[ (He heard every last one of them you little punk.) ]
I have plenty of hobbies. [ Plenty. He fights crime. He trains. He upgrades his equipment so he can fight crime better. He trains more. Sometimes he draws, though not as much as he used to. The older he got, the more things got in the way, and when you have three, then four little siblings, free time tends to evaporate, spent on other things.
Scrimmaging some baseball with Jason and other kids from the street. Practicing ASL with Cass and working with her on linguistics. Watching Timothy do skateboard tricks at the skate park. Taking Dick to the zoo (and arguing that, no, they can't take the elephants home with them, that's not even a thing they can do, it doesn't matter how rich they are, where would they even put the elephant--).
Entirely worthwhile things, he thinks, and subtly shifts so that Dick can rest against him a little more comfortably (and -tt-, he really must be getting older, he already knows this is going to leave a crick in his neck). ]
You really had to tell them that story? Really?
[ In his defense, he'd been hit with Poison Ivy's spores, and hadn't been thinking straight in the first place. The couch had seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to fall asleep after getting sliced and diced by thorns.
Alfred had, clearly, overreacted.
(And Damian will never, ever, ever do it again.) ]
no subject
I have plenty of hobbies. [ Plenty. He fights crime. He trains. He upgrades his equipment so he can fight crime better. He trains more. Sometimes he draws, though not as much as he used to. The older he got, the more things got in the way, and when you have three, then four little siblings, free time tends to evaporate, spent on other things.
Scrimmaging some baseball with Jason and other kids from the street. Practicing ASL with Cass and working with her on linguistics. Watching Timothy do skateboard tricks at the skate park. Taking Dick to the zoo (and arguing that, no, they can't take the elephants home with them, that's not even a thing they can do, it doesn't matter how rich they are, where would they even put the elephant--).
Entirely worthwhile things, he thinks, and subtly shifts so that Dick can rest against him a little more comfortably (and -tt-, he really must be getting older, he already knows this is going to leave a crick in his neck). ]
You really had to tell them that story? Really?
[ In his defense, he'd been hit with Poison Ivy's spores, and hadn't been thinking straight in the first place. The couch had seemed like a perfectly reasonable place to fall asleep after getting sliced and diced by thorns.
Alfred had, clearly, overreacted.
(And Damian will never, ever, ever do it again.) ]