Damian Wayne | Robin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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dreamsanddisasters2014-09-04 09:10 pm
earlybird) wrote in dreamsanddisasters2014-09-04 09:10 pm
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Tiny Talon Dick (Plus is an E N A B L E R)
[ 'Stay. Inside,' Father had said. 'This isn't your concern.'
And no matter how much Damian had snarled back that it wasn't fair, that there wasn't any sense in barring him from patrol (it was just a boy, just another threat amongst many, what was so special about this one?), Bruce had left Alfred with strict orders to ensure that Damian stayed on lock-down while he left for the streets of Gotham.
Presumably to find that would-be assassin. The child from the Court of Owls. Although Damian wonders if there's anything about it that could be called a child anymore; wonders what might be behind that mask. Something about the voice, quiet and inflectionless as it'd been, declaring that the Waynes were its targets, had set Batman off, had frozen him solid.
Damian's fought the Court of Owls before. He's taken down one of the adult assassins - shot an arrow through its eye, and when that didn't work? Strung it up and beheaded it. Immortal though they were, the monsters could still die. He doesn't see what's so worrying about a pint-sized version of the same.
Pennyworth is being irritatingly clever for a butler, and unusually effective at keeping him caged. He's not falling for any of Damian's tricks, not this time, and both Redbird and Robin remain out of his access. The Cave is closed to him, and Damian's left to pace the boundaries of his room wearing nothing but a scowl and his satin pajamas (no suit, no daggers, no hooded cape), dinner ignored and left to grow cold as he presses his forehead against the chilly glass. Titus is more than happy to lay out in front of the fire, but as much as Damian hates the winters here, he wants to be out there. Fighting crime, throwing his frustration at whatever villain he can dig his fists into. The night is dark, almost inky, with thick, fat flakes of snow silently falling down; he can't even see the grounds through it, just glaring at his own reflection and the powdery puffs of white when they swirl close out of the pitch black.
Drake was allowed out tonight to attend his precious gala, with Cain accompanying him. Todd wasn't, but he left anyway. Smart enough to take off the second Pennyworth had swapped his focus to corralling Damian into his room before the butler tried the same move on him. Ridiculous. ]
And no matter how much Damian had snarled back that it wasn't fair, that there wasn't any sense in barring him from patrol (it was just a boy, just another threat amongst many, what was so special about this one?), Bruce had left Alfred with strict orders to ensure that Damian stayed on lock-down while he left for the streets of Gotham.
Presumably to find that would-be assassin. The child from the Court of Owls. Although Damian wonders if there's anything about it that could be called a child anymore; wonders what might be behind that mask. Something about the voice, quiet and inflectionless as it'd been, declaring that the Waynes were its targets, had set Batman off, had frozen him solid.
Damian's fought the Court of Owls before. He's taken down one of the adult assassins - shot an arrow through its eye, and when that didn't work? Strung it up and beheaded it. Immortal though they were, the monsters could still die. He doesn't see what's so worrying about a pint-sized version of the same.
Pennyworth is being irritatingly clever for a butler, and unusually effective at keeping him caged. He's not falling for any of Damian's tricks, not this time, and both Redbird and Robin remain out of his access. The Cave is closed to him, and Damian's left to pace the boundaries of his room wearing nothing but a scowl and his satin pajamas (no suit, no daggers, no hooded cape), dinner ignored and left to grow cold as he presses his forehead against the chilly glass. Titus is more than happy to lay out in front of the fire, but as much as Damian hates the winters here, he wants to be out there. Fighting crime, throwing his frustration at whatever villain he can dig his fists into. The night is dark, almost inky, with thick, fat flakes of snow silently falling down; he can't even see the grounds through it, just glaring at his own reflection and the powdery puffs of white when they swirl close out of the pitch black.
Drake was allowed out tonight to attend his precious gala, with Cain accompanying him. Todd wasn't, but he left anyway. Smart enough to take off the second Pennyworth had swapped his focus to corralling Damian into his room before the butler tried the same move on him. Ridiculous. ]
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He certainly doesn't expect him to open the cell.
The look he gives Damian is almost one of awe. Even though he's confused by the suddenness, has been perfectly fine to sit around obediently, he doesn't waste a single second in latching onto the offered hand like it's a lifeline, bouncing up to his feet like he himself weighed nothing at all and crossing over the threshold less than a second later.]
What's-- going on?
[He allows himself that question at least, asking Damian anything was a lot easier than asking anyone else and he considers the answer might be something necessary to know anyway. This was abrupt, unexpected-- he figured when any official decision had been made about what to do with him, that Batman would come retrieve him himself. And Damian's not even suited up but Richard is still left in the bare essentials of his uniform-- so, what, exactly was the plan even here? Was it an emergency? Were they under attack? He's not sure they should really be letting him out if they're under attack.]
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[ Not an emergency at all. No attacks, nothing to worry about, just Damian deciding that he was tired of being alone in this house, and tired of Grayson being alone, too. His father is too cautious at times.
Insistent, he tugs the other boy over to the stairs back up to the Manor, glancing over him critically. They're not that different in height, though Damian's shoulders are broader. ]
First: a change of clothes. It's chilly today. But I thought you might appreciate the fresh air.
[ And, moreover, Damian is done with his father's reticence. He's going to take the boy out, and if he gets his way, the boy won't be returning to the cell. Bruce doesn't seem to be any closer to discussing Richard's options with the ex-Talon. Maybe he's waiting for the Court to give up completely, or for something else, but Damian --
Damian thinks they are fast reaching the point where it's no better than what Grayson's already been put through. If he's going to be here, it's going to be as a guest. This entire prisoner thing has gone on long enough.
(He will flat out deny any attachment to his assassin, because attachment is weakness, but their conversations have been pleasant, and he's enjoyed his company; especially on those days when he wants to talk with someone but the rest of the family is too busy, or are just disinclined to spend time with the young, arrogant Robin. But Grayson usually seems to welcome his presence, which is a novelty.) ]
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The fresh air sounds more enticing than Richard's realized before now (he almost forget that it was winter after spending so much time down here in the cave, and the cold didn't usually bother him that much anyway)-- but the way Damian says it almost makes it sound like some kind of trip, or visitation-- nothing really like a mission at all, there's certainly no real urgency.
He gets the feeling that this is probably not approved by Batman at all. He follows up the stairs right behind Damian despite any reservations he may have, but there's a touch of a frown on his face, even if his expression is still trying to remain impassive.]
But I don't have any other clothes.
[Worded like a simple statement, so it didn't sound like he was trying to protest. He really did want to go outside, but-- it's not like he had anything here besides the rest of his uniform. He didn't actually own that much more regardless, but anything he did was left behind in the Talons' compound.]
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Do I need to point out we're similar in size, Grayson?
[ As if working with a very slow child. So slow. Keep up, he thought you were a little quicker on the uptake than this. Damian leads Richard through the house, past the kitchen; where Alfred is beginning the preparations for dinner, and the butler pauses at the two boys that walk by --the young Master Wayne strutting along and his would-be assassin following in his wake-- but makes no comment, only reminding Damian that they need to be back in time for dinner.
(He knows word of this will get back to Father, very soon, but he has nothing to ask forgiveness nor permission for in his eyes, and isn't particularly bothered.) ]
You may make use of my wardrobe until we can arrange for your own fitting.
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[It's not that their similar heights aren't obvious (though the way Damian always seems to hold his chin and look down his nose at people kind of makes him feel like Damian is taller sometimes), but Richard's not expecting Damian to be so willing to share with him. Though the boy has already been surprisingly forthcoming with him-- he feels a little bad for feeling surprised now.
He keeps his head down when they pass by the old man in the kitchen-- still feels awkward and ashamed of his actions when he first arrived after he's been made to stay here for so long, and he doesn't want to agitate him. Though he still tries to keep track of his movements from the corner of his eye, watching the shadows and keeping his ears open. He's not expecting retaliation, but he can't help but watch and be wary.
He only speaks again when they're a fair distance clear of the kitchen, though his head stays low.]
Thank you.
[Genuine gratitude, not because he feels like it's require of him. It's not much, but between this and keeping him away from the Court, no one's been that nice to him in as long as he can remember.]
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It's practical. [ A shrug, as he takes the stairs one at a time, hand curled around the rail. ] No one else here has anything that would fit. You would be swimming in even Drake's coats.
[ An exaggeration. Tim is trim and short, fine-boned - one of Damian's favorite jackets is one he'd stolen out of Tim's closet in when he wanted to 'fit in' as a civilian out in the streets of Gotham, and it fits him well enough.
But, if Damian were honest with himself, he doesn't really want to share Grayson with the others. Not to borrow clothes, or even to talk, though he knows they do. Grayson seems to like him best, and Damian is pleased enough to be moved to -- to this. Whatever it is. Protecting the boy, looking out for his interests, seeing to his needs.
It's a feeling, and a duty, he's not used to, but not one he's willing to surrender to anyone else in the family. ]
Coat, pants, shirt. A good pair of winter boots. And sleepwear, along with underclothes. To start. [ Arriving at his room, where they first officially 'met,' he pushes open the closet doors, gesturing to the neat rows of organized clothes. Most of it is Western in design, ranging from comfortable hoodies to gala best, but there's a small area at the back devoted to other styles - looser Middle Eastern and West Asian outfits glittering with expensive, intricate embroidery, or unadorned jackets and pants colored brightly, sometimes patterned. ] Whatever you like.
[ Go forth and choose. Damian, leaving him to it, is content enough to sit back on the bed, curling an ankle over his knee and seemingly entertained enough just to watch the assassin poke around inside the closet; though he's switching his attention from Richard to his smart phone, to hide that fact.
(He may still be kind of an asshole. But he remembers what it was like, being able to choose whatever clothes he wished to wear.) ]
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He stands in front of the closet when directed to it, staring at first-- boggling at the number of options in Damian's wardrobe. He's never seen even this many clothes just for one person. The items that Damian apparently wanted him to pick out seemed a bit excessive just for an outing, and he fully expects to return to the cell and his uniform when it's over, but he doesn't bring that up. The choices (choices, real choices, there he goes again) are a bit overwhelming, and for a moment he simply stands there, staring and trying to process everything that he can see, as if he's tactically trying to study the situation.
When he finally moves, it's slowly (he's worried he's wasting too much time making a decision, he'd had far too much hesitation in the last few weeks). He steps forward, touching one of the looser shirts with bright gold embroidery and royal blue fabric with a hint of interest-- some of the styles remind him of something familiar, nagging in the back of his head. But most of them are foreign, and seem far too fancy and extravagant for him to dare take away from their owner. They're probably valuable and treasured, and he simply has no right to that.
In the end, he picks out the the most simple things he takes a liking to, hoping they won't be missed too much: a basic yellow t-shirt, a pair of dark jeans and black boots, and a dark blue winter coat that he almost felt guilty for selecting, but it drew his eye so often while he was searching that he couldn't decide on anything else (but he tells himself that it'll definitely be returned, so maybe it'll be ok for now.)
The underclothes he's pulled out are an even more basic off white, a matching set-- the pajamas have a bit more color, still a basic and bland white, but the shirt of the set has some simple bright yellow detailing that stands out to him and the material is softer than anything he remembers dealing with. He likes the colors, and the brightness. They're a lot different from the dark and lifeless colors the Court would have him wear.
The idea of wearing anything besides his uniform actually makes him a bit nervous (none of the clothes Damian has in here are really good for hiding extra weapons if he was allowed near them), but when he's finally made his decision, he takes a step back from the closet with the selections in his arms, looking to Damian for further direction. And keeping his eyes peeled for any disapproval in his expression.]
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(Red. Especially red. Red shoes, red jacket, red hoodie--)
By the time Grayson has stepped out of the closet with his bundle, Damian's already got a few made-to-order stores in mind they will have to visit. Some tailors he trusts with high-quality fitting and detailing, especially in the styles that the boy was interested in.
And, mentally, has drawn up a list, even if he doesn't realize he has. Clothes, first. Then bedding, room decorations, personal entertainment - what hobbies might he be interested in? Would he perhaps enjoy sports, music, books--? He is (or was) an aerialist. A Flying Grayson. That's a place to start. Damian is sure he can get ahold of something, maybe a poster, to give to him. Something that he might think is valuable. ]
Good. We can set the pajamas here for when we return - the bathroom is over there, go ahead and get changed.
[ Getting to his feet, he plucks the pajama set out of the bundle, before nudging Richard impatiently in the direction of the bathroom. He, for one, is ready to go outside, and is unexpectedly eager to see whether the other boy might like it, might become just a little bit more comfortable in himself. They're not going anywhere particularly special, just around the grounds, but the air is crisp today and the skies are blue, and he's hoping it will be an enjoyable outing for the other. ]
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He doesn't intend to get distracted here. It's a simple enough task to peel off the uniform he's been wearing for weeks and put the borrowed clothes on after. But being in the bathroom is the first time he's been faced with a mirror in some time. Occasionally he'll catch his own reflection in a glass window or a puddle of rainwater, but he's always had his mask to hide from the world, and any glimpses he can catch in the Talons' compound aren't much better.
His hair is a mess. It's getting long and it's probably a miracle it hasn't become a detriment to his line of sight. A few faded scars and some lines under his eyes aren't so bad. But his skin is still pale enough to look like death, and the paleness makes it easy to see the visible, discolored, blue-grey veins resting just beneath the surface, running up his neck and both sides of his face. That looks wrong. His skin kind of matches the ivory faces (masks) of the higher-ups of the Court, but the branching grey lines are completely wrong.
No one else in this house looks that way, and he hates himself for how it makes him look.
He glared right back at his reflection for another moment, and then abruptly turned away, focusing his attention once more on the task at hand. In no time he removes the remains of his uniform still on his person, and pulls on everything else; the underclothes, the pants, shirt, slips on the boots. The shirt is a little loose around the collar, but he's pleasantly surprised when everything fits well enough. When he slides the coat on-- well, he turns back and he feels like maybe he's improved a little, with the new colors maybe taking some attention away from his own greys.
But for extra measure, he tugs the hood up over his head (and boy is he happy he ended up choosing something with a hood), adjusts the fabric so it falls to obscure most of his jawline and the ruined skin.
He does actually feel a little better now, with something fresh and loose against his skin. Maybe the uniform was getting more musty than he thought.
Satisfied, he hastily exits the bathroom, carrying the remains of his uniform now occupying his hands in place of the bundle of clothes from before.]
Ready...!
[To Damian's credit, at least now that he's not staring at a mirror, he does seem a bit more ready to go.]
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Better. These colors suit you.
[ The surprise doesn't end at the closet, however. They'll be going out, and though Batman has drastically upped the defenses around the Manor, the Court is still active. Damian hated being unarmed during the attack, and if they're to step outside he's making sure both of them are prepared. Father would be strictly against arming his assassin, but although Damian certainly doesn't trust him (or anyone, really), he's confident enough in his skills to handle any potential turn-coating.
It won't happen, though. He's also reasonably sure of that.
Swords and daggers are out of the question. Even he wasn't allowed to use them unless in an emergency. However, Batarangs make for a good, non-lethal alternative to the boy's preferred throwing knives, and he hunted around until he found-- ]
Here.
[ Damian, matter-of-factly, presses a pair of escrima sticks into Richard's hands, along with the belt and holster for them. As if he isn't, in fact, arming a boy who might turn around and finish the job. There's a coolness to his stare, a challenge that says the other boy can try if he wishes, but won't be successful.
(Damian was an al Ghul, and the crown prince of assassins. Somewhere in his twisted sense of honor, it's preferable for an enemy to be armed, and just that much more satisfying to come out victorious.) ]
Just in case. Smarter to expect trouble.
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He didn't really know much about suitable clothes or colors or fashion, but he likes the ones he's chosen. So he's glad he's apparently made the right choice.
Not much time to dwell on that though-- because when Damian's pressed a weapon into his hands, he can't help but stare, and look at Damian completely aghast. After the thoroughness they'd gone to to make sure they removed anything on his person that could be used as a weapon (short of his hands of course, couldn't really remove those so casually), he can't possibly imagine that this was any measure of allowed.
He curls one hand around one of the sticks, squeezing and flexing his fingers, lightly balancing it in his palm to get a feeling of the girth and weight of it. It was clearly a nonlethal weapon, but with the right angle and force, he could do some serious blunt damage with it. Was this some sort of test? Waiting to see if he would seize his first opportunity to attack, to escape or to finish the job? Maybe Batman did know about the whole 'outing' and had set it up intentionally?
The question are bubbling in his mind, but he makes haste to throw the belt around his waist, clicking the buckle and sliding both of the escrimas into the holster. And once it's all in place, he feels-- not more relaxed, but still less anxious, knowing he's got a better tool if something happened. Preparation seemed to be a sensibility he and Damian both shared.]
This is all-- OK, right? I didn't-- I didn't even know I was allowed out of the cave. [He didn't appear too conflicted about being caught. But he didn't want to disobey anyone, even if it felt like he was trying to follow two conflicting plans of action.
(It's certainly a testament to something that beyond wondering if it's what Batman expects of him, he doesn't think twice about the possibility of directing the sticks at Damian. He wouldn't even dare repaying the other's kindness with cruelty, even if it was going against everything that'd been ingrained in him for years.)]
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It's fine -- Richard. [ Something about the Talon's response, the hesitance and the surprise on his face when Damian pushes the sticks into his hands, settles something in him. A quiet click, a shift, similar to when 'Wilkes' became 'Colin.' ] If Batman doesn't like it, he can talk to me about it.
[ His assassin, his responsibility. He made a promise, if only to himself: keep the Talon out of the Court's hands, and save the boy.
Saving, he knows from personal experience, starts with treating him like a person rather than a threat, no matter what the first impression was. Nobody really did that for him--
(Still the demon child, still the assassin brat, still the merciless killer who made all those mistakes and every last one of them is held against him. He's trying, he's changed--)
--but he can do it for this boy. Offer forgiveness, and kindness, without any strings attached. Not like his mother or his father, but like Robin would. Give him a clean slate.
Pushing open the door to the sunny, winter day, he has one foot out the door when Titus comes bounding down the hall, the hound darting past the two boys to spring into the snow, barking his fool head off and jumping around. Given Damian's stern chastisement and reassurance, Titus had quickly become used to the new member of the household, and noting the them about to head out, decided he was joining them for a walk.
Which, really, translates to knocking Damian out of the way with his bulk and then racing around the grounds like an idiot. ]
Titus. [ Ugh, overgrown mutt. He collects himself, huffing out a breath that can be seen in the chilly air, and dusts the snowflakes kicked up by the dog off his coat. ] I suppose we can bring him with us. He has a good ear.
[ All in the name of alertness, of course. And not just because Damian appears to take some small measure of enjoyment out of rolling a snowball in his hand and then throwing it for Titus to chase and catch -- only for the dog's mouth to hang open, confused as to where his ball went, when the snowball falls to pieces. ]
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He's always a little relieved when he gets something right, and Damian seems happy about it too, so it was a win-win.
The sun outside is bright-- brighter than the lights in the cave or even when filtered through the windows of Wayne Manor, and Richard can't help but squint when they step outside. He can fee the crisp, cold air almost immediately with it touches his skin.
The dog's appearance grabs his attention, and he watches with vested interest as Titus starts to bound around in the snow. It's-- pretty amusing. Fun to watch. The dog was energetic and large, and careless in how it almost seemed unaware of the gravity on its own size as he bounced around.
Mostly he's still silent-- taking in the scenery without the filter of his glass goggles, and he steps forward through the snow to a spot where the sun wasn't blocked by the edge of the Manor's roof (though not too far, he maintained a particularly specific radius to where Damian was standing as if he were a dog on a leash). The sunlight was warm on his face, and he took a deep breath in through his nose until he could feel the cold air sting inside his lungs, and let it out.
The fresh air was marvelous. Being out of the cell, and outdoors and out of that uniform was the closest he'd come to a taste of freedom in a long time, and it was absolutely invigorating.
He finally turns to look at Damian again, and there's a new levity to his vice and a subtle crinkle at the corner of his eyes, but his face doesn't seem quite yet willing to allow him full freedom of expression.]
Dogs are good company. And I saw the way he wanted to protect you before.
[The dog had been a major priority when he'd found him in Damian's room the night he 'arrived.' And even for how silly he was in the snow, Titus seemed plenty we behaved. Damian was lucky to have him around.]
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--well, if Damian finds himself smiling slightly back, lips quirking grudgingly at the corners, it's not like the Talon will call him out on the slip-up.
(He commits it to memory. An image to preserve in his sketchbook later.) ]
True. I wasn't all that happy about him at first, but he's been a loyal companion from the start. The others --
[ He tilts his head. He won't ever admit to being lonely, but Titus has made sure he has never been alone. Not like he used to be. He can't see Colin or Brown every day (once a week, maybe, if their schedules match up), and the rest of the family here is out of the house most of the time, or they leave him alone.
Most of that is his fault, he knows. He'd made it clear when he first arrived that he wanted nothing to do with any of them, and rejected their offers of company and friendship; he doesn't blame them now for not including him, even if his feelings on the matter had shifted. ]
--they're older. Busier. We don't spend much time together. But I have Titus.
[ The dog's ears perk up at the sound of his name, and he comes rocketing back over, stopping just in the nick of time in front of his boy, oversized paws stepping in a jumble on Damian's boots and tail wagging furiously. Damian stares at him, lips pursed, but acquiesces to the silent plea after a beat, crouching down to briskly rub his hands up and down the dog's ruff and scratching behind his ears. ]
Menace that he is.
[ Wet dog. Wet, smelly, snow-covered dog. He wipes his hands on his coat after, straightening out to crunch his way across the snow. Richard needs to stretch his legs, and Damian sets a good pace for a walk. ]
Pets are a strange concept. Unheard of, in the League.
[ He looks back at Grayson, curious. ]
In the circus -- did you have a pet?
[ The question is offhanded, but not accidental. A gentle prod at the assassin's memories from before. ]
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He's not daring enough to approach Titus himself, even if the dog is remarkably tolerant of his presence after everything he tried to do. But his quiet investment persists as he listens to Damian and watches the dog demand his attention. Part of him is a little surprised that Damian doesn't spend much time with the rest of the Wayne Family, though perhaps that's why the kid bothers to spend so much time with Richard himself. Dogs probably weren't very reliable conversation partners.
He keeps in time with Damian's steps, an eagerness to his steps and his attention unable to focus on any one thing around him, no, he must look at everything around them while they're walking-- half of it training, half of it just the typical attention span of a child.]
Mm. Not really.
[His voice, though still light, grows a bit more grim-- thinking about the circus is still painful, makes his stomach flutter with unease and longing at the same time, and he lets both hands grip the edge of the coat's hood and make sure it covers what it needs to, give his hands something to hold. But like before, he can't not talk about it, is still desperate for the new opportunity to revitalize some part of his old life.]
But one of the elephants in the show, I really liked. We were almost the same age. I used to sneak her snacks before the performance. And she liked to wrap her trunk around me when I saw her, especially if I was sad. She could even lift me off the ground when I was smaller. She was my best friend.
[He wonders if she misses him at all. Wonders if she was sad when he left, and if anybody at the circus noticed and tried to cheer her up. Hopefully someone still slipped her snacks before the show, even though the animal tamer usually disapproved if he ever caught him. He wonders if she would even recognize him if he ever saw her again.]
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And better it be from him than from a Google search.
He hums, noncommittal, and keeps his eyes ahead of him, steady and scanning the tree-line with casual alertness, but no less aware of his surroundings than the Talon is. Just less obvious about it, more controlled; although the boy's constantly darting eyes and swiveling head might have amused him, a little. ]
I've never met an elephant, but she sounds -- nice. If a strange choice for a best friend. Were there no other children?
[ Titus trots ahead of them, sometimes running forward, then stopping and looking back, as if trying to egg them on into a run. Damian rolls his eyes, picking up a stick, and throws it, setting the dog off. Titus runs after it, grabs it, and runs back, eagerly pushing the stick into his boy's hands.
Rinse, repeat.
Eventually Robin pushes his muzzle away, done with the game, and Titus turns to Richard as his next target, whining around the stick and trying to nose it into his hands instead. ]
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There were a few others. They were a little older than me, but we still hung out together. They were my friends, just not my best friends. And a lot of them had to help their parents with their acts too, so sometimes they were too busy, or I was too busy.
[He can't really remember most of their names anymore. Tries to, but most of them are on the tip of his tongue that he can't quite get to tumble out, and besides-- Titus is distracting him from his concentration.
He looks at the big dog curiously, initially drawing his hand away as if he thinks he might be in Titus' way. But Titus seems very insistent, and when he doesn't appear satisfied from Richard withdrawing, he reaches out to lightly tug the stick out of Titus' hand instead, like what Damian had been doing not a minute earlier. He draws his arm back, and throws the stick straight through the air as far as he can, momentarily enthralled by the thrill of exertion on his muscles.
Maybe it's being able to walk around and listen to the crunch of the snow, or if it's thanks to watching the dog run back and forth, or maybe it's that talking about it more starts to make it a bit easier; but the details start to flow a little more from his previous restraint.]
The elephant's name was Zitka. [Names were harder to dust off from his memory, but he could do it with a bit of effort.] I could still go talk to her when the other kids were busy, so I guess she was like Titus too. But she was too big to play fetch.
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I've yet to see an animal too big to play fetch. I bet she could have.
[ Elephants had those long trunks for a reason. He thinks they would be very good at playing fetch. ]
Speaking of-- [ Casual, like he hadn't prompted this topic in the first place. Damian tucks his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders hunching slightly against the cold, and frowns up at the clear sky, squinting against the sun. ] --Haly's Circus. I've been looking into it the past few weeks.
[ Understatement. Damian's been absorbed in researching it - the circus itself, the incident with the Flying Graysons, trying to understand how Richard got tangled up with the Court in the first place. There were a few leads beginning to pan out, and he's sure his father knows more than he's saying, but he doesn't know as much as he'd like.
He glances at the other boy, serious; he can never really be called hesitant, or shy, or uncertain, because Damian's strongest characteristic is his boldness, but there are moments when he takes the time to think before he speaks. Where the weight of his words is carefully considered before it is dropped.
It's easier for him to say hurtful things than it is to be gentle. ]
I have news, both good and bad. If you wish to hear it.
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Elephants might be able to fetch, he supposes, if the stick is big enough. And Damian's claim got a small hum in response, completely amused without worrying about the finer details.
His countenance is immediately back to seriousness when Damian seems to switch gears, something about him perking at the mention of news about Haly's-- shoulders back, back straighter, and he looks at Damian with wide and focused eyes.]
What is it? [His tone is quick, no hesitation-- quietly hopefully and dreading all at the same time, but almost desperate for news as the possibilities start to dance through his head.]
Tell me-- please. I want to know.
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(Jason claims that Damian has Resting Bitch Face. Pennyworth asserts that the pouting, jutting scowl that he wears everywhere is an inherited trait amongst Wayne men.
Tim knows better, though. The truth is that Damian is really just angry all the time.) ]
The good news is that the circus is still in production and on tour, and appears to have retained most of its original cast. Their next visit to Gotham is scheduled for March.
[ Only a few months away. His lips purse as he looks back at Richard, at the boy's mixed expression. ]
The bad news-- [ He huffs out a sigh through his nose. His voice isn't gentle, because he doesn't know how to be gentle, but it's quiet, gruff. ] The bad news is that it has nearly been two decades since you were taken. Legally, Richard, you are twenty-six years old.
[ He doesn't know what the Court did to the Talon, but every time he considers it he sees red flash across his vision. ]
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[He stops walking. His voice is small once more by the force of his-- surprise, of his disbelief. The stick he was about to throw is already forgotten, slipped through his fingers and into the snow. As relieved as he is that the circus is still in business, he doesn't even have time to dwell on the momentary pang of joy and relief before his chest feels cold again, and the winter air suddenly feels so much more malicious than relaxing. He didn't even know how long it was until March.
Twenty years.]
N-- No. You're lying. [He looks at Damian like he's grown a second head, bewildered and scared, and takes a step back. His shoulders go completely stiff and hands clenched like he's ready for a fight in response to the storm and terror brewing in the pit of his stomach.
He didn't-- he didn't know how long it'd been, but it certainly wasn't twenty years. He didn't know how old he was but he was hardly even tall enough to come up to Batman's torso when he stood up straight. His voice hadn't even started to crack-- he couldn't be that deluded, he knows that 26 is not even close to correct.]
That's impossible.
[But even as he says it, he knows that it's not impossible-- he squeezes his eyes shut, bows his head, and his hands betray the truth that he knows; they snake up to cover the grey veins on his face, and clamp around the back of his neck as he direly tries to deny it.
He knows it's possible. He knows how the Court keeps their old Talons stashed away, he knows the recipe that makes them nigh-immortal and he knows with a snap of their fingers the dead Talons can come back like they'd never been gone-- knows that there are men and women down there from one hundred, two hundred, even more years ago that don't look like they've aged a day over 25.
Knows that his memory's spotty and that things blurred together and he didn't even know how much time had passed.
He's losing the battle to maintain his composure in favor of waging the battle on reality: his knees have locked up, his limbs are shaking and his voice is wet and choked up, and a part of him is still critical of himself for sniveling like this in front of someone else.]
I-It's impossible...!
[It's not impossible.
(All of his friends must be grown up by now. They've had plenty of time to find a new acrobat act and move on with their lives. Some of the animals are probably old and dead by now, or retired. He wonders if Zitka's one of them.)]
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It would be too much. For them, for the Talon. It wouldn't be the same, and it wouldn't be the home he remembers.
Maybe Father just couldn't bring himself to tell the boy. Not if it meant having to see this hurt on his face; Damian's all steel, but even he hates himself a little for putting it there.
Titus' ears perk, then fold back at the change in atmosphere, whining at Damian's side and looking between the two boys. ]
Shh. [ A hush meant for both the dog, and the child. ] Breathe, Richard.
[ Maybe Damian does know gentleness, because the command is soft, if firm. Robin's voice.
He knows the assassin might not welcome the touch, but approaches him as one would a skittish animal. No sudden movements, palms up, loosely curling his fingers around the hold the Talon has gripping his own neck, lightly squeezing the fine bones of his wrists.
He's still not comfortable with touch, but it's important that the Talon doesn't lock down, that Damian give him a tether to ground him, and uses the hold he has to pull the boy's attention to himself: to shockingly warm hands, to a reassuring voice, to sharp grey-blue eyes. ]
You're not alone in this.
[ He doesn't pay attention to the words, the denial, and hones right in on one of the unsaid issues at hand.
(A skill he usually wields viciously, when he scents blood in the water. Dodging deflection and going in right for the kill.)
This time, it's out of empathy, maybe; shared experience. He knows what it's like to have lost everything in a single moment.
I'll always love you in my own way... But from now on, Damian, you are no longer welcome here. You may consider yourself an enemy of the house of al Ghul. ]
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Even with the orignal cast and acts, you couldn't stay the same in show business for twenty years. Maybe the Court had been right in telling him to forget about everything from before. A part of him wishes he had listened more.
He starts when he feels Damian's hands, his muscles tensing in resistance-- but the touch is warm, gentle, and still firm. He quiets his mumbles and distress, tries to breathe and takes deep breaths and let the fresh air fill him up like before. Tries to look up and focus on the boy in front of him, but his eyes are misty and wet when he opens them, and on top of everything else he's trying not to completely cry. But after this display it's impossible to deny: he's weak.
Not alone. Damian said he wasn't alone, and despite their initial conflict, he's never lied to him before, even if he sure feels like he is.
He focuses on the warmth. Loosens his grip, lowers his hands away from his neck and let's himself lean into the touch. Still shaking, but it's a start, and his voice is soft but trying to sounds even.] Wh-- What am I supposed-- what do I do now?
[Damian's the only person that's given him any kind of explanations or answers or-- anything. He wouldn't know who else to ask, and he can't think of anything on his own, because all he can think of is going back to the Court. Maybe this was why Batman had always seemed so grim while talking to him.]
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[ It was a good choice, talking to him about this out here, without the presence of any of the rest of the family. Otherwise, Damian might not keep his fingers curled around the other's wrists - a grip that's easy to break, but as comforting as he knows how to be.
Too self-conscious of his own displays of weakness around the others. With Todd, and Drake, he can't be anything less than combative, caustic; that's the nature of their relationship, and he's nowhere near socially skilled enough to know how to change it.
But Richard seems to appreciate the gesture, so he continues it for a few more moments. ]
None of them are easy, but -- [ He shrugs, shoulders hitching. Nothing in life is ever easy; not for those like them. Par for the course. ]
We can arrange for you to join a protection program, and be fostered and cared for until you are of age. Father has been speaking with Superman, and it sounds like he would be willing to take you in. You would be safe there, probably safer than here.
[ If safety is what Richard wants, there's no place safer than under the same roof as Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Damian may (so irrationally) dislike the alien, but even he can grudgingly admit that he would do a good job of looking after the boy, of caring for him and making him feel welcome. ]
Or if you'd like to try, we can still talk to Haly, see if it might not still be your home, after all. You won't know for sure otherwise.
[ Even with the time difference, and Richard's unnatural youth, there is still a chance he might find happiness there, bleak as the outlook may seem. Damian was already planning on talking to the owner, personally. ]
And if neither of those seem like a possibility--
[ Batman is going to kill him, he thinks, wry and dismissive. ]
--you may always stay here. With us. [ With him. ] As a ward. A brother.
[ Waynes have a bad habit of collecting strays, and Damian is no different. Titus, Alfred the cat, and now this boy. ]
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Superman was something else; he could distantly remember reading newspaper articles about the man as a child, hearing about all the daring feats he went to to protect the people of Metropolis and more. He was a real hero, bold and fearless, strong and inspiring and flying through the air and doing everything that Richard had wanted to do. That he would be safe, he has no doubt. That the man would even entertain the notion of taking in some pathetic kid he's never met just confirms everything he'd thought about the hero's kindness and generosity.
But Superman was everything that was so good about the world. Too good for him. Indiscriminate assassins and red-caped heroics just didn't mix. Superman was a stranger, and he had far bigger things to worry about than assassins and one kid from the wrong time period. Richard didn't want to burden the man.
The idea of going back to Haly's, now-- made something inside him wither, and he quickly and weakly shook his head in response. He'd already known he couldn't really go home anymore, but now it was just more obvious, and even more painful. His Haly's didn't exist anymore. He wasn't even a full act without his parents, and the worst thing he could think of was to confirm that no one there missed any of them anymore. He wasn't sure if he could even go back to that life as if nothing happened.
(And he wasn't so sure if Haly wouldn't just hand him back to the Court anyway, especially once a new Talon came looking and the Court started asking questions. The circus had decided to hand him over in the first place; the Grandmaster said it was what he was born for.)
That was kind of the problem; he was born to be a Talon, and now that he was trying to run away from it, he didn't know what to do.
But something in his chest jumped at the last suggestion.]
Brother?
[He'd never had one before, had only ever been an only child. He didn't want to burden Batman just as much as he didn't want to burden Superman, and Batman already had three other kids to look after (four? a few of the others mentioned a girl but he had never really seen her around).
He'd been thinking for quite some time, with nothing more than a loud sniff to keep his eyes from overflowing. His voice was finally a bit more collected when he tries to speak.]
I want-- to stay with you. [It felt like a lot to admit, and it's almost like he lets out a breath that he's been holding in the entire time.] But-- I don't want to. Be trouble. I won't if Batman doesn't want me to.
[(A part of him thinks he'd rather just leave, run away on his own, away from everyone and figure out how to deal with the Court of Owls on his own, and then no one has to be burdened with his presence. But he has no idea where he'd go, and the world around him must be so different than how he's known it. Maybe he could join the League of Assassins like Damian said. It was something, at least.)]
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hmmm is this a good place to wrap-up this scene??
ye sounds good to me!!