[ Very good. Damian's never really known the feeling of contentment (not outside of the rare pleasant dream of him and his father), and so he can't identify this calm, quiet feeling of good as such, but it's close. Close enough.
Dinner, then setting up his room, and Damian will prepare to meet his father head on later tonight when the man gets back in. It'll be a challenge to box him into accepting Damian's decision, but Robin has his battle plan.
(Take no prisoners.)
He strolls through the powder after Richard, more sedate than the increasingly-jaunty boy he's taken under his wing. At the back door he knocks his toes against the step, dislodging the snow built up on his boots, and trudges inside to the mud room; shrugging off the coat and hanging it up, toeing off the shoes and neatly lining them up on the tile as he steps up onto the hardwood foyer.
Titus, of course, bounds right back in, leaving dirty paw prints in his wake without a care as he trots in. The air's filled with the smell of Alfred's cooking, warm compared to the chill outside, and the butler has some quiet oldies playing on a vinyl record, the slow tunes drifting down the hall.
(Almost like a home, if Damian associated home with anything so cozy.)
He turns back to look at Richard, and he doesn't smile, doesn't drop the imperious lift of his chin, but something around the edges of his eyes softens, and he beckons him with a nod towards the kitchen and a hand held out expectantly. ]
Let's go see what Pennyworth is preparing, shall we?
hmmm is this a good place to wrap-up this scene??
[ Very good. Damian's never really known the feeling of contentment (not outside of the rare pleasant dream of him and his father), and so he can't identify this calm, quiet feeling of good as such, but it's close. Close enough.
Dinner, then setting up his room, and Damian will prepare to meet his father head on later tonight when the man gets back in. It'll be a challenge to box him into accepting Damian's decision, but Robin has his battle plan.
(Take no prisoners.)
He strolls through the powder after Richard, more sedate than the increasingly-jaunty boy he's taken under his wing. At the back door he knocks his toes against the step, dislodging the snow built up on his boots, and trudges inside to the mud room; shrugging off the coat and hanging it up, toeing off the shoes and neatly lining them up on the tile as he steps up onto the hardwood foyer.
Titus, of course, bounds right back in, leaving dirty paw prints in his wake without a care as he trots in. The air's filled with the smell of Alfred's cooking, warm compared to the chill outside, and the butler has some quiet oldies playing on a vinyl record, the slow tunes drifting down the hall.
(Almost like a home, if Damian associated home with anything so cozy.)
He turns back to look at Richard, and he doesn't smile, doesn't drop the imperious lift of his chin, but something around the edges of his eyes softens, and he beckons him with a nod towards the kitchen and a hand held out expectantly. ]
Let's go see what Pennyworth is preparing, shall we?