Damian Wayne | Robin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
earlybird) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dreamsanddisasters2014-12-17 07:14 pm
earlybird) wrote in dreamsanddisasters2014-12-17 07:14 pm
RISE.GIF Reunions (for Plus)
Dead?
[ He hates how his voice cracks on the question, even as he hates the wince that crosses his father's face. It's -- it's inconceivable. Grayson can't be dead. Not here, not now, where there should be nothing but triumph and, and happiness, and his father brought him back but where is Grayson? ]
You're lying. You're lying! He isn't. He can't be, I saved him!
[ His denials repeat, increasingly loud, over his father's unwieldy, gentle explanations, until he's yelling and hands are pulling him in, tucking him against a broad chest and wiping away the tear tracks sliding, unheeded, down his face. He doesn't stop. It's unacceptable. Grayson isn't dead. ]
[ Batman had to return to duty at some point. Frankly, Damian is sick of the hovering, constantly pushed under wing. He understands it, but it doesn't mean he's willing to put up with it -- and it doesn't mean his father would ever be able to keep him away from being Robin. Not now that he can do this.
Air, breezing beneath his feet, wrapping around his limbs, and his cape flaps in the wind. He's never taken much pleasure in senseless play, but there's something about the open sky that has him wheeling and diving, speeding up only to stop, shoot up, drop down. It's practice. To master his new skillset. Obviously.
Flying is the easiest. It's the rest that's not so easily handled. Lessons with the alien are an exercise in patience, on everyone's part.
He does his rounds, sneaking back in before his father might suspect anything, and Titus is down in the Cave, claws skittering across the floor to greet him with an excited bark. The mutt's been the same way ever since he came back; as if every time he leaves, it's for good, and every time he returns, it's a miracle. Damian floats above the dancing pup, the toe of his boot tapping Titus' nose, and the brusque look on his face fades into something a little fonder. ]
Your breath smells like tuna, dog. Stole a sandwich, did you?
[ He hates how his voice cracks on the question, even as he hates the wince that crosses his father's face. It's -- it's inconceivable. Grayson can't be dead. Not here, not now, where there should be nothing but triumph and, and happiness, and his father brought him back but where is Grayson? ]
You're lying. You're lying! He isn't. He can't be, I saved him!
[ His denials repeat, increasingly loud, over his father's unwieldy, gentle explanations, until he's yelling and hands are pulling him in, tucking him against a broad chest and wiping away the tear tracks sliding, unheeded, down his face. He doesn't stop. It's unacceptable. Grayson isn't dead. ]
[ Batman had to return to duty at some point. Frankly, Damian is sick of the hovering, constantly pushed under wing. He understands it, but it doesn't mean he's willing to put up with it -- and it doesn't mean his father would ever be able to keep him away from being Robin. Not now that he can do this.
Air, breezing beneath his feet, wrapping around his limbs, and his cape flaps in the wind. He's never taken much pleasure in senseless play, but there's something about the open sky that has him wheeling and diving, speeding up only to stop, shoot up, drop down. It's practice. To master his new skillset. Obviously.
Flying is the easiest. It's the rest that's not so easily handled. Lessons with the alien are an exercise in patience, on everyone's part.
He does his rounds, sneaking back in before his father might suspect anything, and Titus is down in the Cave, claws skittering across the floor to greet him with an excited bark. The mutt's been the same way ever since he came back; as if every time he leaves, it's for good, and every time he returns, it's a miracle. Damian floats above the dancing pup, the toe of his boot tapping Titus' nose, and the brusque look on his face fades into something a little fonder. ]
Your breath smells like tuna, dog. Stole a sandwich, did you?