dreamsanddisasters | RISE.GIF Reunions (for Plus)

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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Dead man. Right-- heh, it was almost funny. Damian remembered that before Dick even did himself.]

I could say the same thing about you, y'know.

[He shifts in his position, though he doesn't come down, looking down at Damian from his perch-- it sounds like something he should say as a joke, but there's no humor in his voice, not even scorn or retaliation. It's solemn, almost regretful.

He lets out a sigh, brings his knees up and props his elbow son them, rubbing his gloves hands over his face like he's trying to wake up. Maybe he is.]

...You weren't supposed to be here right now-- only Bruce is supposed to know. Otherwise, I...

[He would've come sooner. Wouldn't be sitting up here and hiding from the rest of his family like he was some kind of plague. Like it was too dangerous for him to come near.]

[ He's not stupid enough to fall for this trap. But the man's acting like Grayson, and looks like Grayson, and talks like Grayson, and with no attack coming yet, hope is warring in his chest.

He'd just come to terms with the fact that the other is dead, and here he is, seemingly in the flesh. Damian floats up another few inches, squinting, searching his posture for any tells that would give him away as anything other than one Richard Grayson, and finds nothing.

Only Bruce is supposed to know.

His Father, who did not seem to grieve Grayson nearly so much as he had Todd, or -- according to sources -- Damian himself. His Father, who didn't speak of his first Robin, but also didn't shatter glass or break headstones out of fury for his loss.

He swallows, and resists the urge to pull his cape around him. He's no child in need of a security blanket. ]

Prove it.

[ A challenge, spitted. His arms cross, scowl on his lips, to cover his weakness. ]

Or I'll break your face. Something only the real Grayson would know.

Funny-- [He takes in a breath of composure, drops his hands down away from his face.] and here I left my hypnos at home.

[Well, it's not as if Damian could break his face if you couldn't see his face. Not that he had actually left it at home. That'd just be ridiculous.

For a moment he sits there in silence-- and in the next he swings his legs down and over his current perch on the ceiling beam, pushing off and landing on the ground with a clap of his shoes but still with the poise of posture and position he's always had.]

...When we were fighting off Professor Pyg, you were down for weeks about how you couldn't save Sacrlet-- you didn't want anybody to know how badly it got to you. That time when I brought Bruce's fake body to the Lazarus Pit... after he came back to the manor and attacked you and Alfie you didn't let it go for months. Especially not after you had to beat him back-- even though I had to come swing in and save you in the end.

[He smiles, keeps his tone light, though it's all bittersweet, all held back-- memories he used to be fond of that he's since tried to bury away so he wouldn't have to think about them anymore.]

You... You were trying to keep the Heretic off of me when you-- [Yeah, that's right... Of course he remembered. Bruce had gone through a simulation of that day so many times...]

...We were the best, Damian. Remember?

[ With each example, he drops a little closer to the floor, jaw clenched and eyes fixed on Dick, until his toes touch down and his heels sit on solid ground, cape draped around him. It might give Bruce a quick shock to the blood pressure, seeing his boy back in his colors so soon, but they suit him, more than anything else he's ever worn. More than black slacks, or a blank slate bodysuit, or a white death shroud.

The last line confirms, though the look of anger doesn't fade from his face. He takes a step forward, then another, until he's stomping across the distance between them, and it's hard to tell if he means to punch Dick once he's within reach -- but, instead, the boy lunges the last few feet, barreling into his torso like a miniature freight train and arms latching around his sides with a steel grip that suggests flight isn't the only thing he's capable of, face burying into his chest.

Shoulders hunching, shaking. And, muffled, the sounds of a furious litany. ]

You idiot, you and Father lied to me! [ Hiccuping, wet snarls, but mostly articular. ] They, they said you were dead, R-Richard, you, you stupid, you jackass--!

[Dick's inclined to agree. Damian's never looked better than in his old colors.

He doesn't hesitate; drops to one knee to meet him halfway, throws his arms around Damian as soon as he's within reach. The force is more than he bargained for with that lunge, and he thinks he might well completely fall over or break a rib or probably had a bruise-- but he at least holds his ground, and his grip isn't the same amped up vice as Damian's, but it's still tight and clinging like he's never going to let go.

He's back. God, he really is back.]

It's not their fault-- [His voice is wet, though there's no hiccups, his eyes are tearing up but he hardly even cares as he buries his face in Damian's messy black mop of hair.] --They don't know. You're not even supposed to know. Couldn't tell anyone the truth... Even got my own funeral.

[He'd went along with the plan, despite his objections. He didn't like hiding from his family.]

I wanted to come back sooner. I should've. I-I missed you.

[ There's the possibility that Damian is going to absolutely refuse to let go. He isn't known to cry easily, if at all, but he's crying now, hitched sobs smothered in Dick's Spyral-issued shirt as he huddles close. He hadn't done his grieving, not really -- coming back to a household with no Grayson had been a shock, and one he'd never really swallowed. He'd felt his absence keenly; returning to life had had its ramifications, and though his first instinct was always to rely on himself and stick it through by sheer stubbornness, his second instinct had been to turn to Dick for help when even he felt overwhelmed.

But Dick hadn't been there. He'd been dead. Damian had seen the footage, no matter how hard everyone had tried to keep it out of his hands. ]

You shouldn't've left at all! [ There's the snapping. He's twice as irate -- at himself for being such a mess, at Dick for pulling such a dumb maneuver. ] We're, we're family, I don't see why--!

[ And he can't. Can't wrap his mind around why Dick's status would need to be kept secret from even them. Him. There's no rhyme or reason to it, not that he can see. He hiccups, snuffling hard, and there's another curse mangled in there somewhere. ]

Don't ever do this to me again. You hear me, Grayson? I will kill you myself if you do.

[ Clearly, he missed Dick, too. Right back to the threats. ]

[Ah, the threats. He'd gotten so used to them before-- even the threats of violence, damn if he didn't miss them. Damn if he didn't miss them coming from this arrogant, cocky little brat, like a buzz in his ear he'd gotten too used to that left too big of a silence when it was gone.

Having him here in his arms was definitely worth the bruises, even if his tone is now cautious and grave.]

I didn't have a choice. If I'd stayed it would've put everyone else in danger.

[His identity had already been blown on national television. If everyone had known that Nightwing was still alive, even more secrets would've been busted-- and even more of them would've been in danger.

And it ultimately means that he can't stay now, and it's that thought that makes his breath hitch, squeezes his hold tighter for a moment.]

I'm sorry-- I wasn't there. But you are my family, and I'm-- I'm so sorry.

[ If there's one thing about him, it's that he's obstinate about refusing to accept impossibility. He can think of a million, a billion ways Dick could've stayed, and he's furious that he was dead and unable to argue his father's decision--

(and it must have been Bruce's decision, only something this foolish could come from the man)

--but he's here, now. And unwilling to let this go on. ]

I will consider your apology. [ Ugh, his nose is stuffy, the standoffish words coming out as more of a child's whine. He snuffles again, relaxes his grip only enough to give Dick room to breath, the tread of his boots scuffing against the cave floor as he shifts. ]

I missed you.

[ It's easier to say the words, now, since -- since then. Since waking from the darkest sleep. Easier to wear his heart on his sleeve than it'd been before. A second chance will do that, he supposes.

He'd gone to Dick's grave, sometimes. To talk. To tell him about his brothers, his training, about the times Bruce pissed him off. Of course it wasn't the same. ]

Where'd you go, anyway?

[ Why weren't you here? ]

Well I can only hope to fall back into your good graces.

[His smile is rueful, because this next part is... hard. Complicated. Because Dick's a talker and he can't find the words to explain how much he missed him. How he felt so rotten inside when he thought about how his Robin was dead while he was still alive. How could still remember the sight of his beaten, bloody body when he closed his eyes at night. How he'd barely bat an eye at himself when he'd driven a spear through the heretic in the only successful simulation they'd had. How sometimes he wished Luthor really had finished him off, like that would somehow make up for the fact that Damian was gone.

And now, that things are finally looking up, how he can't stay even through the night, and he probably won't see him again for months, if he was generous. By tomorrow morning he had to go back to being a ghost.

He carefully pulled himself away from Damian's grip-- enough so that he can look him in the face, and he moves his hands to the boy's forearms.]

I can't tell you. [Some partner he was, right?] And I can't stay here. Not for long. You can't tell anyone you saw me.

[ Dick just took a step away from Damian's good graces, judging by the affront on the boy's face, how his nose scrunches and his lips pull down into a pug-like look of intense annoyance. Can't tell him? ]

Why not?

[ It's half-demand, half-plea, though the boy's trying hard not to allow the hiccup into his voice. Easier to be annoyed than to feel hurt that Nightwing is leaving again, and leaving soon. When he's gone, Damian will be alone -- again. Suffering Kent's tutelage, and his father's refusal to let him patrol solo, and the nightmares that dog his sleep and leave hollows under his eyes. The memory of drowning with copper filling his lungs. ]

I can help, Grayson! Whatever it is.

[ Whatever is keeping his brother away, keeping him from coming home. ]

Bullets can't even stop me anymore. I can help you. Whatever Father's ridiculous play is, this time.

[ They're the best, after all. ]

[He shakes his head, solemn but stern, a harken to his early days at Batman, when Bruce's (fake) body was still freshly buried. Once upon a time it would've been rare to see Damian insisting to help for a purpose that wasn't just asserting his superiority, and now Dick hates to turn him down.]

No, Damian. Not this time. This isn't about fighting an army or finding where a bad guy's hiding. It's... more delicate than that.

[Doesn't get more delicate than infiltrating an undercover super sky organization.]

And I don't think anyone wants to risk losing you again. Even if you're bulletproof. [His smile is wry; a front for trying to lighten the situation, because there's a strain in his voice, and his heart isn't in it.]

Help me by keeping this a secret. And make sure the others are... OK, every now and then.

[ Delicate isn't exactly his thing. He's more than well aware of that, knows that there's work he isn't suited for. His father would ground him for months if he tried -- not that that's all that much of a deterrent. He does what he wants.

But Grayson was his Batman, first, and he was always better at listening to him.

Doesn't mean he's not disappointed; his shoulders slump and his stare drops, which is as much indication of acquiescence as Dick will ever get, though he covers the reaction with a half-hearted grumble and a sneer. ]

I hope the others you're referring to are Titus, Alfred, and Pennyworth.

[ Him, check in on Drake? On Todd? Ugh, no. ]

[He can't help a quirk in side of his mouth at Damian's sneering. He won't question the tacit agreement; even going along quietly is an amazing forfeiture from Damian when he'd already been disagreeing. Especially when he wasn't happy about it. He should probably just count his lucky stars he's not running off to battle crazy circus performers anymore.]

Tim, Jason and Babs were pretty insistent on bringing you back too, you know.

[He brought one hand up to tussle his hair, his half-smirk widening into a grin as best as he can manage.

He'd listened. For just a bit. Not a single one of them had turned down the mission for a moment. He missed them.]

You've still got a big family here, kiddo.

[ Damian is the perfect picture of cynicism, lip jutting into something close to a pout underneath the mussing of his hair, and he's quick to try and comb the short spikes back into order with a short, disgruntled run of his hand. ]

That was for Father, and for Robin. Not me.

[ Of course, nobody told him about how Bruce and the others had reacted to his death; his tone makes it sound like they acted out of loyalty to Batman, rather than out of genuine concern, or grief of their own. They'd all returned to their usual schedules, after.

...--Still some things to work on, if Batman, Inc. is to be a family. ]

But Grayson. If you get into trouble? Call for me. I'll hear. I'll come.

[ Super. Powers. Just in case Dick hadn't noticed. Better than Superman. ]

No. They did it for you.

[They all talked about legacies and identities-- what it meant to be Batman, or Robin, or Batgirl, what they had to be,what they should be, how they had to change, where their loyalties lied. But in the end, not a one of them had owed more loyalty to a name than the person behind the mask. They were a family, through and through.

Yes, even Jason. When he wanted to be.] Besides you really think Jay would do it for Bruce?

[They were a very complicated family.

But, he's still smiling, softer now.] Of course-- I will.

[He won't. Of course he can't. Can't blow it all and let Damian come storming the castle because he's in trouble. Can't risk his safety, or Batman's if they found out what they were up to.]

[ Forgive him if he continues to be a skeptic; he squints dubiously up at Dick. He hasn't even seen the others more than a handful of times since he woke, and there was no love lost between any of them before that.

(He and Gordon had met all of once, and it went as well as you'd expect.) ]

I attempted to kill Drake on more than one occasion, and cursed Todd to hell and back for tricking me under the guise of Wingman.

[ And he doesn't sound the slightest bit regretful about either of those facts. He's Damian Wayne. He doesn't regret his decisions. But there is a discrepancy here between Dick's logic and reality. Who knows why they helped? It will forever be a mystery.

At Dick's smile -- goodbye, it says, and he hates it -- he floats up, snagging his arms around his brother's neck in one last, tight hug, frowning. ]

Just hurry up and finish what you have to do. I won't put off starting the new-- [ Old, by now, the next one already released just last month. ] --Swordwalkers game forever.

And you're the one who's still holding onto that.

[Well, probably. Jason held grudges pretty well too. Death threats were no petty grievance, but no one had gone unaffected enough by their young Robin's passing to hold to old conflicts. Nothing had quite seemed as important as the loss.

But he brought his arms up to wrap around Damian again without hesitation, hooking his chin over Damian's shoulder and hugging him tight.

(He didn't want to leave. He really didn't.)]

I'll be faster than a speeding bullet. [Probably not.] I'll be back to kick your butt before you know it.

[ -Tt.- He's not holding onto anything. Excuse??

Well. Maybe a little scorn. And some fear of rejection, even after he'd proven himself. But that was on them, not him. He'd done what he had to do.

He can't promise that he won't needle the hell out of them both if either ever comes to visit, of course.

The hug is reassuring, snug and safe, and probably his only regret is that he didn't learn to do this before. It's a childish indulgence, not something he does often, and even then it'd been only when he was invited by his father. Death tempered him. In small ways. ]

You wish. I may have been indisposed for a time, but I assure you, my skills are as sharp as ever. Feel free to kick the dirt when I knock you down, however.

[Absolutely holding onto everything.

He's never known Damian to be this... affectionate. He thrived on praise and positive attention, but he had always been so distant as far as physical contact that wasn't the business end of a fist.

But far be it from Dick to question what's changed. He can make a pretty good guess; and he's certainly not taking it for granted.]

We'll see about that. [He tightened his grip, giving a light squeeze before pulling away again.]

...Think you can pass a message on to Bruce for me? [Seemed like he was taking awhile to actually get back, so...]

I could.

[ It's Robin's version of a snotty ten-year-old 'maybe'. He'll give Bruce the message, but he's going to give Dick a little grief over it first; let him know he's not pleased about his choice to leave so soon, at all. He frowns, smoothing down his vest, and squints up at Dick.

Not so much of a distance, now that he can fly. In fact...

Yes. Now it's Damian looking down on Grayson, taller by a solid five inches, arms crossed. Perfect. This is as it should be. ]

What is it?

[Getting a little lip from Damian is probably the least exasperating thing he'll ever get from him. In fact, he's pretty much used to it, though not enough that he doesn't notice.

When Damian hovers in the air, he pulls himself back up to his full height like it's some kind of challenge, arms crossed and his mouth quirked in amusement.]

Let him know my location's been reassigned. I'll get him details on the investigation the next time we talk.

[ Amazing, how he keeps scooting up in the air to maintain his line of sight, even as Dick straightens out.

(Even more amazing: the smug look on his face as he does. The superpowers have gone straight to his ego.) ]

I'll relay it to him.

[ As if he's doing a very large favor for Dick; yet the kid still can't keep his own shoelaces tied. Still, there is one part to the message he's interested in: the part where Dick will be back to talk again. ]

Next time, don't leave without saying hello, at least. [ He scowls. It won't be fair if only Bruce gets to talk to Grayson. ] And bring me back something interesting. I want souvenirs, for my mantel. Hood's mask is hideous without something to offset it.

Thanks for your benevolence. [Truly, he is so privileged for Damian's favor. He fixes the kid with a look, as he now had to incline his head to look a him, and his voice hadn't even hit puberty yet.]

Hey, you're the one that wanted it in the first place.

[Not that he can deny anyone the chance to go kick Jason's ass in good conscience.]

But maybe if you behave. Usually I have to phone in these little chats, so you'll have to be on your best behavior the whole time.

You're welcome.

[ He's definitely preening. Behold, Grayson, him in all his benevolence and majesty. He can fly. Did you see that he can fly? He's just going to hover here to really emphasize the point. ]

I'm always on my best behavior. [ He shoots Dick an affronted look, crossing his arms with a huff. ] Drake is still alive after all, is he not?

[ Best. Behavior. We'll just casually ignore that he still doesn't listen to Bruce most of the time, and continues to backtalk and argue the rest, and has been causing both him and Alfred undue amounts of stress in exercising his new abilities. ]

Maybe I would believe that a little more if you weren't trying to be taller than me right now.

[He moves one hand to his hip, reaches out and gives a light tug of Damian's dangling shoelaces with the other, all while he had an amused smirk on his face. Yeah, about as well-behaved as a kid standing on their tip-toes was mature.]

Oh-- and try and cut Supes some slack too, OK?

[Even if it wasn't Damian, direct mentoring had never exactly been Clark's strong point. He was a lot better on a team of more or less equals.]

Get used to it, Grayson. My recent growth charts project me to taller than you when I'm fully grown. A solid six feet, easy.

[ This is just a taste of the future. Although he's quick to shake his foot free of the tugging -- leave his shoelaces alone, Nightwing.

(And it says so, so much that Bruce is even thinking that far down the line. Planning for Damian to reach twelve, and fifteen, and eighteen, and longer; enough to discuss how tall he'll be, what kind of frame he'll probably have, the type of training and fighting styles that will best suit him in the long run. To even talk about the future with his son.) ]

Slack? [ Ah yes, the patented Damian Wayne sneer. ] Never. I demand excellence from my instructors, and accept only the best.

[ Get on his level, Kent. ]

Don't remind me.

[His exasperation was mostly feigned; not that Dick's height was anything to sneeze at-- but when you looked at Talia, Ra's and Bruce all together, it was obvious that Damian would grow up to be tall and broad. Though he usually imagined him with Talia's chin and sneer.

(It felt so right that it felt so normal, he barely even realized how not a month ago there wasn't even a chance for Damian to reach puberty. He'd realize later, that this was better. This felt right.)]

I seem to remember you thinking I was less than excellence when I had to teach you, you know. [A knowing smirk that was also a bit smug, and he tilted the side of his head in Damian's direction.

Yeah, pretty much everyone had expressed their dissatisfaction with the shuffle after Bruce's disappearance.]

[ He's going to remind you. Repeatedly. Especially given that his birthday came and went, and he's one year closer to being a teen rather than a pre-teen. He'll outstrip you soon enough, Grayson; it's merely a waiting game at this point.

(He'd be even closer to thirteen if he hadn't been dead for a year, of course, although age is mostly an assigned thing to him, given his accelerated development. But he's not about to brag that he's actually just turned seven.)

He turns up his nose as Dick's own reminder, sniffing haughtily. ]

To be fair, you were ungainly as Batman. [ Making Batman his own had taken Dick time. ] You shaped up. Eventually.

[ More like Damian learned to respect him, and finally listened to what he had to teach. Before that, there was no winning, ever. He'd disliked Dick, had mocked and criticized him at every turn -- it wasn't until the man had stepped in to save him, had offered unconditional forgiveness despite everything he'd done, that he'd stopped and reevaluated the impostor.

He supposes he can thank Professor Pyg for that, but he'd really prefer not to. ]

That cape was ungainly.

[He turns up an eyebrow; an important distinction. Even to this day, the size and weight of that thing was still completely ridiculous to him. Dick was a lot of things, but he'd certainly never been called clumsy.]

The point is, I'd never had to train someone-- [Not like a protege, not really like a partner; he took to a team setting easily, but one on one was a lot different.]-- and Clark hasn't really either. Just give him time to shape up. Maybe one day you'll even like him.

[Spoken like it was the most preposterous thing in the universe. Which, it kind of was. But Dick still had a spark of hope.]

[ It's as if Dick has just suggested that maybe one day he'll even like Drake, too. And Todd, for good measure. His nose wrinkles, immediate, and his grimace is almost visceral.

Never. ]

I like the super dog better than I like the super man.

[ He's exaggerating, however. Fronting. A check-in with Bruce would tell Dick all he'd need to know. Damian and Clark, although awkward (and Damian, haughty and refusing to listen), have made tentative peace. A single chord, struck, that occasionally gets them through a training session without extreme amounts of backtalk and sass and frustration.

Clark had been guilty. Guilty that he'd actively discouraged, even tried to prevent, Bruce from doing what it took to bring his son back. And now that the boy, alive and well because Bruce had gone behind the League's backs, was in front of him? There'd been regret.

Damian had been very quick to wipe that regret off his face. No pity-parties, no guilt, he refused to stand for it. Shut up and teach him.

It had helped. Surprisingly. ]

Besides, he needs his ego checked. At least one person who won't worship the ground he walks on. Otherwise his head gets too big.

[ This child. ]

[Well, Krypto was a pretty likable mutt. Not like Dick could fault him for the opinion, given his clear preferential treatment towards Titus.]

Be careful, or your head will end up just as big.

[Clark was not exactly someone he imagined to be egocentric. Damian? Arrogant as all get out.

He takes a moment to cast a glance around the cave; still no sign of Bruce. Guess waiting around wasn't gonna get him much more than a reprimand once someone back at Spyral caught him being late to something or anther.]

...Guess I better get going while the going's good, though.

[He's smiling, his hands loose and the wave he gives is casually dismissive-- but it was easily a cover for the his reluctance and regret at having to leave at all.]

I suppose so.

[ It's slight, but he clenches his jaw, fingers curling into loose fists, and his stare won't sit still on Dick. Wandering from the man's boots to his shoulder to the weird design on the shirt (ugly uniform, all of it, he doesn't think it suits Nightwing at all), skirting from meeting his eyes. ]

If you're still here when Father gets in, you'll have to listen to him harp at you, no doubt.

[ He sniffs, haughty. ]

God help you if he's in a mood, even. Run, Grayson. Run quickly.

[It's easy to tell that Damian's avoiding eye contact, but it's not as if Dick's gonna press it. He's pretty good at acting like things are normal, like he's just going back to his apartment, back to Chicago or New York or Bludhaven to resume his daily grind, as if it wasn't also the first time he's seen a dead kid walking in so much time.]

You say that like he doesn't harp on me anyway.

[Ah yes, if there was ever a constant in his life, it was the neverending lectures.

He turns around on his heel, looking at Damian with hooded eyes and an almost solemn smile, giving him a wave that was a bit more committed.]

Hang in there, alright? Don't go dying on us again.

As if. I've beaten death.

[ It's not catching him a second time. No way. He's invincible.

(He's alive, and you aren't, Mother.) ]

...--See you.

[ Soon. Later. Later than later. Maybe never. But he refuses to settle on a goodbye.

Damian's expression is implacably haughty, lips pursed, but he raises a hand back, somber. ]

Maybe. But I don't want to see you have to do it again.

[He doubts Bruce can pull that off a second time. None of them can dodge death forever, but he doubts any of them can deal with losing Damian again so soon.

(It's still barely real, like he'l wake up in his room with a call from Helena yelling at him for oversleeping and he'll call Bruce and the man will be telling him the mission failed.)]

Later.

[There's a hesitance in his step, like he might turn around instead and further delay his exit; but he's off instead, departing for the back exit of the cave where no one can see him slip out.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

RISE.GIF Reunions (for Plus)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject