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
[ 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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
(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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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. ]