#i'm a day late and a dollar short but i'll catch up on whumptober prompts eventually

[thychesters]

WHUMPTOBER No 5. WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU’RE GOING? On the Run | Failed Escape | Rescue ao3!

He has to move or they’re going to catch him.

Damian has not stopped running.

A series of tiny little cuts dot the heels of his palms from where he’d fallen and scrapped up his knees as well. He allows himself to catch his breath for a split second before he’s scrambling to his feet and taking off again. He can hear movement behind him and scattered voices, but he can’t make out the words.

His feet pound against the ground and out of the corner of his eye he catches the glimpse of a figure surging forward.

Instinct tells him to keep moving, because stopping means death and death is unacceptable.

His lungs burn and Damian forces himself to move faster even as his palms bleed and his step falters in blind terror, the likes of which he has never felt before. Damian doesn’t feel fear. He gets fear and failure beaten out of him. He has a sword placed in his hand and if he doesn’t hold a proper stance a rap to the back of the knuckles is seen as a kindness. His mother watches and he remembers looking at her with a sense of betrayal when she made no move to stop it.

Behind him, Talia tells him to run and then she screams. Damian’s never heard his mother scream before.

There’s a voice beside him, gaining on him, telling him to slow down, and he barely has the chance to drag in another breath before someone is bodily throwing themselves at him.

“Dam—!”

They make for his wrists, fingers closing around them and forcing them on the ground on either side of his head. He kicks his feet, scrambling for purchase, some kind of leverage, and from the way they hold themselves it’s clear the man above him doesn’t have a clear plan of attack. They shift and he finds his opening, driving his knees up and into their stomach in a surge of adrenaline.

The man—he can’t be a member of the League, because none of them would be so miserably sloppy—grunts and loosens his hold, and Damian takes the opportunity to kick at them again. He rolls into a crouch, and then springs to his feet, mindful of the other figures quickly gaining, though he can’t make out their features.

His breathing is ragged as he pats himself down in search of a weapon of any kind, something, and chastises himself for his failure.

He will be chastised otherwise, later, and Damian is loath to think of what his grandfather’s tactics will be this time. Whether his mother will step in or not.

Failure is death and neither are unacceptable.

Damian takes a step back into more of a solid fighting stance as the figures take shape; one is large, a bulky mass as if injection with venom, another lingers beside them, wavering, while the last, the most lithe one, is that one that shifts and makes any move toward him. The closest to him, the one Damian knocked the wind out of, has gotten to his feet. He says something he can’t quite make out fully, though he understands flank.

At that he moves again, minutely so as to not telegraph his next, gravel shifting under his foot.

“Dam—?” one of them repeats again, and he narrows his eyes.

“Got—good.”

There is a slow nod, and one of the figures coalesces into something more solid, tangible. He cannot make out any eyes or defining facial features, and even so would not trust them. They hold up their hands, a move falsely placating. The man he kicked doesn’t come near him again.

The man in the back, the large one, shifts forward and then his grandfather is glowering down at him. His eyes bore and burn into his skull and Damian stills.

He cannot hear his mother.

“Easy.”

“Need you—calm down. Can—?”

“What did you do?” Damian roars, and thinks he needs the hilt of a blade in his hands, something to better defend himself. For his searching efforts he comes up with a grappling line and sharp bit of metal fashioned into a bat that part of him recognizes and another recoils at.

“D—?”

“Scare—you got—”

He should and can get away. There is a ledge behind him, and if he throws himself at the right angle he should be able to get away, leave them reeling for a moment before they have time to recover. He does not know what he will find, but he is sure he can survive the fall if need be, and he doesn’t have this line for nothing.

Damian pivots swiftly, ready to throw himself and—

“Don’t let him—!”

“No!”

His foot has barely left the ground before he’s grabbed again, and he only has time to grit his teeth before being thrown backwards against a form that grunts as they hit the gravel. Arms wrap around his torso like a vice, followed by legs pinning his down, and he all but growls as his arms are crossed and held against his chest. Panic sets in, crawling up his back and over his shoulders before going off in his chest like a supernova.

“Got you—”

Damian struggles against his bonds, rage warring with panic, and he makes to throw his head back when their grip tightens.

He roars and then he screams. It feels like the lining of his throat is being shredded.

“Here—with—me.”

“Is he—?”

“—toxin—”

He thrashes as best he can. Muscle ache sets in as the adrenaline wanes and gives way to panic and terror.

“—in?”

“Safe—with me—”

There’s a warm cheek pressing against his temple, murmuring something that’s supposed to be gentle but he can’t make out. Damian squeezes his eyes shut and can feel something burst open in his chest.

“What’s—saying?”

As he’s held pinned against the man’s chest, his struggles turn more into twitches, a futile jerk of a stuck arm or leg as they wait for him to tire himself out. He keeps his eyes closed lest he find his grandfather looming over him, and he breaks into a low murmur as he awaits a blow that doesn’t come. The word baba slips out once or twice, he knows that much, and the grip on him shifts. It’s still tight, but in a manner that’s more comforting than restraining which only leads to dizzying confusion.

“Breathe—with me—got you—”

A tremble sets into his shoulders, and Damian opens his eyes to a view of legs intertwined with his, and arms decked out in black and black wrapped around him. When he glances upwards he finds Ra's al Ghul’s distorted features as his father keeps his distance.

Richard holds onto him and tells him he’s safe, though his voice wavers.

He doesn’t feel like he is.

Damian closes his eyes.

#whumptober 2020 #whumptober #damian wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #** #dc #i'm a day late and a dollar short but i'll catch up on whumptober prompts eventually #sorry lil d #cw for mentioned child abuse