Chapter Text
Damian is beginning to think that he may have… misjudged the situation.
A tactical retreat is required, to give him time to reassess and come up with a more effective strategy. He had been informed of Wilson’s healing factor through his research, yes, but had still managed to be woefully unprepared when confronting him face to face.
He had been foolish, rushing into things without a plan, the exact kind of behavior that would have him benched for a month if Father (or worse— Richard) had been there to see it. He had assumed that since he has experience, both League Training and Robin Training, that he would be capable of handling the man on his own. He had simply seen the many police reports, and the hundreds of deaths, attached to the man’s name, and…
Well. There had been a number of details police reports had neglected to mention. He had been expecting him to behave more like the brainless hired-muscle types he often sees in Gotham. He had not been expecting— He had been careless, is the point. Brash. Impatient. Tactless.
Still, he had been someone successful in his interrogation, though his methods had been… unusual. And humiliating , at points, allowing the man to toss him around like a ragdoll in order to ascertain more information.
His siblings can never know.
In the meantime, he focuses his efforts on steps three-through-five: managing his basic needs to allow him more time to gather the necessary intel he needs, and adjust his plans moving forwards accordingly.
He is not embarrassed. He is not sulking. He is simply— re-prioritizing. It’s clear Wilson had nothing to do with his arrival in this dimension, or the disappearance of Cain. He had been a temporary distraction, nothing more.
The phone he’d snatched off of Wilson’s bedside table proves itself an invaluable resource, at the very least. He guesses the password on the fourth try (8008135, please, how childish), and though it takes him a few hours to figure out how to navigate the unfamiliar interface, he adjusts quickly enough. He spends the few hours he has until the library opens again snooping through the various apps, (most of which are various, brightly-covered kids games), his photo gallery, (which consists of selfies with various civilians, disgruntled police officers, and masked individuals— most looking less-than-pleased— and photos of a sweet looking black kitten. Of this, Damian approves), and his contacts (incomprehensible. He does not use names, like a reasonable person, instead every listed contact has a series of complex emoticons as their name. Some kind of code, maybe? The messages themselves are equally as strange and pointless, providing no real information other than useless opinions about various food trucks and take-out places, intercut with emojis and text abbreviations he can’t make sense of).
The phone, and the unlimited cellular plan, allows him to find a decent enough temporary hideout— a dingy, for-sale apartment in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, only a few blocks from the alley where he had first woken up.
It’s been on the market for months, with no interest, and the mold problem in the bedroom ceiling only continues to grow without anyone to fight it. Within a day, he claimed it as his own. It’s a decent enough base of operations, if he stays out of the mold-infested bedroom. The heat works, mostly, and there’s still electricity and running water. The tiny window in the living room gives him a wonderful view of a busy street, and there’s a fire escape by the bathroom window that makes for an easy entrance point. Not to mention the location— Halfway between the mercenaries apartment, and that initial alleyway. Perfect for reconnaissance.
The little cash he keeps on him while out on patrol is quickly spent on food and bottled water the following morning, enough to last him a week, if he’s careful. The phone charger he doesn’t pay for, slipping it into his sleeve with the gas-station clerk has their back turned.
Having a set base of operations makes things easier. Now that he isn’t worrying about where he’s going to sleep, he can turn his efforts back to his main goal: reconnaissance.
Once again, Wilson’s phone proves itself to be an invaluable resource.
He is fairly certain now that Wilson had nothing to do with him somehow ending up in a different dimension, like he’d first suspected. He hadn’t even known his name, nor recognized the Robin suit.
Cain would be able to tell if he was lying. She would know just by a glance. As it is, he’ll just have to rely on his own instincts, and those instincts are telling him that the mercenary Deadpool had been telling the truth. He had seen Damian fighting with the men in the alleyway, and intervened. Then, he’d brought him to his apartment, presumably because it was the safest location for a wanted mercenary to bring an injured assumed-civilian without being immediately arrested, and had then attempted to contact the vigilante Daredevil for help.
Daredevil, who also happened to be a blind lawyer by the name of Matt Murdock.
(Vigilantes in this dimension are horrible at keeping their identities a secret. It only took him, like, an hour of research to put the pieces together. How these imbeciles have managed to keep themselves alive this long is beyond him.)
Though, presumably, anyone else who stumbled upon the same information would assume that Matt Murdock being certifiably blind would disqualify him from being a vigilante. Damian, who has worked with Metas before, makes no such assumption.
Videos of Daredevil are uncommon, but he has watched Drake work for long enough to have picked up some of the basics of internet sleuthing. While Google provides little to no information, he finds a practical treasure trove of articles in videos in the r/DevilofHellsKitchen subreddit.
Clearly, he has some meta-gene, or this world’s equivalent, that allows him to compensate for his lack of sight. It’s obvious, now that he’s looking for it. Some of the behavioral ticks he had noticed while watching videos of the vigilante make much more sense, with this information— the odd way he tilts and moves his head, turning an ear towards the location of an opponent long before he turns his face. A bit like the way a dog perks up at the sound of a chew toy squeaking from another room, or how Titus will keep one ear flicked towards him, even while resting, just in case. Jon has the same tic, occasionally, when he’s distracted by the sound of a distant noise, or listening for someone’s heartbeat. Perhaps Daredevil has super hearing as well?
…maybe he uses it to echo-locate, like an actual bat?
In any case, from what he’s been able to find online, it seems that Daredevil has claimed the whole of Hell's Kitchen as his territory. It’s a move that reminds him so much of Todd that he can’t help but scoff— he’d been wrong, comparing Wilson to Todd, it’s obvious that this Matt Murdock is much more similar, despite how different they look— the Devil claiming Hell's Kitchen the same way the Red Hood had claimed Crime Alley, keeping tabs on the criminal organizations that operate within, and protecting the civilians that call it home.
If he’s the resident protector of this section of the city, it would stand to reason that he might have more information about who brought him here, and why. Especially if they’re working for a larger criminal organization.
…Damian sort of wishes he had picked up a sketchbook, alongside the other supplies.
His fingers itch for a pen and paper, or even some charcoal. Something to write or draw with. Anything. Things have a way of making sense on paper in a way they do not when they’re simply floating around in his mind.
He wants to sketch out the profile of Daredevil’s face, the odd way he sometimes holds himself, chin down and head tilted, not observing his surroundings but listening to them, so some noise only he can hear.
He wants to draw out the stark lines of Wilson’s hideous red mask, even uglier up close, the bulky angle of his shoulders, comparing it to his memories of Todd. (How he’d ever mistaken the two, he has no idea. A result of the drugs, no doubt.)
He wants to sketch the woman’s face, the one he’d seen in that photograph— the same one he’d seen in the alleyway that night, he remembers, several hours too late. Karen Page. Any lead to tracking down the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is worth looking into, at this rate.
More than anything, he wants to map out the unfamiliar streets of this horrible city, until he’s committed every side street and alleyway to memory. Until he stops feeling so wrong-footed, alone and defenseless behind enemy lines, in a city he doesn’t know. Until he can navigate them as well as he can Gotham, without constantly having to rely on a map or Wilson’s stupid GPS app. He wants—
Well. Mostly, he just wants clarity.
There has always been a certain kind of freedom in art, for him. In breaking things down into simple shapes and broad strokes, picking them apart until he’s examined every shadow and detail, sketching out his thoughts until they’re no longer filling up his head with noise. He wants to find stable footing again. He wants to understand.
Deadpool is a sadistic psychopath who’s list of victims is long enough to make Todd seem harmless in comparison.
Wade Wilson had… saved Damian’s life.
This is the thing he keeps coming back too, on the day that follows his visit to Wilson’s apartment. He replays the interaction over and over, sitting in the windowsill of his temporary base, looking over the dark street below, examining it from all angles. Turning it over in his head, like it’s one of the rubix cubes Thomas leaves lying around the Manor, twisting it this way and that in an attempt to find some sort of sense in it.
From what he had read online, Wade Wilson, “Deadpool”, was an insane and violent mercenary, a sadist with a penchant for acts of cruel and extreme violence, well-known for his overkill. He’d seen the police reports, the bodies— the work of a man who is clearly not in his right mind.
And, yet…
If Wade Wilson is the violent sadist that his crimes suggest, then why had he pushed him out of the way?
At the very least, he could have simply left him to die. Or even if he had been feeling uncharacteristically heroic at the time— There was no reason for him to bring Damian back to his apartment, putting himself at risk in the process. Damian was entirely unknown to him, a complete stranger who had already proven himself to be more than a formidable opponent, and he’d brought him back to where he lives. Hadn’t even restrained him first!
Then, there was their second altercation. While Damian hadn’t exactly been using the full range of his abilities, he has no doubts that the man could have caused him serious injury, should he have felt inclined too. Especially with Damian giving him every reason to have done so. It would have been simple to snap one, or both, of his wrists to prevent him from using his katana. Damian, despite his training, is still only mortal— and no matter what damage he’d be capable of inflicting on the other man, Wilson would recover. Damian would not.
Except— he hadn’t.
If anything, he’d been downright gentle. Hadn’t even left any bruises. This is perhaps the thing that had stunned him the most, the thing that kept him from immediately knocking him out with a well-placed nerve strike the moment he’d been plucked off his feet by the scruff of his cape.
He’d been expecting a fight.He hadn’t been expecting to be dangled in the air like a troublesome cat so the man could babble on and on about whatever seemed to cross his mind.
Was he so vain to assume himself completely indestructible? That Damian didn’t pose even the smallest amount of a threat? Not even Superman is that dense— true immortality is impossible. Just because Wilson has taken great lengths to hide whatever his weakness must be does not mean that it does not exist, or can’t be exploited. Damian may have been injured, but he was far from helpless. Surely the man must have known that, at least.
And he isn’t completely insane— no matter what the reports might attempt to suggest. No, his actions suggest at least a baseline amount of mental organization. He had been able to restrain him, after all. Not for very long, but still. None of the shots he had fired at the men in the alleyway had missed. The truly insane rarely have such deadly accuracy, nor are they capable of hiding themselves from the law in the way Wilson has. They certainly don’t become well known, and relatively well-respected, mercenaries.
Was he just… stupid?
Damian looks over the reports again, after. Most of the more extremely violent crimes are fairly dated, he notices, feeling a twinge of annoyance with himself for having overlooked such a detail— the newer victims attributed to him being well-known criminals. The kills are cleaner, less… sadistic. The neat sort of executions he’d expect from a violent mercenary with a very long rap sheet, anyways. And while Damian is a Robin, and Robin’s do not kill, he doubts that anyone would mourn the kind of men that Wilson puts down. Their lists of crimes are almost as long as Wilson’s own, and undoubtedly more heinous. Damian feels little remorse over the deaths of child abusers and human traffickers, or drug lords with an appetite for unwilling women.
He finds a few shaky videos of him occasionally teaming up with other vigilantes as well, primarily Daredevil, and occasionally even Spider-Man, to his surprise. From what he’d read, Spider-Man seems to be pretty highly regarded amongst the people of the New York, (with the exception of the Daily Bugle, who seem to despise him utterly), the sort of vigilante who rescues cats from trees and escorts lost children home.
Not exactly the type of hero to team up with violent sadists, and yet…
Wade Wilson, he is discovering, is quite the enigma. A mercenary who seems, for all intents and purposes, to be working with vigilantes on the side of good and justice.
This new information leads Damian to three very uncomfortable realizations.
One: He may have… misjudged Wade Wilson, and it is possible that he may be, at least somewhat, reformed, and currently working with the vigilantes of New York.
Two: Wade Wilson is working with Daredevil closely enough to know his civilian identity, and likely his location. Daredevil, who seems to have a vast knowledge of Hell’s Kitchen and the criminal organizations that operate within, and is the best chance that Damian has at finally getting some answers.
And finally, three:
Wade Wilson, Deadpool, is closely allied with his only lead towards locating Black Bat and returning to his home dimension.
He had also saved Damian’s life.
And he then returned this favor by breaking into his apartment, interrogating him at sword point, knocking him unconscious, and then stealing his cell phone.
Damian lays down on the floor of his hideout, and does not move for a very, very long time.
-
Wade Wilson was having kind of a shitty day.
A shitty few days, really, starting from when he woke up from the best night’s sleep he’d had in ages to find that the itty-bitty Daredevil who he had rescued, out of the kindness of his own heart, might he had, had repaid him by stealing his phone, and only really snowballing from there.
First, he loses his phone. Which means he doesn’t wake up when Spidey starts (presumably) frantically texting and calling him about not being able to get a hold of Double-D, and so could you call him, please, because it’s important, Wade, and not even Foggy knows where he is, so it’s probably serious, yadda yadda yadda. Which means that what he actually wakes up to is a broken window, and Blind Al attempting to chase out a frantically-apologizing Spidey with a broom.
Which pretty much sets the tone for the rest of the day, and then the day after that, and then every day since.
Because Double-D has officially gone dark, leaving only a vague voice message behind about how he’ll be back in a week or so, and not to come looking for him until then. Which means Hell’s Kitchen is more hellish than ever, as the typical scum are quick to realize that the Devil is on Vacay, and jump on the opportunity. Which means that not only is his favorite Mexican Food Truck closed up, but that he has to babysit the Devil’s stomping grounds while he’s gone. Which means that he won’t be able to take on any new assignments until he comes back. Which means that not only is he stuck playing good guy: mostly non-lethal for the time being, but he won’t even be making any money while he does it, and that the responsibility of making sure Spidey doesn’t go chasing after Double-D like the stubborn brat that he is falls squarely on his shoulders. Yippee.
Which is all to say that he’s had an exhausting past few days, really, and would love nothing more than to collapse into his wonderful, heavenly bed, and sleep for a century.
Which, of course, means that it’s time for the universe to deliver another swift kick to the balls.
Wade opens the door to his shared apartment, and is greeted with a sight straight from his nightmares.
His apartment. Is clean
For a minute or two, he starts to think that maybe this is some kind of psychosis. Is he seeing things now? Has he finally cracked from the pressure? Taken a few too many hits to the head?
…What are the odds that Blind Al decided to go on an impromptu cleaning binge during the few hours he was away?
Who the fuck is he kidding. He’s losing his mind.
Wade is about to turn around and walk right the fuck back out (cause FUCK that noise, he’s going to go sleep on Double-D’s stupid couch, he cannot deal right now), when, like something straight out of a goddamn horror movie, the armchair in the living room begins to slowly turn around to face him.
There, in his favorite LaZboy armchair in full assassin-kid getup, is the little terror himself. Sitting ram-rod straight, with the kind of perfect posture that makes Wade’s back hurt just looking at him, wearing a stupid-looking pair of yellow cleaning gloves that swallow his arms up to his elbows. And, just the cherry on top of Wade’s Worst Day Ever, his cat curled up and purring in his lap.
Wade stares at the kid. The kid stares back, expression unreadable behind the white lenses of his domino mask. He runs a hand down Bella’s back, stroking her like a goddamn supervillain. A supervillain who’s feet don’t even touch the fucking floor.
“Wade Wilson.” The kid says, “Well met.”
What the fuck. Is his life.
Belladonna blinks at him, with her big, golden eyes, and the urge to simply slam the door and walk right back out is so, so incredibly tempting.
-
All things considered, things could be going worse.
“So.” Wilson says, fake cheer dripping from his voice. “Looks like you’re not dead after all.”
Damian… does not have a response for that.
He simply watches the man, instead. Runs a hand down the back of the kitten in his lap. Belladonna is as beautiful in person as she was in the photos, her glossy black fur as dark as ink. She purrs like a small motor engine, and busies herself with kneading her claws on the fabric of his jeans. She’s exquisite.
(And well taken care of, he notes, stroking her gently with the care she deserves. She is a good size for her age, roughly six months, if he had to guess. Glossy and well-fed, and he can feel the shape of strong muscles beneath her coat. Her ears are clean and her claws have been recently clipped, and despite the utter filth that seems to cover the entire rest of the apartment, she is free of fleas and ticks. Her collar is a lovely shade of pale violet, and she ravishes in the attention without a hint of fear. Points in Wilson’s favor.)
Slowly, carefully, Damian reaches for the pouch on his belt, never once breaking eye contact. He keeps his hands where Wilson can see them, his movement obvious. Though he can’t see his face, he’s confident the other man is observing him just as closely.
He pulls the tacky phone from his belt, and slides it across the coffee table.
“I am afraid there was… a misunderstanding.” Damian says, choosing his words carefully. He can practically hear Grayson’s voice echoing in his head. Ugh.
Apologizing, atleast, has steps. Protocol. That simplifies things greatly. Damian always feels more secure in himself when he has a clear set of instructions to follow— or to completely ignore.
(It’s perhaps the one thing he missed the most about his birthplace. Despite everything— there was, atleast, structure. I’m the formal way they spoke, in the rigid hierarchy they followed. Rules were clearly outlined, the accompanying punishments for breaking them just simple. Painful. But simple.
How anyone can stand this— this messy way of communicating, no formality, no clearly-defined rules. A world in which he is not simply punished for breaking a rule, but expected to apologize, and make amends afterwards. Where punishments are varied, carefully tailored to the specific offense and situation, and the rules change just as often—
Truth be told, he’s still getting used to it.)
Apologies, atleast, he has practice with, at the behest of Grayson. He knows the steps well, and has practically perfected them.
Step one, admit fault:
“My earlier behavior was…” he hesitates, unable to keep the grimace off his face, his mother’s words ringing in his ears, “Unbecoming and childish, of someone of my stature.”
Wilson blinks at him, and says nothing. Damian takes this as permission to continue, and does so. Step two, express regret.
“It was my mistake. It will not happen again.”
Good enough.
Finally: offer to make amends.
This, typically, is the most difficult part, as it changes every time. Make amends isn’t a clear instruction, not when no one ever really took the time to explain to him what that meant until Grayson. At the Manor, making amends means fixing whatever he broke, replacing damaged objects, going out of his way to mend damaged relationships. He made amends to Drake after purposely tripping in on patrol by doing his laundry for the few weeks it took for him to be able to walk on his broken ankle again. He made amends to Jon after accidently making him cry by giving him one of his favorite sketches of Bat Cow.
In this case, however, there is a blessedly straightforward solution:
“You have done me a great service, Wilson. I vow on my honor that the debt you are owed will be repaid tenfold.”
There. Simple. To-the-point. Wilson saved his life, he will repay the favor in turn. And then some, if necessary, to ensure that the repayment is fair— he’d already began this mission earlier today, by cleaning what he could of the filthy apartment Wilson shares with his possibly-blind roommate. Or, atleast, the communal areas. Going into bedrooms uninvited didn’t seem like it would be taken very well. Still, with just the kitchen and living room free of spoiled food and scattered trash, the apartment is atleast half-way decent. How he hadn’t keeled over already from the smell alone, Damian has no idea—
Why is Wilson staring at him like that.
“Okay. What?”
Damian wrinkles his nose.
He was clear enough, was he not? Maybe it was his phrasing? It’s not his fault that he was raised to have an ounce of decorum—
Whatever. That’s not important. The point is— Wilson is staring at him (presumably), like he has sprouted a second head. This isn’t quite the reaction he had been going for. Okay. Reassess.
“You saved my life.” Damian re-explains, spelling it out for him slowly, this time, in a way even the simplest of idiots could understand. “Therefore, I am in your debt. I should have honored this debt, earlier. I apologize for not… for my lapse in judgement. I vow to see this debt honored before I leave.”
And, if fulfilling this debt just so happens to win him enough favor with the mercenary that he won’t tell his ally about the time Damian threatened him in his own home, that is merely coincidence. He did vow on his honor , after all. A life-debt to a mercenary is not something to be taken lightly. What was that phrase Jon used, once? “Feed two birds with one scone?”
Wilson pulls back, skepticism dripping from his words. “And you’re gonna do that… how, exactly?”
Damian can’t help but bristle at the implication.
“Tt. By saving your life in return, obviously. How else?” He clicks his tongue, giving Wilson a long look up and down.
“It shouldn’t be difficult,” he continues, passively waving a hand. “Considering your complete and utter disregard for your own health and safety—“
“I’m literally immortal—“
“Immortality is a lie.” Damian interrupts, unimpressed. “Just because you take great care in hiding your weakness from the world does not mean it doesn’t exist. There is nothing alive that cannot be killed, somehow.”
(Though, the more Damian considers it, the more he begins to wonder— is Wilson even… aware of what his weakness is? Or does he honestly think he’s immortal?
He files that thought away for later consideration.)
“—also, where do you keep your cat food?” He interjects sharply, before Wilson can continue. He tilts his head towards the metal bowl by the foot of the fridge, running another hand down Belladonna’s back.
“Her bowl is empty, and that is unacceptable.”
Wilson’s head hits the table with a resounding thunk! He murmurs something that Damian thinks might have been, “what even is my life—“ into the wood.
…This may be more difficult than Damian first thought.