[ He pauses in his gameplay, the squeaky chirps and yells and annoyingly chipper music silenced as he turns his attention from the screen up to the boy, a frown on his face as if Dick has said something completely preposterous. But perhaps it wasn't. He's only been here for a few short months, and the man who took him in is dead and replaced.
Timothy, Jason, Cassandra - they'd all worried about the same thing at first. As if one screw-up might be the end of their tenure with the Waynes. It never helped that his father chose only to take them on as wards at first, though Bruce tried. He'd just never really understood fatherhood, and never understood the needs of his children. Ironic that it was his bastard son, raised a pitiless murderer, who understood better than he could.
The trepidation. The anxiety. The desperate desire to live up to some untenable standard.
Damian slips the phone back into his pocket, rolling to his feet with a leopard's grace; he never really learned how to move like a normal person, always stalking through the halls or striding through crowds like a predator on the prowl. Rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, it's uncertain what his next move is going to be until he's using the chair to scale his way up to the other chandelier, leaping to catch a brass arm and using the momentum of his swing to hook himself into a seated position atop it, legs dangling over the edge and his bulk tipping the chandelier down at a heavy angle, crystals chiming and tinkling and the bolts groaning in complaint.
All so that he may stare across the gap at Dick with a level look, on equal ground.
Martha Wayne spins, and Damian clearly does not give a single damn. ]
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Timothy, Jason, Cassandra - they'd all worried about the same thing at first. As if one screw-up might be the end of their tenure with the Waynes. It never helped that his father chose only to take them on as wards at first, though Bruce tried. He'd just never really understood fatherhood, and never understood the needs of his children. Ironic that it was his bastard son, raised a pitiless murderer, who understood better than he could.
The trepidation. The anxiety. The desperate desire to live up to some untenable standard.
Damian slips the phone back into his pocket, rolling to his feet with a leopard's grace; he never really learned how to move like a normal person, always stalking through the halls or striding through crowds like a predator on the prowl. Rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, it's uncertain what his next move is going to be until he's using the chair to scale his way up to the other chandelier, leaping to catch a brass arm and using the momentum of his swing to hook himself into a seated position atop it, legs dangling over the edge and his bulk tipping the chandelier down at a heavy angle, crystals chiming and tinkling and the bolts groaning in complaint.
All so that he may stare across the gap at Dick with a level look, on equal ground.
Martha Wayne spins, and Damian clearly does not give a single damn. ]
Why would I?