steady voice, “Yes.”
“Good,” Dick puts his head back on straight and calls out with professionalism, “Signal, if you’re still on the line, make sure to have the medical suite prepared for Robin when he gets there. He's not going back out on patrol tonight.”
“I hear you. See you soon.”
Duke sees the GPS light of Damian’s bike turn on a few minutes later on the map, and the computer (that might be called the batcomputer) calculates an ETA. The medical suite doesn’t need prepping really, unless Damian was lying over the phone about the extent of his injuries (very possible) Duke shouldn’t need surgical equipment or blood transfusions. He checks them anyways, then gets a set of Robin’s pajamas from his room and sets them on the bedside table.
When he gets back down to the computer Robin's just entering the garage, and Duke waits awkwardly for him by the cave’s entrance.
The door slides open, and Damian looks like absolute shit.
His armor is scorched and embedded with dozens of shards of visible debris, his cowl is thrown back, sweaty hair sticking up in every direction, face blackened with soot, visor cracked, and cape in shreds. “Jesus christ,” Duke breathes, “how close were you to the explosion?”
“My hands were on the bomb,” Robin replies in a terse whisper, “Be quieter.”
“Sorry, my bad,” Duke is glad he’s wearing his signal suit as he puts a gloved hand on the ten year old’s shoulder pad, which sparkles in the light of the cave from the film of fibreglass particles coating it and the rest of his suit.
“Asbestos,” Duke says, “You have asbestos on your suit.”
Robin sighs. “Of course, why not. Stop touching me.”
Duke takes his hand off the kid like he’s been burned, but tries to play it off cool. “You’re really having a rough one tonight,” he comments as they make their way across the cave, “Noise sensitivity, any other symptoms?”
“Headache, tinnitus, nausea and vertigo,” Damian drones, “No light sensitivity or cognitive issues. Reaction time and reflexes unaffected.”
Duke just looks at the ten year old for a second before he’s able to roll with it. Damian will always freak him out a bit, but Duke tries not to let it show, “Cool, thanks. Well, you know the drill. Try not to touch your suit with your bare hands.”
Damian nods in brooding silence and changes out of his robin gear while Duke pulls up his medical records on the medical suite screen. Lucky for him, among the numerous and extensive information, for every medical file there’s a complete CT scan history. Duke pulls up a big picture of Damian’s brain at age eight, presumably upon arriving at Wayne manor, perfectly healthy and non concussed.
When Duke turns around, Damian is carefully peeling off his gauntlets. The boy’s gaze lingers oddly on the pajamas Duke had left him as Duke dumps his suit in the contamination bin and sanitizes his gauntlets. The kid reaches out and touches them, running his hands over the fabric hesitantly.
They’re patterned with little sleeping cats, and Duke is hoping that they aren’t his least favorite or something and he’s about to get yelled at- but then Damian stands up and finally slips them on, expression inscrutable. He sits back down on the edge of the bed and looks expectantly over at Duke, who takes that as an invitation to approach and begin his examination.
He’s tried to explain it to Izzy once, that if the telescopic vision was like seeing things clearer than should be possible, expanding his visual light spectrum was the next thing beyond. He consciously focuses his eyes, feeling his pupils dilate, and then focuses harder, minutely adjusting and tuning into his optical lens until shapes emerge that he can focus on. He blinks a few times to adjust to the visual overload, sharpening the resolution.
“What are you doing,” Damian’s voice asks him, and his vision swims a little as he turns his head- woah, okay, too much to process. He sees a familiar image - the brain of Damian Al-Ghul Wayne, and looks straight at it as if addressing Robin’s brain itself, “Looking for internal bleeding. I’m basically a glorified x-ray machine.”
Damian hesitates before making a small noise of acceptance, and does not protest as Duke walks in circles around the hospital bed (guiding himself with his hands, eyes glued to Damian’s head). The more he looks, the more details of Damian’s brain he can make out, blood vessels and gray matter and neurons and woah, what even is that?
“So?” Damian whisper-growls, impatiently. Duke jumps a little. He’d almost forgotten that the brain was Damian, who only tolerated his presence at best and was certainly not at his best at the moment.
Even leaning in real close, he can’t see any signs of hemorrhaging or serious damage.
“Well, I still should probably check your ear canals, but your head is fine.” Duke blinks a few times, resetting his vision until he can see the world normally again, ignoring the strain he’s feeling. His eye muscles are sore, like they always are when he uses his powers. Almost like they’re atrophied.
He’d say as much to Bruce, but then ‘eye strength training’ would become a responsibility of his, and he feels some weird hesitation with beginning the journey into learning everything about how his powers work.
It feels like another big change that he won’t come back from the same. There’s been a lot of those happening to him lately.
Damian lets him guide his head to each side so that Duke can peer down at each of his ear drums, and gives no more protest than a persistent scowl. “Everything seems undamaged, but probably more than a little hypersensitive. That does mean that all you really need is sleep, and if you’re lucky this is a couple-days-to-a-week-of-symptoms concussion and not a couple-weeks-to-months-of-symptoms concussion.”
Damian agrees to sleep in the medical suite so that Duke can keep an eye on him without leaving his post, and back at the computer, on the cameras, Duke watches the kid pass out almost instantly once the lights are turned off. No wonder he was being weirdly nice. Even Robin couldn’t muster the energy to be an ass after the patrol he’d had.
Duke happily kills time the rest of the night canceling Damian’s chauffeur and writing a fake letter from Bruce’s business email impersonating the billionaire and excusing Damian from school in the morning. Damian “fell down the stairs playing soccer on the second floor so that I wouldn’t catch him playing sports inside the house again, you know how kids are,” according to a very sleep deprived Mr. Wayne, who Duke imagined would be writing this email with a glass of scotch in one hand and the other massaging his temple.
He lets Oracle know about the asbestos issue, but he’s still surprised when Dick and Tim both show up a couple of hours later to have their suits disinfected. They leave just after 4:30, and things are quiet, so quiet that Duke double checks that all the security measures are functional and lets himself lie down and drift off, strange, unfamiliar lights and shapes echoing behind his eyelids as exhaustion takes him under and he falls into unconsciousness…
And a second later it’s six am and Oracle tells him there’s a group of muggers at a train station near Grant Park, and Duke is suiting back up into the Signal and hitting the streets.
All Signal really has to do is show up in a flash of light for the sketchy looking gang to scatter like rats, darting back into Gotham’s shadows and away from the light of day. It’s not a very bright day in Gotham, rainy and gray as always, so Duke makes sure to spread enough of his brightness that even the dark clouds above aren’t enough to lure out the city’s darkest sides.
With the morning brings a fleet of cop cars into the east end, looking around and following up on everything that had gone down the night before. As a result there aren’t many brave faces making trouble out of crime alley today, curtains drawn closed and shady figures sticking strictly to the shadows. Not everyone is lying low, but crime is slow enough that Duke comes back to the manor a little early, deciding to get changed and go visit his parents before dinner.
Duke’s docking his bike in the loading bay as the cave alerts inform him of the batplane’s return. He clears the landing space and gets changed out of his signal uniform, walking back to the batcomputer to give Bruce his full report. As he approaches, he can tell from the tone of Bruce’s voice that he was not in a pleasant mood.
Dick and Bruce stand side by side with their arms both crossed, equally contemptuous looks on their faces. Damian, the subject of their apparent disbelief, does not seem phased by this wall of disapproval, “I am fine, Grayson, it was only a mild explosive.”
Dick pinches the bridge of his nose in the exact same way that Bruce does. It’s eerie. “It was a BOMB that you were holding in your HANDS, Dami. If it wasn’t for your suit you’d be in pieces.”
“I have survived worse with fewer resources at my disposal,” scoffs Damian, not really helping his case.
“He's not in any danger, I did a full examination last night,” Duke nods to his mentor, “Bruce. welcome back.”
“There wasn’t a CT scan performed,” Batman says as way of introduction, “There could be damage to his brain.”
Duke winces. “I, uh, am the CT scan. Trust me, Robin’s completely fine, I was thorough. He’s probably going to be sore for a week or two, maybe a month. Nothing serious.”
Bruce looks at him funny, and under the cowl it’s still almost impossible for Duke to tell his facial expressions apart. Dick cocks his head, “You used your powers? Are you sure they’re reliable?”
“I’m certain,” Duke looks to Damian, who isn’t looking at any of his family members and glaring at a corner furiously, “Unless your symptoms are getting suddenly worse, Robin? I mean, I was really thorough with it, but-”
“I am FINE,” the kid spits, “I slept for 14 hours and other than being mildly dehydrated I am experiencing no symptoms of post concussion syndrome.”
“I still don’t think you should be going out on patrol tonight Dami,” Nightwing insists, “Tim and I are both in town and can cover. I don’t want you to overexert yourself and make things worse.”
“I have enough self control to prevent that from happening, Grayson,” Damian scoffs, “I am fully capable of operating with an injury or limitation without worsening my condition or having it affect my abilities.”
“I think also Damian should go,” Duke adds, and both Bruce and Dick look at him in surprise, “I mean he’s obviously taking this seriously and it’s not like he tried to sneak out last night after he was benched.” He shrugs, “I mean, you literally have a broken leg right now Dick. If anyone should be taking a night off to rest their injury, it’s you.”
There is a moment of pause. Dick looks horror stuck. “I have x-ray vision,” Duke reminds him, cracking a smile.
“Grayson, if Thomas is not lying then that would make you a hypocrite and an idiot,” Damian warns, “So please tell us that he is mistaken.”
“My suit is lead lined to protect my identity, how did you…” Dick’s eyes widen in realization, “But I had to change out of it in front of you when we found out about the asbestos. Damnit.”
Batman looks up to the ceiling, visibility takes deep breaths, and then faces his wards. “Nightwing, admit yourself to the medical suite and wait for me there. Damian, you are cleared for patrol under the condition that you are careful not to aggravate your concussion. For the next twenty minutes I am going to sit down in my chair and drink my coffee, and none of you are going to bother me. Understood?”
“Understood,” The three of them parrot back, in varying degrees of defeated. Grayson slinks off with his tail between his legs and Batman slumps heavily into his chair at the batcomputer, grumbling inaudibly as he presses a button on the wall.
“Thomas,” Damian snaps, and Duke looks down to see the kid standing right next to him, arms crossed. “Are you leaving to acquire dinner at this moment?”
“Huh?” Duke meets Damian’s eyes and looks down at the keys to Bruce’s jag in his hands. “Oh, no I wasn’t. I was going to visit my parents, actually. Bruce didn’t have a dinner plan?”
The kid purses his lips. “Since the passing of Pennyworth, Father has had… difficulty adjusting to the domestic responsibilities of a homeowner.”
Bruce, who is less than twenty meters away from the conversation, is pouring his coffee and pretending they don’t exist. Duke guesses this means they are correct.
“If you place an order I can pick something up to bring back once I’m done,” he suggests, “I think the kebab place in the Bowery does pick up, and that’s right by the home.”
Damian nods, “That is satisfactory.”
“Alright then, I’ll be back in like, an hour and a half,” Duke slaps his own face, trying to jolt some energy back into himself, “Man, you owe for all of this bro.”
“Hmmm” Damian narrows his eyes at Duke and appraises him with suspicion, “As you have been of mild assistance to me in Father’s leave, a singular favor is acceptable. Obviously your assistance wasn’t necessary, and I could have done everything by myself.”
Duke is barely paying attention to him as he walks away, distracted thinking about eating enough kebab that he explodes and then passing out for twelve hours. “Yeah, course Dami, see you in a bit.”
Damian frowns at Duke’s retreating back. His father’s newest ward had never used such a familiar ‘nickname’ for him before. Thomas held a healthy amount of both fear and respect towards Damian, which Robin appreciated, and allowed him to keep his distance.
Obviously, some of that distance would erode with time and exposure, as should be expected. Damian had not expected to be forced to endure ’nicknames’ this early on, but at least Thomas had yet to refer to him as Drake’s epithet of choice, “demon brat”.
Damian looks down at the pajamas he is wearing. They were a Christmas gift from Father, and they accompanied a sizable donation to the Gotham Humane Society. He is beginning to feel what Grayson would describe as “friendly”. Perhaps his post concussion syndrome is worse than he had assessed.
(Somewhere in Gotham, Jason Todd is staking out the Sycamore building while it’s fumigated, and with every second that goes by with that fucking mesothelioma commercial stuck in his head, he gets another second closer to murder.)