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
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-- ]