Damian Wayne | First Son (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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dreamsanddisasters2014-08-21 12:12 am
dfordangerous) wrote in dreamsanddisasters2014-08-21 12:12 am
Entry tags:
Age Reversal AU (For Batfam)
[ His father is dead, and he's still reeling from the shock. Alfred and Tim both know he's barely keeping it together, for all his standoffish composure. Years of preparing for this moment--
(steeling himself, to watch his father be laid to rest next to his grandparents)
--have done little to offset the grief. He wouldn't be seen at all if it weren't for his brother; if Tim hadn't coerced him out of his room in the hours following the funeral, hadn't confessed his worries for Cass (retreated, to the attic of all places), Jason (god, Jason, Damian's own cunning little húlí, he'd adored the man), and his father's newest stray, Richard. Dick. His father's Robin.
His Robin, now. As strange as the thought is. But the cowl is his, and so is Robin.
His Robin, who Alfred has informed him is currently making his roost up in the ballroom's chandeliers. Refusing to come down.
Damian, briefly, contemplates leaving him up there in favor of finishing reviewing this case file.
('He'll come down when he gets hungry,' he tells Alfred.
'He's in mourning, Master Damian,' Alfred points out, with all the dry chastisement his stiff upper lip can give.
'I'll get the broom.')
And here he is. He finds himself squinting in irritation up at the boy monkeying around on the fragile, expensive crystal. ]
Richard. [ Prim, clipped tones. Damian hardly raises his voice unless his fuse is blown; usually only when he's locked in a shouting match with Tim or with his father.
He doesn't know Richard that well. The boy is a relatively fresh arrival, and the past few months he's been here have seen Damian on longer missions; international and galactic trips alike. Before Bruce's death, they had maybe spent only a few hours in each other's company, and the boy was clearly not overly fond of him. ]
What are you doing?
(steeling himself, to watch his father be laid to rest next to his grandparents)
--have done little to offset the grief. He wouldn't be seen at all if it weren't for his brother; if Tim hadn't coerced him out of his room in the hours following the funeral, hadn't confessed his worries for Cass (retreated, to the attic of all places), Jason (god, Jason, Damian's own cunning little húlí, he'd adored the man), and his father's newest stray, Richard. Dick. His father's Robin.
His Robin, now. As strange as the thought is. But the cowl is his, and so is Robin.
His Robin, who Alfred has informed him is currently making his roost up in the ballroom's chandeliers. Refusing to come down.
Damian, briefly, contemplates leaving him up there in favor of finishing reviewing this case file.
('He'll come down when he gets hungry,' he tells Alfred.
'He's in mourning, Master Damian,' Alfred points out, with all the dry chastisement his stiff upper lip can give.
'I'll get the broom.')
And here he is. He finds himself squinting in irritation up at the boy monkeying around on the fragile, expensive crystal. ]
Richard. [ Prim, clipped tones. Damian hardly raises his voice unless his fuse is blown; usually only when he's locked in a shouting match with Tim or with his father.
He doesn't know Richard that well. The boy is a relatively fresh arrival, and the past few months he's been here have seen Damian on longer missions; international and galactic trips alike. Before Bruce's death, they had maybe spent only a few hours in each other's company, and the boy was clearly not overly fond of him. ]
What are you doing?
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He shifts in his place, delicately rearranging his grip on the edge when the chandelier starts to sway just slightly in response to his movements. The food makes it tempting to come down; and he likes the thought of hanging out with Alfred in the kitchen (Alfred, who was always nice to him in his own oddly composed way, and never seemed to act like he was too busy for him even though Dick was certain he was.)
But another part of him is scared for the other shoe to drop if he moved-- like the world was going to end the moment his feet touched the ground again.
And plus, he didn't want Damian to see he'd been crying. Damian would just think he was a stupid kid.]
I'll-- I'll come down when Alfie starts cooking. [He sounded hesitant-- not entirely sure that was an acceptable answer. But that was fair, right?]
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[ Many times over. Damian's favorite hobby when they were young was to bully the hell out of Bruce's adopted son. Timothy had been small, too clever for his own good, and a despicably endearing mix of sarcastic and good-willed that had rubbed a then-teenager Damian all the wrong ways. He didn't mind the boy becoming Batman's new protege, already graduated to working solo as Nightwing, but he still had to live with Redbird outside the field.
It took being saved by Tim to finally turn their antagonism into a tentative friendship.
Damian considers the boy's decision, before nodding acquiescence. ]
Alright. Shouldn't be too long. Eggplant lasagne tonight.
[ Ambling with his usual smooth, self-assured gait over to one of the plush chairs nearby, he drops into it with legs crossed over the arm of the chair and his phone pulled out from a pocket. Damian has never been able to sit properly.
It seems he is very content to sit and wait the boy out, the sounds of Angry Birds chiming from the small speakers. ]
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It seemed like that was the end of that. He'd never had any kind of lasagne before (he thinks, he's pretty sure, he's not entirely sure what it would look like, so), but he wasn't scared of trying it, especially if there was going to be pirogo after.
He expects it to be left at that, and Damian would leave and go back to whatever work he had been doing-- but a few moments of silence, and the man's still here. Not just here, he's settled in like he's waiting for Dick to come down, and he knows it's that weird little game that Damian likes to play from the sounds, so he's know even doing anything, except wasting time while he waited.
He fidgets. The new silence felt deafening, and why was he still waiting there? Was he going to get in trouble? Did Damian actually want to stuff him in a kitchen cupboard?]
...Why are you still here? [He hated the silence, he had to say something.] Don't you have something better to do than-- sitting around and beating up imaginary pigs?
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But he had plenty. Damian was Batman, now. Tim handles Wayne Enterprises, and Damian handles the affairs of their estates as well as the cases his father was working on, along with taking on new investigations. There's still plenty to sort out in the wake of Bruce's death. Loose strings, pressing matters.
The world doesn't stop turning with the death of one man, even if it felt like it had. Even if it should have. ]
Maybe I wished to spend time with my new little brother. We'll be working together, after all.
[ It's maybe the first time he's acknowledged it aloud, that he and the self-dubbed "Robin" will be partners. ]
Even-- [ He amends, decimating another piggy defense. ] --if he is several dozen feet in the air, turning Martha Wayne's favored crystal chandeliers into a permanent nest. She'll be rolling in her grave once we bring in the hay and sawdust.
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And now-- and now Damian's actually calling him his brother too? For real? He's not-- he's barely ever spoken to the man, he's not entirely sure what this is supposed to mean, and he feels a bit subconscious if this is apparently someone's favorite he's still sitting on top of, and now his stomach just feels more nervous]
You mean you're not gonna get rid of me? [Disbelief. Surely Damian has to be playing some kind of trick on him.]
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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?
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The leap sends Dick skittering, stepping back onto a different set of arms and curling his fingers around the center of the chandelier with a vice grip. He let go with one hand to rub at his face and eyes, trying to wipe away the traces of his crying on his cheeks and the red in his eyes (and mostly succeeding in smudging it around), and quickly replaces his clinging grip.]
I-- [For a moment he stares Damian in the face right back. But his features at trembling, and the frankness is a bit too much right now, and he looks down while pressing his cheek against the metal under his hands.]
'Cause. 'Cause I know you don't like me very much. And, and Bruce was the one that brought me here, a-and he's gone now, so no one really needs me anymore. And you shouldn't have to deal with me just 'cause of Bruce if you don't want to.
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Heaving out a snort through his nose, he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. ]
If I didn't want to deal with you, I wouldn't even bother. Whether Father wished it or not. [ Blunt as ever. ]
You're wrong. Batman needs a Robin. [ Matter of fact. Even if Damian has worked solo since he graduated the nest, Batman is part of a team of two. Tim has his own team now (with that Kent), and Jason enjoys working solo too much to ever consider a permanent partnership again. ]
But-- being here, Richard, isn't about usefulness, or about what others need from you. Whether you wish to be Robin or not, it doesn't matter. You are here, and you are our brother. You have been the minute Bruce brought you home.
[ Haughtily, he adds: ] Besides, I dislike everyone. You are all equally annoying little siblings. Timothy nags me whenever I return home injured, Jason keeps trying to steal my bike for himself, Cassandra won't stop feeding Titus table scraps and he keeps getting fatter, and you can be a flip-happy maniac when Alfred has fed you sugar.
[ Damian's inner manchild is showing. The eldest is not so cold -- or as mature -- as he seems. ]
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He's never had a brother before. Let alone three. Or a sister.
It's so much different than the way Bruce had talked about everything. Bruce had always seemed to hesitate to go as far as the word family, even if Dick could tell that had been what he really meant. Tim said he wasn't very good at expressing it, but-- but Damian wasn't? Damian sounded so sure of himself. The bluntness was actually reassuring. Honesty that wasn't trying to spare his feelings like so many other adults tried.
The sniffles returned with a gusto, and he buries half of his face in his shoulder, trying to wipe the burgeoning tears away before they were visible. For as much as he's trying to hold it back, there's... a bit of a chuckle in there, even if it's stuffy and wet.]
T-To be fair, it's a really nice bike. And you get beat up a lot.
[Siblings annoyed each other. He was learning.
A hiccup. And he dares to turn his gaze up again, looking at Damian from beneath the curtain of his bangs over his face.]
...You'd really let me stay even if I didn't wanna be Robin?
[Not that he'd ever not want to be Robin, that was just downright absurd. But he'd been working with his parents for as long as he could remember-- the concept of even being allowed to not pitch in was as absurd as the idea that he wouldn't want to.]
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I don't get beat up a lot. Only occasionally.
[ There is such a difference. (Grown man, sulking.) Lips twisted to the side, he has no trouble meeting the shy stare. ]
Of course I would. Being a vigilante is a choice, never a requirement. If you decided you'd prefer staying off the field, I would never force you onto it. I -- [ And there's a pause, the surety of his words stumbling onto rarely expressed territory, slowing him down as he casts his gaze elsewhere, suddenly self-consciousness. ] --don't like seeing my family get hurt.
[ Tim. Cass. (Steph, fool girl.) So many close brushes. And Jason -- he still shoots awake in the middle of the night, remembering the broken, young body, still has to check in on his younger brother to calm the spikes of fury and protectiveness.
The Joker's dead at his own hands. But sometimes it doesn't seem like enough. ]
If it were up to me, you would all be bundled safely into one of those ridiculous pillow fort contraptions every night. Doing the 'playing' thing.
[ He waves a hand, flippantly. Playing. Whatever that was. ]
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Damian made 'playing' sound like some kind of menial chore or foreign practice, and the notion makes more giggles start to bubble out of his throat, knocking a few already-formed tears out of his ducts, but his expression was almost beaming now.]
We could turn the Batcave into a pillow fort. And then no would want to leave for patrol.
[His posture finally starts to relax, and he releases his grip on the chandelier to scrub the last of the tear stains away, and finally look across at Damian properly.]
Th-- Thank you, Mr. Wayne. But I'll stay on the job. S-Someone has to make sure you don't get your butt kicked even worse out there. Alfie worries a lot too.
[And he's seen the way that Damian's snuck through the halls to check Jason's room even if Dick isn't entirely sure what had ever happened, and the way he stays up even later the usual, the way both him and Tim always seemed like they were unsettled after Bruce died.
And everyone else was too busy with their own jobs, while Damian was too busy watching over them and looking after the family. So someone had to watch over Batman too, and Alfred couldn't do that in the field.]
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[ Unless Dick enjoys sleeping on rocky ground and waking up to bats in the fort tent, of course. ]
No, the living room will continue to suffice.
[ Once, they'd actually made one in his bedroom. Damian had been outraged, but too sick (a rarity, given his genetic modifications, but it does happen) to put up much of a fuss. It had been pleasant, marathoning movies with his siblings scattered in various states of disarray across him. Until his limbs started to go numb, that is.
(That was about the time he kicked them off the bed.)
He grimaces at the title, rolling his eyes. ]
I appreciate your concern for my welfare. [ So dry. Drier than the Sahara. He doesn't get his 'butt kicked' you little brat-- ] And call me anything but Mr. Wayne. I'm only twenty-six, Richard.
[ Damian does not realize that he is giving Dick full license to come up with ridiculous nicknames. He will regret this. ]
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[He would be absolutely enthused to wake up to bats in a fort tent, thank you very much. And he was certainly no stranger to camping and sleeping outdoors on rocky ground-- it'd practically be like home.
(Rest assured, that evening after dinner, Dick would no doubt set to work constructing a pillow fort in the living room. Maybe he could get Tim to help him, since he doubted Cassandra was home. Maybe even Jason, if the big kid would deign to be around him.)
He lowers his legs through the chandelier dangling ornamentation and kicks them back and forth like he was on a swingset at the park.]
Twenty-six is still pretty old, Damian. [He tried the first name on for size-- a little strange, when he says it out loud, but almost in an exciting way. He looked, for the most part, like his usual cheery self that would do gymnastic tumbles down the hallway instead of hiding in ceiling fixtures. If a bit messy.]
Not as old as Alfie, but he'll get mad if I talk about how old he is. Your hair's probably gonna start falling out next week.
[But rest assured, he'll spend dessert assembling a list of suitable monikers and nicknames for his new partner. It'll be ready by morning.]
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[ A warning, young Grayson. You do not want to get Tim started on 'the budget.' Numbers come easily to Damian, and when he was younger he'd made an effective go at sorting out more than a few mismatching balances at Wayne Enterprises (a result of some executives thinking they could get away with funneling a steady trickle of finances into non-existent projects), but only Timothy could make numbers seem dull. Every time he started discussing 'the budget' Damian wanted nothing more than to just walk out of the room and leave Tim yelling behind him.
Sometimes he did. It was oftentimes more entertaining than listening. ]
And my hair's not going to fall out, lólodúianchír. [ The word is a little awkward on his tongue, not quiet fluent, but it's telling of the oldest son's vested interest in Dick's well-being (even before this conversation) that he's been making the effort to learn the boy's language. Damian looks aggravated at the very notion of his hair falling out, long leg reaching out to kick at the edge of Dick's glass-and-metal nest, sending the centerpiece swaying. His hair's always been on the thicker, rougher side, close-cropped strands curling in haphazard whorls as is typical of Arab men, but he's also had a widow's peak even from when he was very young. It hasn't receded or anything, but the worry is still there (god help him if he ends up looking like Ra's)-- ]
Master Damian.
[ Alfred's voice floats up to them in a sharp report, utterly scandalized, from where he's standing in the entryway, a severe look on his face.
His expression is unrepentant, but it may be the first time Dick sees Damian attempt to fold himself into a smaller shape, shoulders hunching and knees drawing up like a sulking child. ]
Pennyworth. [ He intones back, dismissively, as if he's not doing a single thing wrong. But Damian is quick to slide off the chandelier, dangling from the metal before dropping with a heavy thump to the floor below, straightening to stand and kicking out the sting from his heels (dress shoes aren't made for gymnastics). ]
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He lets out a small 'oh!' in explanation when he recognizes the word out of Damian's mouth-- it's clumsy, and accented in a way that showed he was clearly not a native speaker, but hearing word again makes a warmth in his chest downright soar. The only one who had ever called him that was his mother, and it seemed like it had been eternity since the last time he'd ever heard it (and more to it, like with so many other things in his life, he'd never thought he'd hear it again.)
He'd never spoken Romani with an outsider before. Everyone at the circus always used English whenever someone else was near, even if they were a friend. It was exciting, in a way, but it also seemed a little dangerous, but that of course, just made it even more exciting.
He jerks forward for a moment when the chandelier starts swaying, but Dick quickly regains his balance-- and starts laughing exuberantly with the motion after his initial surprise. If he had any idea who Ra's al Ghul was, or had ever seen the man, he would have an absolute field day.] Maybe you could borrow some from the bearded lady--!
[His laughter only dies down gradually when he realizes Alfred has entered the room-- and much to many party's relief, he grabs onto the chandelier's arms and slips himself through it with ease, releasing his grip with a bit of swing and touching much more quietly on the ground after Damian's descent.
The chandelier was still swaying a little, but at least he was down.
Firmly on the ground, he trots over to where Damian's standing, lightly touching Damian's leg (he barely gets past the man's waist with his current height), and hovering just so behind him like a shy child hiding behind someone familiar in public. Even if the expression he gave Alfred was an obnoxiously toothy grin.]
Hi Alfie! [It was official. He was no longer afraid of or wary of Damian Wayne.]
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[ Alfred is looking at his oldest pointedly. Damian snorts and looks away, crossing his arms, the picture of disagreeable company. Nevertheless, the old butler looks marginally mollified by the smile upon Dick's face, and the way the boy now crowds behind him.
Damian is uncouth and eccentric in his personal behaviors (careless with fine china and fine crystal and fine words), but whatever tactics he employed seem to have both calmed the young Grayson down and established some measure of endearment on the boy's behalf. A good outcome.
Not that he is surprised. Alfred knows Damian; the young man, despite his standoffish exterior, cares deeply for his charges, and measures his words and actions accordingly when they're upset. Such a change from the boy he first met sixteen years ago, so young and brash and cruel, sharp with his words even with the ones he cared about. Bruce had a hand in the change, as did the friends Damian made (and no small credit to Alfred himself, of course). ]
You accuse me of being poor company, when he's the one calling me old?
[ Damian's hand drops to push in irritation at the messy fluff of Dick's hair, batting his head down and mussing his bangs in one fell swoop, a move that's just inviting a bout of roughhousing (too common between him and Jason, and so many things get broken as a result). Alfred is quick to step in, turning his polite regard on Dick. ]
Would you perhaps be interested in helping me prepare our evening's courses? There is a dessert that could use the expertise of an experienced taste-tester.
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[He's quick to give up his attempt at retaliation though, especially when Alfred draws his attention instead. (Alfred, who of course was never going to go senile. It was OK for him to make fun of Damian for it though, because Damian was his big brother.)]
Oh, right! [Limbs withdrawn, he flies away from Damian's side to position himself in front of Alfred instead, hands curled energetically at his sides, a tacit acknowledgement that he would be absolutely ecstatic to help.] Big D said you're gonna make pirogo for dessert! [So very very excited.] And something with eggplant too.
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The tiniest fly.
He's not going to go senile. ]
Yes, that is the plan. Eggplant lasagne-- [ Because Damian is a strict vegetarian, and Alfred has to find creative ways to ensure the rest of them get their vegetables for the day. ] --with a candied walnut salad topped with gorgonzola, and pirogo for dessert.
[ Damian's stomach growls, loud and clear, and the young man at least has the grace to look embarrassed. Someone skipped breakfast and lunch, too caught up with work. Alfred sends him a knowing look, offering a hand to Dick in clear invitation. ]
It looks to be an early dinner tonight. Shall we, young Master Dick?
[ And that is Damian's cue. He has a few more cases to review before then, and the boy is in good spirits and good hands. ]
Ring me when dinner is ready?
[ Oh, Alfred will do one better. He'll send Dick to retrieve him. Damian too often sequesters himself in his room after grabbing his share of dinner; the boy will have a lot more luck drawing him out than Alfred does. ]
Of course, Master Damian.
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He tries to hide another snicker behind his hand when Damian's stomach interjects, and he reaches up to place his small hand in Alfred's in the same movement. He nods in affirmation, ready to head off to the kitchen and get to work.]
We'll make you a lot of eggplant! [An important declaration before they leave, so Damian can be sure they'll be hard at work. And that way there'd be more pirogo for Dick--
(Of course, eating it alone would be unacceptable. Damian has chosen to learn Dick's language, and thus it would be absolutely required to join the family for the meal. Absolutely non-negotiable.]