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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Well then, let me know when you want to try. There's options. [ Muscle relaxers, sedatives - undoubtedly some combination will do the trick. It won't work forever, but it'll be something.
Idly, he brushes Jason's bangs back, working his fingers through his mussed hair in a gesture that's part meant to relax and part meant to neaten him up some, thumb scuffing lightly over the occasional scrape and bruise. ]
I should give Timothy a heads' up. [ Give him a chance to pull himself together so maybe he won't start crying like he's twelve again at the sight of Jaybird. ] What do you say? Take pity and simply text him, or 'pics or it didn't happen'?
[ Instagram. Best way to give Tim a heart-attack. ]
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[ Though it might be at least marginally restful, sedatives just didn't do it right. It wasn't real sleep, satisfying in a way that sits in your limbs and makes waking up a pleasure instead of a hassle. Jason had only had maybe a handful of nights of real sleep in his life, too strung out on the stress and pain of it all, but right now it was the only kind of sleep he wanted.
(And he knew he couldn't have it. That's never stopped him from wanting things before, though.)
Uncurling a little, Jason stares up at his brother, a tad incredulous. Damian, you’re going to give Tim a heart attack one day. Jason can’t even be properly surprised. ]
Text is….fine. [ More than fine. Jason knows he looks rough right now, no need to send Tim into overdrive early. ] Preferred, really.
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[ But Damian knows what Jason means, his tone a shade or two gentler than his usual chastisement. He's had the unique experience of waking late in the morning, close to noon, content and warm and pleasantly, unguardedly muzzy, after falling asleep one December night in front of a dying fire to the sounds of the TV going; with Timothy pressed to his side and Cassandra using his chest as a pillow, and Jason sprawled every which way atop all three of them. Even Titus had been warming his heels. ]
Text it is, then.
[ Even though it's easy to see how tempting it is to give Tim his little daily dosage of grief. Some things haven't changed much in the years Jason's been gone, and Tim and Damian's strange, supportive, but entirely passive-aggressive relationship is one of them. Damian remains shameless as ever about how much he enjoys needling the second son, fending off Jason's stare with a click of his tongue, even as he fishes his cell phone from one of the pockets of the belt still clipped around the teenager's waist.
(It always drives Bruce to distraction whenever Damian starts playing with it during patrol. The eldest Wayne boy is surgically attached to his smart device.)
His message is brief and to the point: ]
OMW. ETA 3 hours. J says hi.
[ And then sets it aside, blithely ignoring the way it's suddenly blowing up with messages, screen flickering brightly with rapid-fire text.
(Acknowledged. Will alert B and A and prep for incoming. Status?
...
D, what's the sit-rep? Is he okay?
...
D, you asshole--)
He has to needle Tim a little. ]
no subject
But, since he’d seen Damian tapping away at it, it wasn’t too hard to figure out.
With shaking fingers (the edges still scraped and raw), he taps out a quick message to his brother, a condolence for Damian’s impressive assholery. ]
im ok. will c u soon. –j
[ He’s not entirely satisfied with his meager message, but the phone is beginning to weird him out in a way he wasn’t fully expecting. If a phone could change that much in a few years, what else has? And even more than that, his hands are beginning to kind of hurt. Looks like he won’t be typing up reports any time soon.
Setting it back down in its place, he resettles himself against his brother. ]
Tim is gonna smack you later and I’m gonna laugh.
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He laughs under his breath. Tim is a force to be reckoned with, just as much as Damian. ]
And when he starts getting weepy on you I'm going to laugh.
[ Timothy had been such a crybaby, even as he'd put on a brave face. Ten years hasn't changed that.
But Damian is digging around in the belt again, pulling out a small medical kit -- not much gets by him, and he'd been watching Jason type. ]
Alright, give me your hands. Let's at least try and look like we can take care of ourselves before he and Alfred get the chance to us both out for showing up looking like this--
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[ But he offers his hands up anyway, too tired at his point to protest his brother's help. He watches Damian's actions lazily, eyelids never drooping, but breathing slowing slightly as he rests, lucid and awake but relaxed, more at peace. This is a good place.
He wouldn't mind staying here for a while. ]
...You think B's gonna be okay?
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[ Damian's never been the best at field dressings, too impatient with himself to do more than slap some pressure on and call it good, ready to jump back in the fray, but he's more careful with the injuries of his brood. Jason's raw, ragged fingers are inspected for a moment, before the older man's hands press against his palms and wrists to hold them steady while he applies a sterilization gel over the worst damage at the tips; touch easily ghosting across with light precision, like how he works with the delicate, small parts of his latest mechanical project.
The gel itself is cooling, with a topical numbing agent of considerable strength, and Damian takes the time to bandage each of the fingers in turn; Alfred will probably put medical mitts on Jason later, but this is what they have on hand.
His stare only flicks up occasionally from his work, though he hums at the question, brow furrowing as he thinks over his response. ]
...Yeah. I think he will be. You'll have to be patient with him. Father has never been the best at dealing with emotion, and losing you--
[ A press, to his wrist; a quick reassurance to himself, maybe. ]
--it changed everything. He wasn't the same. None of us were, but him especially.
[ Darker, angrier, Bruce had shut himself up tight, thrown the doors closed, even as money flooded into the military tech division and their suits saw constant upgrades in defense. Damian tried his hardest to make sure he alone bore the brunt of it, made sure that Bruce damn well knew he couldn't close himself off from Tim or Cass, and they'd fought, constantly. Sometimes physically.
He'd been so close to leaving, so many times. But Damian had dug his heels in hard for his right to be a Wayne, to stay with his father, and he wasn't about to let himself be turned out so easily; not when he had others to protect. ]
But he is going to be so happy. [ The eldest brother is sure of this, confident. He adds, wryly: ] He may even smile. Prepare yourself.
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[ Which is a bold faced lie. Jason had seen him smile often. At himself, at Damian, at Tim—but always when he thought their backs were turned, when they weren’t looking. He’d always found that to be a dumb way to show affection, but a very B way. The man couldn’t help himself. He just had to be complicated.
When Damian finishes fussing with his hands, he crosses them across his chest, tucking them against his rib cage. He was cold, but Damian made it better. He was warm to a fault. (Anyone who thought his brother was cold, emotionally or otherwise, was blind—his brother ran bright, ran red in a way that no one else could. Passion was fire). ]
...I hope I make it better. Y'know, instead of worse.
[ He had a habit of doing the latter. It scared him. ]
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[ But Jason's honestly worried, and Damian knows all the reassurances in the world won't assuage his fears until the very moment he sees for himself. Always doubting his own worth, his place in their strange little family. Like he expects the people around him to leave if he doesn't measure up, or to tire of him eventually.
It's a feeling he's all too familiar with. There's a reason he and Jason got along better than he and Tim, or even Cass.
Snorting, he ruffles the teen's hair. ]
You've got me in your corner, kid. Whatever happens, we're family.
[ Though Bruce is, without a doubt, the most important person in Jason's world. Damian will fight tooth and nail to make sure that doesn't change, even if the man--
(his hurting, angry father, stubborn and ridiculous when it comes to it)
--doesn't want to cooperate. Damian will be there to make sure Bruce doesn't fuck up, not this time, not when it's this important. ]