Damian Wayne | Robin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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dreamsanddisasters2014-09-17 01:09 am
earlybird) wrote in dreamsanddisasters2014-09-17 01:09 am
Entry tags:
Dad!Jason AU (For Sarah)
Where are we going, Mama?
To see your father, my darling.
[ Her hand squeezes his, and his attention is drawn away from his small window to the outside world. Away from the wing, where he's been staring in endless fascination at the flap check, the heat and air boiling from the engines as the sound picks up, how the covers slide into place and the wheels begin eating up pavement.
He squeezes back, unafraid even as the carriage shakes and the nose tips up and the landing gear retracts with a thunk. He can feel gravity sliding down his shoulders, to his stomach; his ears pop, unevenly. ]
To see Father? But, I thought--
[ His mother runs her hand through his hair in a wordless command for him to hush, smoothing the stubborn, curling whorls down, and her thumb brushes over one of his growing collection of scars - a small notch in his tan skin, hidden just behind his ear. His fault; he hadn't been quick enough. He's learned better, since. ]
It isn't safe for you with me anymore, Damian. He'll care for you in my stead, until you can be returned to my side.
[ A simple explanation, devoid of details. His nose wrinkles, lips turning down in a pout, because that's hardly a satisfactory answer, but Damian doesn't question his mother, and he knows better than to argue against her. He bites his tongue, and turns his unhappy stare back out the window; watching the unbroken field of clouds and wishing, quietly, for something more, though he can't say what for sure. ]
[ She's gone, and, after mutely watching the door for a few minutes, he slowly begins to come to terms with the fact that she's not coming back anytime soon. The small carry-on bag of his things (the emergency bag, the one they always kept ready) is leaning against the wall, and he spends every effort to look around the place--
--without actually looking at Jason.
The apartment is smaller than he's used to. The architecture is different, closed and cramped compared to the open halls and classical touches of his mother's compound. The safehouse is buried in Gotham, and really isn't much to look at, though his sharp, observant stare seems to easily pick out and focus on the hidden nooks and crannies scattered about that hold Jason's store of weapons. The bookshelf catches his gaze for a minute, and he appears to be looking over the titles.
An ugly couch.
Scuffed hardwood.
A small, but well-stocked, clean kitchen.
A hallway, leading off into shadows.
Finally, grudgingly, he darts a glance at Jason, haughty and sullen as it is. The kid is damnably, almost unnaturally precocious for a three-year-old, and handles himself as if he's years older. His voice is soft and posh, a strange mix of British and Arabic dialectical accents that blends together for an odd cadence. But when he looks at Jason, it's too easy to see the similarities in their facial features, and the blue of his eyes matches what Jason's used to be, before the Pit stained him green, however faint (or imagined) the glow is now. ]
So where do you actually live?
[ This must surely be the servants' quarters. Clearly. ]
To see your father, my darling.
[ Her hand squeezes his, and his attention is drawn away from his small window to the outside world. Away from the wing, where he's been staring in endless fascination at the flap check, the heat and air boiling from the engines as the sound picks up, how the covers slide into place and the wheels begin eating up pavement.
He squeezes back, unafraid even as the carriage shakes and the nose tips up and the landing gear retracts with a thunk. He can feel gravity sliding down his shoulders, to his stomach; his ears pop, unevenly. ]
To see Father? But, I thought--
[ His mother runs her hand through his hair in a wordless command for him to hush, smoothing the stubborn, curling whorls down, and her thumb brushes over one of his growing collection of scars - a small notch in his tan skin, hidden just behind his ear. His fault; he hadn't been quick enough. He's learned better, since. ]
It isn't safe for you with me anymore, Damian. He'll care for you in my stead, until you can be returned to my side.
[ A simple explanation, devoid of details. His nose wrinkles, lips turning down in a pout, because that's hardly a satisfactory answer, but Damian doesn't question his mother, and he knows better than to argue against her. He bites his tongue, and turns his unhappy stare back out the window; watching the unbroken field of clouds and wishing, quietly, for something more, though he can't say what for sure. ]
[ She's gone, and, after mutely watching the door for a few minutes, he slowly begins to come to terms with the fact that she's not coming back anytime soon. The small carry-on bag of his things (the emergency bag, the one they always kept ready) is leaning against the wall, and he spends every effort to look around the place--
--without actually looking at Jason.
The apartment is smaller than he's used to. The architecture is different, closed and cramped compared to the open halls and classical touches of his mother's compound. The safehouse is buried in Gotham, and really isn't much to look at, though his sharp, observant stare seems to easily pick out and focus on the hidden nooks and crannies scattered about that hold Jason's store of weapons. The bookshelf catches his gaze for a minute, and he appears to be looking over the titles.
An ugly couch.
Scuffed hardwood.
A small, but well-stocked, clean kitchen.
A hallway, leading off into shadows.
Finally, grudgingly, he darts a glance at Jason, haughty and sullen as it is. The kid is damnably, almost unnaturally precocious for a three-year-old, and handles himself as if he's years older. His voice is soft and posh, a strange mix of British and Arabic dialectical accents that blends together for an odd cadence. But when he looks at Jason, it's too easy to see the similarities in their facial features, and the blue of his eyes matches what Jason's used to be, before the Pit stained him green, however faint (or imagined) the glow is now. ]
So where do you actually live?
[ This must surely be the servants' quarters. Clearly. ]
no subject
Jason could almost hear his plans for Gotham ripping themselves apart. This was his mission now.
His precocious, incredibly shocking, mission. ]
--Here. I live here.
[ He says, a little dazed but quickly coming back to himself. The kid was 3, but Jason didn’t know any 3 year old that could talk this well—Talia’s influence, no doubt. She was a force of nature and expected perfection from any and every one. Even the 3 year old. Christ.
Jason scratches his head, trying to think of what to do next. This was not covered in bat training or in deadly assassin training. He’s a little at a loss. ]
…You hungry? Or tired or— anything?
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Really.
[ His mouth opens as if he wants to add further commentary--
'This is a shack.'
--but he closes it half a second later, pushing a breath from his nose and pursing his lips as he drops his stare to the floor. His mother had told him to behave, to be good and listen to his father, and to remember that he is an al Ghul before all things.
It takes a considerable amount of self-restraint, but he manages to hold his tongue. Criticizing his father's 'abode' would probably put him soundly outside the behave part of his mother's instructions.
Jason's question is met, bizarrely, as if he's issued a challenge to the boy; as if Damian is being tested. His eyes hood, chin tilting up in a smaller imitation of Talia, correcting his posture with some quick fidgeting to erase any traces of jet lag.
A perfectly poised little prince. ]
No, Father. [ Even his words are a little more polished, extra emphasis taken to carefully enunciate his English. ] I'm fine.
[ Show no weakness, that was the al Ghul way. As dubious as he is of his father (who, frankly, looks gobsmacked), he must still impress. Even if he is hungry, and the thought of food after such a long trip is immediately appealing--
His stomach growls, and his shoulders jerk up an inch to hunch in embarrassment, though the proud look sticks to stubbornly to his face. ]
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This place might seem small to the kid, but to Jason it was almost like paradise.
The tiny growl makes Jason want to smile (because its cute, its actually really cute) but he refrains, if only for Damian's tiny pride. Don't want to rock the boat; after all, he just met the kid. ]
--Well, I am. I was gonna make somethin’ when you came over—you like grilled cheese sandwiches?
[ What if the kid was lactose intolerant or something? He would know that, right? And tell Jay? Shit, this parenting thing was hard when no one gave you any kind of warning or any tips or tricks or even let you know dietary needs. ]
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From the confusion on his face now, it isn't hard to read that he has no idea what the hell a grilled cheese sandwich is. But he's not about to admit it, since it seems like this is something he should know. And he can't say no, or yes, because that would indicate a preference.
A moment of crisis. His father continues to test him with these questions, although Damian's not sure where it's all leading to. ]
I am impartial to 'grilled cheese sandwiches.'
[ Nailed it. (The quotations are almost audible.) ]
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Whatever. Time to make food. Without even really thinking about it, Jason picks up Damian and props him up on his hip, carrying him out into his kitchen space. The L-shaped counter came in handy this time; he was able to set Damian away from the burner, over by the sink, and still be able to see the pan and have a little bit of counter space. It wasn't like he had any chairs out here and he didn't want the kid to wander. It would be bad if he ended up in Jason's gun locker.
After Damian is settled, he walks over to his tiny fridge and pulls out the simple ingredients. ]
Hope you like Kraft, kiddo.
[ Vigilante on a budget right here. ]
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He doesn't get manhandled. Ever. He's an al Ghul. It just doesn't happen.
But it's happening. He's up, he's being carried, and then he's set down on the counter, thoroughly flummoxed.
What -- what was that? ]
...--craft?
[ He feels a little bit like he's floundering in deeper waters, but he doesn't know what's expected of him, here, in unfamiliar settings. He catches himself wishing desperately for his mother, but he's Damian, named in the tradition of conquerors.
He has this. ]
I do like aircraft. I'm learning how to pilot - a Cessna Skyhawk, to start.
[ (He doesn't have this, at all.) ]
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Jason has to blink for a solid second, setting the block of individual cheese slices on the counter. That—what do you say to that. What do you say to that that doesn’t embarrass the 3 year old. Uh. ]
…Your mom is really into a…varied…education.
[ Nailed it. ]
We’re gonna keep it simple this time though— Kraft is a brand of cheese. It’s nice cause it…melts. [ God he is so awkward. This is where Damian gets it. Who put these incredibly awkward people together like it was a good idea (Talia, Talia did and thought it was a good idea). ] …Yeah. Okay. Why that plane?
[ Keep the kid talking, keep him engaged. That was the way out of an awkward situation, right? And it might give him some clues into who this child really was. ]
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(Orange. Why are they orange? Cheese isn't orange, not that orange.) ]
I'm going to be the next Alexander. Mama says a ruler must have complete mastery over all subjects, so I study a lot of things. Weaponry, martial arts, military tactics--
[ Christ the kid is three. He's three, right? ]
--but also things like the arts and sciences. Languages. How to break out of things.
[ That bodes so well for Jason. Damian's brow furrows at the explanation of Kraft cheese. Simple, but maybe too complicated still. ]
...--All cheese melts, Father.
[ Carefully worded, but Talia has never punished him for taking a tone, and this one suggests that his father may be crazed. His mother has left him with a man who isn't in full control of his faculties.
Mama, why. ]
It's a good plane to start with for a beginner. Small, four-seater. Good man--ma-neu-ver-ability-- [ Careful pronunciation. Precocious as hell, but he still trips up over longer words. ] --and it's easier to sneak through places with.
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He's uneasy about the subject matter though. Why does the 3 year old need to know battle tactics? Last he checked, 3 year olds were way more interested in the tactics of Blues Clues.
He snorts a little at the cheese comment though. ]
This melts faster. Trust me, it's gonna work out great. [ Speaking of-- he puts the bread down, butter first, and unpeels some cheese to put on top of it. Delicious. ]
Do you like reading? I have some books. [ He probably had some lower level stuff somewhere. He had boxes upon boxes of books. A veritable crap ton of books. One of those had to have something slightly more child friendly in them.
(And ugh, ma-neu-ver-ability that was cute.) ]
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His fingers curl into the loose cotton of his pants, and his chin raises, resolute.
An al Ghul before all things. He can survive floppy, melting plastic on bread. ]
I trust you.
[ A flat-out lie, and he doesn't even bother to hide how unconvinced he is, sounding like he's waiting for his turn at the gallows. God, but the kid has sass, his earlier promise to his mother quickly becoming forgotten in the face of this bizarre punishment.
Well, if he was going to be punished, he was going to do something to actually earn it. ]
Depends. [ Boldly: ] I don't like reading Thoreau. He tries to sound so clever but he's just sitting there watching ants fight.
[ He understands why his mother chose Walden. They've discussed his points--
("Every path but your own is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then.")
--and applied his philosophies to Damian's education, but the man just goes on and on about Nature. And, it seems, with this little burst of seeming rebellion, the kid really starts chattering, as if trying to get the rest out as quickly as possible with the breath he has before he has to stop. ]
Plato is okay, but he uses a lot of words I don't know how to translate, so it takes all day to get through a few pages. But out of everything, I like the stories of as-Sindibād al-Baḥri the best, because he gets to go on adventures.
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Like, an entirely different approach. ]
I don’t really do philosophy. I’d rather make up my own than read what someone else thinks. [ And that’s true. Not something he’s usually discus with a 3 year old, but it is true. He’s always been more about being his own man than a reflection of someone elses. ] Where you come from changes how you look at things. Changes what it means, too.
I probably have some somewhere though, if you want to. It’s just not my thing, y’know?
[ Again; not normal. But he’d keep it up if only to make the kid more comfortable.
Jason flips the sandwich, smiling at the next comment. ]
Sinbad, huh? I read some of those when I was a kid. You like a particular story?
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I don't really like philosophy either. [ So many confessions. ]
I like my own ideas best. But it's ef-fective at helping me think of things I might not've thought of before. Like walking around, and I can only see in black and white, but then suddenly red!
[ A hand gesture of shock, arms raising up in emphasis, completely serious. ]
And maybe I decide I don't really like red, but I learn that there's colors at least, and that there's things beyond just black and white and red. That's important.
[ He hasn't been chastised yet, and his father's even asking about Sindbad. Damian lets his legs swing as he talks, perking up. ]
I like the fifth voyage the best, where the Old Man of the Sea hangs onto him and Sindbad has to figure out how to get him to let go. I just don't like the earlier part, with the egg. They ate the baby bird!
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You're smart like your mom, be glad for that. [ He smiles a little at Damian, before turning back to the sandwich and gently flipping it out of the pan and onto a plate. He cuts it diagonally and sets it down next to Damian. ] Don't eat it yet, it's too hot. Give it a minute to cool down.
[ As Jason starts his sandwich, he frowns. ]
Forgot about that part. Why'd they do that?
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[ That she is. Damian, clearly, adores Talia, questionable upbringing aside.
Speaking of questionable: this food. It smells good, and his stomach rumbles again, but the cheese remains so very orange. He is okay with waiting; gives him further time to evaluate the sandwich. ]
They did it because they were hungry, and fresh meat was kind of hard to come by during voyages. And Roc chicks are really big, so there was a lot to have, and they didn't have to hunt for it.
[ He shrugs, pursing his lips, and tries not to look troubled. For an al Ghul, it seems the boy has a soft spot for baby things, much like any other child. ]
What's your favorite thing to read?
[ Tables turned, it is now the three-year-old asking the questions. His father doesn't like to read philosophy, but that's all he knows so far. ]
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English lit. And history. I like anything with a story, really. I'll read it all, I'm not picky. [ Like, literally anything. His collection, an ever-changing monstrosity from used book stores and yard sales, had romance and war stories and slice of life and tragedies from all different people on all walks of life. Books in English, Russian, German, Arabic; all annotated or in the process, worn and used and consumed like a meal rather than printed paper. ] You put on someone else shoes for a little while and its amazing where you turn up.
--That should be cool enough now. Go ahead, try it. You won't be disappointed.
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[ He absolutely, totally doesn't believe. This child is a skeptic.
And too properly raised. His hands open and close, cautiously, as if he's never eaten without utensils before. And, knowing Talia, he hasn't. Eventually, he lifts the sandwich by its edges with delicate balance and the minimum skin-to-food ratio, squeezing his eyes shut as he nibbles at one corner.
Toasted bread, so far. Another foray, and this time he catches some cheese in the bite. One eye squints open cautiously, then the other, as he considers the taste. There's something weird about it, of course, it doesn't taste like any other cheese he's tried, but it's not bad. Just different.
He takes a third bite, then a fourth, larger one. ]
It's... acceptable.
[ And promptly stuffs the last chunk on his mouth, chewing with quiet relish. Crumbs on his face, crumbs on his fingers, but at least he managed to avoid getting gooey, melted cheese anyway. ]
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A thought, fleeting and quickly pushed away, tells him he's going to need to reevaluate his budget-- two mouths, even a tiny one like Damian's, changes things significantly. And that didn't involve any of the other big things that kids needed. He'll think about that later. Maybe after kiddo has fallen asleep. ]
Well, I'm glad. [ Jason says, dumping his sandwich unceremoniously onto another chipped plate he'd pulled out of a cupboard. Then, ignoring the delicious smell of butter and cheese, he reaches over to a roll of paper towels and snags a couple, handing one of them over to Damian. ] Sorry. Forgot to get you a napkin.
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[ He looks at the paper towel in his hands as if he's never seen such a thing in his little life. Napkin? he mouths again to himself, perplexed, and can't reconcile the strange piece of soft paper with the ornate, expensive fabrics he's used to.
But. When in Rome.
Jason, at least, likely won't have trouble keeping Damian clean. He's fastidious about mopping up the crumbs and grease with the napkin, taking care to wipe off his fingers and dab at his mouth in what is clearly mimicked technique, courtly and regal. Impossible to tell if he observed it from Talia, or from one of the few caretakers trusted with his existence. And, when done, he does his best to smooth the paper towel out on his lap, for when the rest of the courses are served.
(Bread. Cheese. He imagines it will be followed by, perhaps, dried figs, maybe cherry tomatoes. Simple fare, but hearty.) ]
Father.
[ The chime is prompting, offhandedly confident, although the boy's peering almost hesitantly up at him through thick, smudgy lashes -- those are Talia's mark, for sure. ]
...--What's your name?
[ Who is Jason, really? Does he hold a title? There are titles in America, aren't there? ]
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[ The Red Hood. Robin. All are accurate, though one is outdated. The proof is tacked up in a wall across from his bed-- he'll have to get rid of those. The amount of things on Jason's to-do list was growing exponentially.
But he puts on a calm face, raising an eyebrow as he picks up his sandwich. ]
Your mom didn't tell you that?
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[ It'd always been later. When he was older. When she thought he was ready to learn. He grumbles, lightly tapping his heels against the cheap wood paneling; not entirely swinging his legs, but it's something of a fidget. ]
She said I'd have to prove I was ready by beating her in a duel.
[ Which, obviously, wasn't going to be for years. That begged the question of why she intended to hold him off that long, and what besting her would prove, but whatever had happened must have radically changed her plans. It's up in the air whether Jason would've learned of him at all, otherwise. ]
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Well that's one way of doing it.
[ Also probably the most messed up way of doing it, but that was also very Talia. ]
Have you...started training?
[ Damian was young, but...this was the League. It wasn't entirely outside the realm of possibility. ]
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Uh-huh!
[ Wait, proper language. This is the part where he must impress, which means choosing his words with care. Not just any child started training at his age, after all. ]
I mean...yes, yes I have.
[ He's trying to go for cool competency, but doesn't have the self-control, yet, to stop the gap-toothed grin sneaking across his face. ]
I know how to fight with a lot of different weapons, and can break out of lots of things, and Mama says I'm almost ready for the survivalist training--
[ He's going to keep rolling and boasting for hours at this rate. ]
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He himself was only a few years older than Damian when he was forced to survive on his own wit; and it wasn't just training. It was his whole life. ]
Well, it sounds like she got a good start. Maybe we can spar some. So your training doesn't go to waste. Survivalist training will have to wait for a while, bud.
[ Where would Jason find the funds to do that? Ah shit, now he's thinking about money again-- ]
CARVIN PUMPKINS YAS
(The auntie won't stop pinching his cheeks. He hates her, and he will cut her fingers off if she keeps it up.)
Except evidently not. His father says they will be carving pumpkins.
Despite having no clue what this could possibly entail, he is thoroughly uninterested, and prefers to hang off the kitchen door jamb and dangle, swinging himself back and forth, instead. ]
This 'Halloween' business sounds weird. Are we sacrificing the pumpkins to some pagan set of gods, to bribe their patron-age and protection for the cold winter months ahead?
[ He pauses in his bored kicking, frowning over at Jason. ]
I don't believe in your pagan gods, if they're dumb enough to think pumpkins are an acceptable gift.
[ What kind of child. ]
MUCH PUMPKIN!!!
Damian, we talked about hanging onto the doors.
[ AKA: don't do it. Climb on top of things meant to be climbed on, not the interior of their apartment. ]
And since did I have pagan gods? Where did you even hear this stuff? [ He was fairly certain they didn't cover paganism in preschool. Pretty sure, anyway. Maybe he should ask one of the other parents. Jason walks over, scooping Damian out of the air and takes him back to the table, depositing him in a chair. ] No, this is for fun. Think of it like an art project.
[ Jason pulls some nearby paper and pens over in front of Damian. ] You carve faces on them and put candles inside so they glow. You can put whatever you want, we just gotta be careful that the whole thing doesn't collapse. Like-- a cat face. That would be nice.
VERY STABBY
[ Such a difference. Damian will not only pull his little ninja tricks all over the apartment, he'll also thoroughly test the limits of Jason's restrictions, and of his patience. However, he lets himself be plucked out of the air agreeably enough, even if he's giving the squash a dubious squint from his new position at the table. ]
I was watching the news--
[ Because that is completely normal for a child. ]
--and they were fighting about Harry Potter, and one lady said witchcraft is the Devil's work, and the other lady started talking about witches and pagan gods and stuff. I don't think either of them knew what they were talking about.
[ Children are really just mockingbirds in disguise, even very clever ones. He's quick to take up a pen, dragging the paper closer -- he likes to do art. ]
Cat faces are nice.
[ Acknowledgment, and an understated coyness, as he starts carefully drawing out the design. They've already had this talk, after another child brought in their cat for show-and-tell, that pets are a no-go for their household, but he's persistent, and patient when he's determined to wear Jason down, bit by bit. ]
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You're probably right. Harry Potter is a good book, why'd they want to ruin that--? You liked the first one, right? [ They had read it together, actually. He would read Damian a few chapters before bed because apparently, that helps your kids sleep. And Jason wasn't sure it necessarily worked, but they had a good time anyway.
Jason grabs a knife from the block and pulls a pumpkin towards himself, carefully cutting away a big enough hole at the top that he could get inside the thing easily enough. In all honesty, Jason had only carved pumpkins twice before (both with Alfred), but the steps were easy enough to remember. It didn't take a genius, really. Jason starts scooping the guts into a nearby bowl while Damian works. ]
They are. You could also do a monster or a different animal or, y'know, whatever. No real limit, in all honesty.
[ Just had to be careful that the whole thing wouldn't fall down. ]
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[ Something about it had clicked with him. Normally he's not that impressed by anything magic-related, but Harry Potter is less about magic and more about other things. Like a young boy adjusting to a radically new world, with new rules and relationships and potential and hardships. A world he didn't know about before, but he's suddenly part of.
(And it's different, and better, because he finds he has a family there.) ]
I can do whatever?
[ He squints, thinking, before his face settles into his 'I've decided on this thing and I can't be swayed away from it' expression, finishing up his cat face and pulling over another piece of paper, starting up a second design. ]
I don't wanna draw monsters.
[ As if monsters are distasteful, and beneath him, and unworthy of being placed upon a squash. ]
I'm gonna--
[ A pause, as he focuses on drawing a very careful line. ]
--draw your face.
[ Amazing. ]
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Well buddy that sounds-- [ He plops that handful in his discard bowl, a little lost for words. ] Great. Creative.
[ Probably none of the other kids in the entire apartment complex carved their dad's face onto a pumpkin this year. ]
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[ As if it's an honor and privilege that Damian chose his face out of all the things he could draw. (Ten pounds of sass in a five pound bag.)
He looks up at Jason, squints one eye, nose scrunching, before he looks down at his paper, drawing another very, very careful line. After that, he continues to glance up at his father, then glance back down, make a mark. Up, down, mark. Repeat.
He makes a face at the pumpkin guts. ]
Gross. Who looked at that and decided they were gonna make a pie out of it?
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Someone with more faith than us, I guess. [ Jason filters through some of it with his fingers. ] I think I'd give up on the spot.
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Ugh. ]
I wouldn't even try. I don't care how good pumpkin pie tastes. [ The person who did? Was clearly insane. He bites his lip, inspecting his drawing with a critical eye, before holding the paper up to Jason for evaluation.
The cartoons have done Damian good. It's certainly, recognizably Jason, crooked smile and all. ]
This is gonna go on that one. [ The very pumpkin that his father's gutting. It is perfect. ]
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(He was gonna rub it in that asshole Johnson's face, thinking his kid is so high and mighty just cause he's started piano lessons--
Ahem.) ]
This one, huh? You sure? I've been told I got a pretty big head.
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It'll fit.
[ Doesn't even try and deny Jason has a big head. Of course, Damian can't speak -- if he wasn't so solidly built, it's likely he'd be constantly tipping over from the weight of his own.
Setting the paper down, he leans over the table to inspect Jason's work. The pumpkin guts are given a cursory, thoroughly disgusted touch.
(Then why touch them in the first place, child?) ]
Are you gonna make one, too?
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[ Did Damian even know he was being a smart ass? Jason can't tell. But genetics said 'probably'. A trait he'd gotten from his mother and Jason. ]
Nah, kiddo, it's all you. You're the artist in this family and I'd hate to cramp your style.
[ Jason busies himself by getting ready to gut the second pumpkin. That way Damian will have plenty of 'canvases' to put his masterpieces on. ]