Chapter Text
Lilting music of fine strings poured through the delicately lit cavern of a room as Damian shifted awkwardly in his starched suit. The crisp lines and restrictive fabric made him feel like a doll on display. Each move was stiff and filled his chest with a tightness he couldn’t name. The strong-smelling gel in his hair made his scalp itch. Every fiber of his being was devoted to keeping his hands at his sides to not ruin Pennyworth’s hard work.
It was the first time Father had made him come to this stuffy gala to show him off to the media and society. Bruce Wayne’s biological baby boy, the newest addition to the large family roster. To keep up appearances, they had said. An idiotic ploy. Yet he plastered on the mask of a wide-eyed youth who still had yet to learn of the new world he was thrust into.
There were few children his age here. Most stuck close to their parents or sat silently at tables. Their eyes were always skittishly watching each adult around the room. The children reminded him of the feral cats he would meet on patrol. On guard, with an air of confident strength to hide any uneasiness. Damian couldn’t figure out why they acted like this. The elite weren’t much more than gilded smiles and false words.
His footsteps were silent as he took a step back from the masses, wishing for a better view. He could still taste the memory of the dinner that was served on his tongue. The only thing he found enjoyable was the variety of breads. The rest were either non-vegetarian or strange mushy dishes. What happened to rice? What happened to flavor and texture both important rather than expensive ingredients? Food was supposed to be enjoyed, especially in a place as decadent as this.
The sound of Father’s strange persona making a fool of himself came from a crowd of cocktail dresses and jewel-toned suits. Damian caught a glimpse of alcohol-soaked button-downs and the brilliant grin he had yet to master. He did not understand why the public view of “Brucie Wayne” was seen to be an accurate assessment when he knew his father’s true self. He rolled his eyes and sipped his water.
Businessmen shook hands and socialites whispered conspiratorially. A few teens snuck glasses of champagne like they would be in trouble if they were caught. A giggling blonde was practically throwing herself at Grayson. Damian held back a sneer. Disgraceful behavior with drunken excuses.
A clawed hand grasped his shoulder, sending his hand reflexively to his side, where his sword should have been if Father had not taken it from him in the car. He should have realized that the clatter of heels behind him was approaching.
“Why hello dear. You must be Brucie’s newest addition to the household. My my, you sure do have your father’s looks.” The voice was sickly sweet, matching her breath and the Pinot Noir swirling in her hand. Wrinkles shattered across her face, the lines tugging strangely at her expression, leaving a blankness on its expanse. Her silver hair was slicked back into a thin bun, drawing her expression in even stranger directions. She had leathery skin the same shade as the cappuccino that Oracle always had. The green of her silk slip dress reminded him of the cud Batcow was chewing on this morning. There were embroidered symbols of dark green spades around her v-neck. Her stiletto nails dug into his shoulders, holding him in place.
Damian took a moment to collect himself, the older woman’s sudden appearance rattling him more than it should have.
“Hello, ma’am. And you are?” His voice was soft, having pulled his mask of innocence to the forefront as he tried to gather his wits. He couldn’t help but fixate on the way she sucked at her teeth as her caramel eyes trailed up and down his shorter form. Her breath was hot on his face as she leaned closer to him, the stabbing of her nails still keeping him pinned.
She laughed breathily, “Oh you’re so darling. I could just eat you up. I’m Lorelai Mayers, but you can call me Lorelai.” Despite her thin stature, her grip was tight enough to push him to take steps back. The tightness in his chest grew, flowing into every limb like a neurotoxin.
Damian tried to analyze the situation. She was intoxicated, with the way she swayed slightly, her red eyes, and the weight she put on his shoulders for support. Alarm bells were ringing in his head, the intuition’s tug telling him to bolt, to run straight home. But she wasn’t a threat, just an older woman who was wine-drunk.
“Dear,” she cooed, “tell me, how old are you now?” Her thumb rubbed soft circles into his shoulder, hardly countering the pain of her other fingers. She downed a few more gulps of her ruby-colored drink, smacking her lips afterward.
“I’m ten, Mrs. Mayers.” Damian tried to look around her for his father and brother, but they seemed to be too occupied at the moment. He tried to sip his water to combat the sudden dryness on his tongue, but his glass was empty.
“Oh just call me Lorelai, darling,” She corrected, setting the Pinot Noir down on a nearby table, and then took his water glass, setting it beside her drink. Her expression was tender, almost grandmotherly as she helped him. Yet her smile was a little too sharp.
“So tell me, darling, what do you think of my gala?” She hummed, her claws digging in a little more into his shoulder. Damian held back a sneering grimace.
“It’s boring.” He ground out through his teeth, the barbed words only softened by the tightness that continued to grow in his chest. Her perfume made him want to gag. Sickly sweet like the rest of her. Damian wracked his brain for any information on her, but all he could come up with were the faces of his brothers as they grimaced.
Lorelai laughed haughtily, “Oh so honest too! You’re such a doll!” She pinched his cheek with her free hand, and Damian had to bite his tongue to restrain himself.
She’s a civilian and the host. You can’t hurt her because you’re uncomfortable. Just disengage.
He kept these thoughts in his head as she continued to push him toward one of the doors near the back of the ballroom. He felt as stiff as his suit. Lorelai’s firm hands ignored his attempts to put the brakes on.
Lorelai continued to babble, “Now I understand that these galas are stuffy and drag on for you young boys. You’re ten now. There are more interesting things out here. Just think of me as a grandma ready to spoil you.” A brief thought of the stories of Granny Goodness passed through his mind, making his nose wrinkle.
“I need to stay he-” He tried to protest, his hands reaching for hers.
“Now darling, we’re just taking a step outside, it’s much too loud to talk in here. You don’t want to refuse a request of your host, do you?” She cooed. Every danger sense in his body was going off, yet he couldn’t move. He couldn’t fight back, even though there was no direct threat to him. Yet.
“But-” Damian’s voice had never felt so small, so weak. What was happening to him? He was the son of the Bat! This was an unarmed, old woman. His body wasn’t responding to him. He helplessly grabbed at her hands in a poor attempt to escape.
She nudged him through the door, the bright lights fading as it shut silently behind them. An ominous chill fled down his spine as if he had watched his fate be sealed. Her free hand ran sharply through his hair, making it fall in his face.
Her claws released his bruised shoulders, her hands smoothing down his lapels as she murmured to him, “You’re quite like your father. You have his handsome, strong features, but with all of that lovely youth.”
He could barely make out the sheen of her silver locks in the darkness of the quiet hallway. Her hands on his chest nudged him back again, against the wall as they started to slide down. Nausea followed her fingers.
She doesn’t have a weapon, fight back!
Stiff muscles refused to respond as her fingers fiddled with the buttons of his shirt.