[ Things have been rocky with his father. At first he wasn't allowed back down in the Cave with their 'guest,' but Damian made quick work of sidestepping that little decree, and Bruce had born the civil disobedience with thinned lips and a tense jaw and a few choice words about security and liabilities.
As if he listened. Damian made it routine to come down and speak to the boy at least once a day, although he'd been forced to hold his tongue on the matters of the circus. He'd had done his research; had learned that the deaths of the Flying Graysons had happened nearly two decades ago, and had wanted to pull Grayson aside and speak to him about it, but Bruce had been unexpectedly firm about keeping his silence.
Then, attacks on Batman, Inc. had escalated, by both Court assassins and his mother's hired hands. They were handling it - had fallen into nearly perfect teamwork in the meantime, unusual for any group that consisted of him, Drake, and Todd on the same roll call, but it still lead to tensions off the field.
(A blowout after he'd slipped up one night, letting his frustration carry him too far against a criminal; Drake so reasonably suggested that maybe Damian would find League life still more suitable than being Robin if this was the 'mockery' he was going to make of the colors. As if he didn't know what Robin meant, as if he hadn't been trying for over a year now--)
Damian may be feeling a little cabin fever as well, having to look at the same stupid faces day in and day out and at night, too. And he knows Grayson, reserved as the boy is, is likely going out of his mind in that cell. And Damian may still be feeling a little vindictive, a little rebellious, because when he comes to talk to the ex-Talon, he doesn't pull up a chair like usual, but presses his palm to the wall panel.
Calmly, confidently, as if this isn't a daring, bold move. The force field drops, wall gone, and Damian stands there, waiting expectantly. He's not dressed up in his suit, but in black pants and a thick black coat fit for winter, and, after a beat, holds out a hand to help the other boy up. ]
no subject
As if he listened. Damian made it routine to come down and speak to the boy at least once a day, although he'd been forced to hold his tongue on the matters of the circus. He'd had done his research; had learned that the deaths of the Flying Graysons had happened nearly two decades ago, and had wanted to pull Grayson aside and speak to him about it, but Bruce had been unexpectedly firm about keeping his silence.
Then, attacks on Batman, Inc. had escalated, by both Court assassins and his mother's hired hands. They were handling it - had fallen into nearly perfect teamwork in the meantime, unusual for any group that consisted of him, Drake, and Todd on the same roll call, but it still lead to tensions off the field.
(A blowout after he'd slipped up one night, letting his frustration carry him too far against a criminal; Drake so reasonably suggested that maybe Damian would find League life still more suitable than being Robin if this was the 'mockery' he was going to make of the colors. As if he didn't know what Robin meant, as if he hadn't been trying for over a year now--)
Damian may be feeling a little cabin fever as well, having to look at the same stupid faces day in and day out and at night, too. And he knows Grayson, reserved as the boy is, is likely going out of his mind in that cell. And Damian may still be feeling a little vindictive, a little rebellious, because when he comes to talk to the ex-Talon, he doesn't pull up a chair like usual, but presses his palm to the wall panel.
Calmly, confidently, as if this isn't a daring, bold move. The force field drops, wall gone, and Damian stands there, waiting expectantly. He's not dressed up in his suit, but in black pants and a thick black coat fit for winter, and, after a beat, holds out a hand to help the other boy up. ]
Come on, then, Grayson. We haven't got all day.