#damian in that issue was actually asking for help (ra’s wants to take his body and essentially kill him) and had been telling alfred that he

[aalghul]

🖤💖

🖤: Bane.

💖: Tim beating up Damian despite Damian asking him to stop because he felt like Tim was killing him was worse than Jason beating him up

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

You’ll Have to Come and Find Me (Part 2) - fic

Characters: Tim Drake, bit of Rose Wilson Summary: Tim watches Damian die. Again. He doesn't take it well. A/N: Guess I'm continuing this, aha. Each chapter will follow something that already happened in the issues that came out, so this one is between Robin #1 and #2. I'm taking some pre-52 lore in this one, where Rose and Tim were on the same Titans team once upon a time.

Ao3

~~

Tim didn’t know if he could do this.

They’d been able to coerce the ferry captain to let him tag along even without the token, that he was Damian’s coach for the tournament – a thing neither of them actually knew was allowed until another of the boat’s passengers brought it up.

The boat ride took all night, and Tim found himself smiling as Damian dozed off against his shoulder.

But the smile quickly disappeared as he glanced up at the boat’s other occupants. The villains and criminals whose company they were now keeping. Some of them were watching them, watching Damian, with open leers and Tim felt the urge to lunge and burst their eyeballs with his thumbs.

They wouldn’t hurt him. Tim wouldn’t let them.

He wouldn’t let Damian lose this tournament. He wouldn’t. He’d jump in front of the kid if he had to. He’d die himself, if need be.

The kid had already been through enough. He didn’t need to die again.

(Tim couldn’t bear to watch him die again.)

But the universe must have found some humour in watching him fail, watching his only hopes and dreams and wants crumble in his hand.

Because after they landed on the island, after Tim was handed a long black cloak that he saw some other men wearing, that they claimed marked him as a coach and off limits – that’s exactly what Damian did.

He should have seen it coming, knew it was going to happen. Because Damian was brash. Damian was arrogant. Damian was fourteen, and therefore invincible in his own mind.

He doesn’t remember what happened after Flatline ripped Damian’s heart out. Did he scream? Did he collapse? When he came back to himself, his old friend Ravager was holding him back, one arm around his waist, the other hand gripping his wrist.

“It’s okay.” She was whispering frantically. “It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He’s a moron who didn’t listen to the rules, he’ll be okay, Tim. Just breathe.”

And that was no easy task, not as he watched Damian’s lifeless body bleed out on the ground in front of him, in the middle of a circle of monsters who wanted them and their family destroyed on a good day. Who were giggling and pointing at Damian’s dead form like it was a joke.

But eventually, he did. He could. He breathed as Rose whispered in his ear to inhale and exhale. Slowly remembered what Ra’s had said, the rules of the tournament he’d already been told.

You can die three times in this game. Death means nothing on Lazarus Island. Not until that third strike.

Clarity was returning to his mind, but he still tried to lunge out of Rose’s grip when Mother Soul’s henchmen stomped forward to gather up Damian’s body.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!” Tim found himself yelling, even as Rose continued to hold him. The men ignored him, and did anyway.

“Feel free to follow them, if you wish.” Mother Soul hummed as she turned away. “He’ll be resurrected by dawn.”

Rose kept her grip on Tim’s arm as they followed the men into a stone building and down a flight of stairs. She didn’t ask to come with them. Tim didn’t tell her she couldn’t either.

He found himself somewhat grateful that she was there, that she stood guard at the bottom of the stairs while he kept vigil at Damian’s side. They’d taken his bloody shirt, and Tim had a clear view of the hole in his little brother’s chest.

He wanted to puke.

All he could think about was last time, when the Heretic stabbed him through. The scar sitting just to the side of this new wound, this new death blow.

Would this scar too? Would there be yet another reminder of how badly they’ve all failed this kid?

Tim cursed himself. This was all wrong. He should have found Damian and dragged him away. Not take him home, but take him to safety. Take him to relaxation. Give him the break he so desperately needed. Disconnect for a few days or weeks or months. Lay on a beach, swim in an ocean. Get away, just the two of them.

Just two brothers who have gone through so much.

But no. Tim just had to agree to come here. Had to offer more clues and mystery. Had to let Damian make a fool of himself. Had to let him get slaughtered again. Had to watch.

He couldn’t do this.

He just couldn’t.

He reached out and took Damian’s hand. It was cold, and Tim had to swallow the vomit back down at the sensation. Had to remind himself that Damian would breathe again by morning. That it would all be fine. Mother Soul had said so. Rose had promised.

And Damian would hate him, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t do it. He was too weak. He couldn’t watch Damian die again. Not ever again. Not one more time, when it still wouldn’t matter, and not two more times, when it would.

So as soon as the kid woke up. As soon as he sucked oxygen back into those lungs, Tim was sweeping him up in his arms and taking him away. Hiding him from the world until they could both stand to be apart of it again.

…As soon as Damian woke up.

(And he couldn’t help but sigh. Because as soon as Damian woke up, he’d throw himself back into the case. Scream and yell in Tim’s face about how he wasn’t leaving, how Tim could go without him.

And Tim knew he never could. Where Damian goes, he goes.)

He glanced up at Rose. She was watching them, just as calculating and curious as if she were a Bat herself. He wondered why she was here, if there was a reason, like Damian, or if she was here for the thrill.

(He wouldn’t let himself think of the possibility of she and Damian facing off against each other. Refused to imagine one of them killing the other. He cared for them both. He loved them both. His heart wouldn’t be able to take it.)

She noticed him staring back, and gave him a sad smile. He returned it, before letting his eyes drop back to Damian’s chest, watching the muscle and tissue slowly regenerate itself.

He couldn’t do this.

But he had to.

For the sake and sanity and safety of his broken, discarded, devastated little brother, he had to.

[chronicbatfictioner]

Exchanges and Compromises - Chapter 11

Details, details, details. For someone looking like a pro-wrestler, complete with the dress-up gimmick, Jason Todd - the Red Ghost - turned out to be a very good listener and paid attention to details. He listened quietly as Oracle put out the proverbial lay of the land.

"So to make it clear and recorded redundantly, Talon was an enforcer with the Court of Owls; supposedly the entity that controlled all of Gotham, consisting of the 'builders' of Gotham as well as the 'money' that built Gotham. This guy Bane just out of the blue came to Gotham and killed the members of the Court and Talon's teammates. And now he claimed to be Dr Thomas Wayne's son, and therefore Bruce Wayne's half-brother." Jason recited. "Are the Waynes a member of the Court of Owls?"

"Not according to the database Talon gave us." Oracle replied. "Evidently, the Court had... harassed them to join, but they have repeatedly refused. And by 'repeatedly' I mean over like, three generations of Waynes."

"Yeah, I didn't think so, either. Talia wouldn't have... well, associated herself with Bruce Wayne, otherwise." Jason agreed. "Ra's didn't like to share control with a random group of people who have assassins as doormen. The public disruptions would have been too overwhelming."

"So the Waynes have made an actual tangible alliance with the Al Ghuls, I presume..." Tim commented. "Corporate-wise, the Al Ghuls owned almost half of Gotham, while the other half belonged to the Waynes. Yet they were in different lines of businesses that if the two families were to unite by means of - say, marriage - it would definitely fit the description of a monopoly."

"You're a corporate goon, aren't you?" Jason remarked. Tim preened a little.

"Kind of. I run a much-smaller family business." he admitted.

"I'm... not sure if I should consider it cool or horrific." Jason commented. "What's the business line?"

"Generic meds." Tim replied, and then stopped himself. There were a mere handful of generic medication companies in Gotham, and he might have given away his own identity.

"Ah, cool, then. Generic meds for poor people? Did you leech off the prices?" Still, Jason's disarming smirk and seemingly innocent questions were too inviting to not be answered.

"Of course not! I'm a hero, aren't I?" Tim replied coyly. Jason seemed satisfied with the answer.

"Cool, then. Anyway, to answer your question, yes, there were business deals between the Al Ghuls with the Waynes that are limited to the form of businesses either parties would do. And yes, you're right. If or when Bruce Wayne passed without any other heirs, Damian would own both conglomerations and would have been a form of monopoly. There were... contingency plans to avoid that." Jason elaborated. "But if Bane is a son of Thomas Wayne, he would have inherited half of the Wayne Enterprises, regardless."

"I sincerely hoped that Bane was not Ra's 'contingency plan'," Oracle intoned.

"I've never heard of his name until now." Jason clarified. "And I know all of Ra's associates and agents. Visible or otherwise. And Talia's. But for the issue with the Court... you people think that the Waynes bankrolled Bane to eliminate the Court of Owls."

"We suspect. We haven't found evidence to support or deny it." Oracle said. "You're quick."

"I'm not slow just because I came from Crime Alley, thanks." Jason retorted. "And I'm starting to realize... if I - on behalf of Damian - am staying at the Wayne Manor, I might be able to look for evidence thereof."

"Really quick, I wasn't even going to suggest that yet," Oracle replied glibly.

"And if they were innocent - because of course, we all believe in the 'Innocent 'til Proven Guilty' adage - then you can ally with the Waynes to indict and/or remove Bane out of the equation." Jason continued.

Well, Tim was impressed.

"That's it, in a nutshell."

"I hope you have a contingency plan in case your plan goes sideways..." Jason sighed.

"...you technically have nothing to lose," Tim assured him. "You'll have an escape, where you can bring Damian to a place that is both reinforced and semi-publicly visible; you'll have the Birds of Prey as your backup. And if - in a scenario where Bruce Wayne did not accept Damian, you'll still be welcomed here."

"Why? Just because I'm a Gothamite or what?" Jason challenged.

"Because..." Tim sighed. "Okay, look. I see it more as for Damian's sake, right? If he's accepted, and you don't want to help us, that's fine. We'll figure out something else. But if he's... denied his father..." he shook his head, pushing out the images of himself as a 12-year-old who'd just received the news of his parents' death. "...I know what it's like to lose a parent through violent means, alright. I don't... I'd rather Damian not take the path I took."

Jason's smile looked more like a snarl. "Now that's noble, Stray. You don't want Damian to be a thief like you, but you forgot who you're talking to. I grew up here, in Crime Alley, until my mom died. My dad was gone years before. I lived on the streets, had a box for a bed for weeks. That's the kind of life you won't want a ten-year-old to have to face."

Tim chuckled uneasily. "Okay, that's fair. But considering he's the only heir of the Algol Enterprises, I doubt he'll end up on the streets, am I wrong? Not to be insensitive, but there's a reason why Talia chose you to take care of him, and that wouldn't be the muscles or the pretty face."

That was a logical explanation, so Tim thought, but he could swear that Jason was blushing - even under the tanned skin. He shook his head lightly, and said, "No, I'm also his legal guardian unless his biological father files for custody; and am in charge of the Algol Enterprises," He scowled lightly. "...in spite of the fact that I don't like the corporate world in general. Damian is actually more than smart enough to supervise the companies, but he is still a minor. His signatures should always be accompanied by mine."

"Good system," Oracle commented. "I don't see you as someone easily persuaded if you don't believe in the matter."

"I believe in fairness and assisting those in need, not feeding those in power," Jason muttered. Then sighed. "For now, though, I'll need your help to fend off the League of Shadows. There won't be any steps taken toward your goal if Damian is assassinated."

"That, I believe, I can help. It's not gonna be pretty, but..." Dick remarked, stepping out of the bedrooms. "Boy's sleeping like a log. I mean, literally like a log: on his back, straight-backed and all." He added when Jason's eyes found his.

"You know how to contact your... uh... friends?" Tim tried, cringing, knowing how Barbara felt for violence.

"You thinking about rising the other talons?" Barbara must be cringing, too.

"Unless you can think of utilizing Superman or something, I don't see any other way..." Dick argued.

"Wait," an epiphany suddenly hit Tim. "I... hold up, let me think..." he raised a hand, stopping the questions he knew would be coming out of both Jason and Dick's mouths. A half a minute later, it hit him in the full picture. "Wasn't Green Arrow trained by the League of Assassins, too?"

"Oliver Queen, you mean. Yes, he was." Jason confirmed. "Funny dude, all sass and pretending to be no-brain. Shiva trained him--" Jason suddenly stopped.

"Does he know you?" Tim asked.

"He should... he got in just about a while after I did. I'd trained with him before Talia sent me training elsewhere..." Jason replied, and then his face brightened. "You scary-scheming little shit..."

"Green Arrow opted to use his skills as a hero, protecting those who can't protect himself. I know he's good - a little unfocused in a hand-to-hand and more reliant on his bow and arrows, but he's good." Tim pointed out. "And he has his own group of 'family' - all fighters for good. I'm sure he'll be happy to help us." he hinted to Oracle, deliberately pointing to Oracle as the decision-maker of the 'group'. With the way Dick was glaring at him, Tim knew that he was following Tim's hints - and not mentioning that Tim could have asked aunt Dinah for Oliver Queen's help. Dinah has been dating him for a good long while, after all.

"I'll put out feelers," Barbara stated. "Jason, do you have inklings or list on who we might want to chase after? You mentioned they're covert, and about half of the identity of people rounded up by the GCPD earlier were locals."

Jason shrugged helplessly. "They don't usually trust digital stuff for this... membership thingy. Not especially for foot soldiers."

"I think I can figure out how to sift them out..." Tim commented, ideas after ideas churning through his mind. "Want me to come over and powwow, O?"

"Yes, sure. That'll be great." Oracle replied, even with the metallic voice modulator, Tim could sense the relief.

"Okay, you wanna come with?" he asked Dick.

Dick shook his head. "Not that I'm guarding you or anything, 'cause I'm sure you can figure out how to get out without me noticing, anyway. But I'm... I'd prefer if the boy wakes up, he'll still see me, you know? So he's convinced that he's not... being abandoned or anything."

"That's sweet, but I agree. Do you mind, Jason?"

"Having another body to stand guard? Not at all. I'll need to shut my eyes for a few, anyway." Jason replied with a small smirk. "Would've been nice to shut-eye with a warm body next to me, but hey, beggars can't be choosers," he added blithely just as Tim got up and walked away.

Tim paused, turned, and blew him a kiss. Because that's what mama Selina said you should do when someone openly flirted with you if you also want to flirt with said someone. Jason's smirk just got bigger but didn't give any more reaction.

Tim continued his exit, his mind partially mapping out his plan to clean out the League of Assassins from Gotham; the other part mapping out his plan on to figure out if Jason was as compatible as he suspected.

[whetstonefires]

fictober prompt #5: “Take what you need.”

“Take what you need,” Tim said, waving toward the tiny armory, and he probably shouldn’t have been surprised that the little tribe of assassins immediately started pushing and shoving to get at the best gear. It made sense to have his armory in an easily concealed recess when it was just for him; he hadn’t anticipated it being utilized as a weapons buffet for a small army.

He decided to let them sort that out amongst themselves. “No murder,” he directed, sinking into his chair, his hands already going a mile a minute over the keys as he checked all his systems for updates and alerts.

“We wouldn’t,” said one of them.

“Not each other,” said another, which Tim could tell by rhythm, but not by any difference in the sound.

A lot of people wouldn’t be treating them like people. Tim knew that. The impulse had been there for him, too, especially when the suspicious little face staring up at him in septuplicate had been that of someone he had never gotten along with, who had in fact consistently used his every moment of generosity or compassion against him.

But he couldn’t call himself Connor’s friend and not respect the rights of a bunch of clones who’d run away from their maker seeking independence.

If they turned out to be evil then he’d regret arming them, but he had a lot of sympathy for how naked they obviously felt without any means of self-defense, and under the circumstances that was a pretty decisive reason to arm them.

No major local Gotham issues developing he had to somehow balance this with, a relief. No signs of movement from the League as a whole, outside Talia’s personal staff who were definitely moving. No word from the family, either. Had the kids actually made it all the way here without raising any alerts?

He started digging.

“We’re ready,” said one of them, directly to Tim enough that it broke through his screening-out of their ongoing bickering. He looked over.

“None of you need high explosives,” he announced. “I don’t even carry those unless they’re specifically called for in a mission plan. None of you need any bombs, actually. Put all of those back.”

There was a lot of grumbling, but astonishingly they appeared willing to listen. He hadn’t even needed to invoke the specter of Bruce’s disapproval. New bickering started up as previous trades were declared invalid by those who’d received explosives they weren’t allowed to keep.

Tim was probably very poorly adjusted, six year olds squabbling over grenades shouldn’t be adorable. It was increasingly obvious that either Talia had been educating these telepathically, or letting them out of the tubes for training of some kind. He was used to people whose ages didn’t match their bodies, and these didn’t quite give that vibe, but they weren’t normal, either.

The little boy who’d told him they were done kept staring at Tim; he didn’t seem to be carrying any bombs. He had one of Tim’s bandoliers draped across his chest; it was cinched as tight as it would go and the bottom edge still hung against his upper thigh.

“Yeah?” Tim asked, after the silent staring had gone on long enough.

“You’re helping.”

“Yeah?” Tim said, because that wasn’t an answer or a question. “You asked.”

Well, one of them had. They’d all been dressed alike before they started putting on his stuff, he didn’t know which one had called out wait, when he’d pretended he was going to leave them to fight off eight adult ninjas on their own, without weapons.

He’d half-expected someone to call his bluff, or else give up theirs, but the tone of that wait hadn’t been that at all. It had just been.

Well. He’d turned around.

“You brought us to your home.” Did the League disincentivize asking questions? Yes, they did, come to think of it. Damian had avoided asking them too, though it was less obvious when papered over with that much bluster and arrogance and homicide.

“My place was closest,” said Tim. It had been literally a block away.

“You haven’t called anyone else.”

There wasn’t a nice way to say that if they were a trap, he’d prefer it only caught him.

“Do you want me to?” he asked instead.

The little spokesman slowly shook his head. “He’d come. Wouldn’t he.”

Bruce? No. Damian. “Robin?” Tim asked.

He still wasn’t happy that the name belonged to the demon brat now, but the little horde had responded to ‘Damians’ when he rallied them after they put the League hunters down, and he didn’t know how uncomfortable it would make them to have it applied to just the original. Assuming he was the original, who even knew. He could be version twelve.

The spokesman nodded.

“You want to avoid him?” Then why come to Gotham?

The little spokesman shrugged.

“We don’t want to see him yet,” said another boy over his shoulder, one of the ones who’d strung half a dozen grenades on one of Tim’s belts and had now replaced them with smoke bombs.

“Yes,” said the spokesman, whose nickname was already starting to seem ironic.

Tim addressed that. “Okay, and by the way what do I call you? I can’t just keep saying ‘Damians.’”

The Damians, all of them now fully armed and without visible bombs, clumped up briefly for a silent conference. Were they psychic? He hoped they weren’t psychic.

The names they gave when they were done hopefully whispering were just ordinal numbers in Farsi. More horribly, they weren’t contiguous.

“Will more of you be joining us later?” Tim asked, and got ‘no’ from the spokesman in the bandolier, whose number was Sizdahum, thirteenth.

This was not the time and Tim was not the person to compromise their stoicism on that, so he moved on without comment. If they needed to leave Gotham again to avoid meeting Damian before they were ready, that was acceptable to the collective. Yes, they would welcome his help making a satisfactory entrance. Yes, they realized making a good impression on Batman was at least as important as making one on Robin.

“And now?” asked smoke bomb kid, numbered Haftum, seventh. He was the one who moved the most, was hardly ever still, in contrast to Sizdahum who didn’t seem to move at all without a specific reason. It was going to be a struggle learning to identify them all by cues like this before they used or rearranged some of the equipment he was using to tell them apart for now; Tim suspected they’d forgive some errors.

He shut down most of the processes on his computer, though he left it on in case of any important updates, and turned his back to it. Folded his hands, his elbows propped on his swivel-chair’s arms. He was slightly taller than they were even sitting down.

“Now we plan. Our options are limited, especially if we want to avoid Robin. My defenses here are good against intruders, but if they don’t want you alive they can just destroy the building.”

He looked expectantly at the attentive row of pint-size Damians. Tactical information please, first graders.

“We’re just spares,” scoffed Haftum.

“They won’t hold back,” said Chihaarum, fourth. He was the lowest number in the room, unless you counted Tim, whose number was of course three.

“Ra’s would prefer me alive, but not enough to make it easy for me, and these are Talia’s people. I have a much better-secured bunker some way out of town. If we can shake off pursuit I can access a van that can get us all there. If necessary, I have contacts that can help with extraction to a secure location.” Kon and Bart would be 100% willing to be called in on this. Tim would rather not risk them, but they couldn’t possibly be the intended targets if this was a trick, so it was better than calling the family, and he wasn’t going to let these kids get killed for his paranoia.

“Objections, concerns?” None were volunteered. Tim could enjoy working with such a professional team if it weren’t so creepy. He initiated system lockdown. “We’d better move out.”

They nodded, and Shishum took point out the roof exit once its location was indicated. Tim let him, because they’d apparently made it halfway around the world without his supervision and he remembered how annoying it had been trying to get adults to take him seriously and having his competence utterly dismissed on the basis of his age.

Tim did insist on being the first one to step out of cover once they were all on the roof. No one seemed to be holding any of the sniper posts that could target his roof, so he motioned the kids after him. Counted them off, 4-6-7-9-11-13-14.

“Chahardahum,” he whispered, identifying the boy by the oversized Kevlar vest he’d thrown on. “Stay lower, we’re trying for stealth. And can I call you Chadah?” He wanted to respect their individuality even if it was numbers, but four syllables, three of them fairly long, wasn’t ideal for this sort of situation, especially when it sounded so similar to Chiharum that no mumbling could be allowed.

The boy named Fourteenth rolled his shoulders in a shrug, then nodded. He didn’t like the idea, clearly, but he accepted it.

“Great. Thanks. Let’s go.” Red Robin took off over the roofs, leading his trail of ducklings and keeping an eye on what their comfortable jumping range was as he tried to plan a sneaky route that was physically possible.

The order they fell into was unexpected, with Shishum at the front instead of a flank and Sizdahum bringing up the rear, and he resisted the urge to give directions about who should be where. They knew their own skillsets better than he did, micromanaging was not going to help here.

Of course, with the size of his current forces, any managing he did would be micro.

[flavourlessfiction]

Ice Melts When Heated - Chapter 2

Relationships: Jason Todd/Tim Drake

Rating: Mature

Tags: Alternate Universe - Skating, figure skating, Rivals, Slow Burn, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies is a slight overstatement tho, Banter, Time Skips, Rating May Change

Ao3: x

“You’re tripping on your twizzles in the step sequence, it’s going to sacrifice a level or perhaps even two.” Tim didn’t know why he was bothering to offer advice, but standing there, fiddling with the cap of his water bottle he couldn’t resist trying to say something. “If you can keep a strong edge on the rotations, hoping out of them with a half split jump or just anything that is under a half turn will work with your music to cover the issue and save the level defending on the technical panel.”

It was advice that Dick had given him before, in truth he’d been less experienced and didn’t have fantastic control of his limbs after a growth spurt at thirteen. He’d wanted and appreciated the advice, he hoped Damian would at least take it on board even if he didn’t say anything. It was useless to hope that Damian would be anything less than rude, however. “I don’t need help from a fairy like you.”

Fairy. A nicer word than what could have been said but it still had the same effect. He didn’t even know how he had learnt so many dated slurs. “It’s just some advice, if Dick gave it to you, you’d listen.” He wanted to snap at the other but it was better to just rise above it, to avoid getting mad and starting unnecessary bullshit.

He was better off getting back to practice, to working on his axel combination. If he wanted the 3A4T by the beginning of next season he couldn’t wait until the season slowed down. He was the national champion now, that meant he had more to prove. That his season would continue on the up and up rather than giving naysayers the opportunity to say he was victorious because Jason wasn’t at nationals. “You are a threat! My competition! Father should have thrown you out the moment you got caught fornicating with that guy in the changing room.”

Where had he gotten that from? It wasn’t sex, it had been just a kiss, with a friend from his old school. It had barely been a kiss and it wouldn’t have grown into anything more because they’d just been joking around. Tim opened his mouth to say something, but shut it quickly, rise above… he needed to just focus on himself rather than letting Damian constantly get under his skin. For someone that was in a sport that had plenty of queer people, Damian certainly had an old fashioned attitude.

Leaning over the barrier he put his water bottle on the ground, not even sparing a glance at Damian. He had better things to do than have an argument over the fact that Damian was an asshole to him almost constantly. He really could make a list of all the horrible things that had come out of Damian’s mouth  about him but it would already fill up a notebook or three and he’d only been around for eighteen months.

He just needed to focus on his skating, interpersonal relationships weren’t as important, especially not during this part of the season. They might not be direct opponents but Damian was merely trying to get into his head. Dick would pull him into line if it got too out of hand, he’d promised him as much.

All Tim needed to do right now was skate and come off the ice not wanting to throw it all away. If Bruce wanted to meet with him for a talk he needed to go in there with his head screwed on right, if he didn’t then the moment Bruce gave him whatever bad news he had in store for him, well, he’d be less inclined to try and argue with Bruce.

Stepping onto the left forward outside edge didn’t quite feel right, it was too shallow but before he even had the chance to reconsider he’d gone through with the jump. At least he was able to open his body in time to only single it, not even attempting to tack the planned jump on at the end. He’d just have to do it again, and again, and again, if needs be.

Was it healthy? No. He knew that, but the jump didn’t have to be perfect but he had to make a genuine attempt at it.

Eight, it took eight jumping passes for him to hit the rotations. Not the end of the world considering he was working up to them. The last jump wasn’t stellar, it didn’t feel natural and the turn out of the jump would cost him marks for the grade of execution but that didn’t matter right now. It could definitely get there eventually, but it would require further work. He stood there, hands on hips, looking down at the pothole he’d put in the ice. It wasn’t so sloppy normally. “Your axel looks really good but the toe loop looks like you’re fighting for the rotations.” Tim glanced up, biting his lip and nodding slowly. It was definitely a fight for the rotations. Dick was all smiles, he was always that way, especially when he was in coach/choreographer mode, it was what made him so good with the children at the rink.

“It needs more speed and a better snap down, it could be worse I know.”

“I saw you and Damian talking, are you okay?” Already changing the topic, which meant he either didn’t actually want to talk about the jumps in the first place or he was moving through topics quickly because he didn’t have a lot of time. Sparing a glance at the clock up on the wall it was definitely the latter, Bruce had wanted him once he was off the ice and they were due for a resurface in less than five minutes.

They could at least skate around for a few minutes. “I’m not going to sugar coat it, I hate him.”

“I know, you’ve said that before.”

“Can’t he play nice for just a minute or two?”

“He’s fine with me but I think think he sees you as a threat.” That was quite clear, it was no secret that he thought he was a threat. Damian regularly said it. “Do you know what B wants with you?”

Tim sighed, playing with the zipper of his jacket. “I have an idea, I’m pretty sure it’s about Four Continents.” Dick stopped first, looking about as nervous as Tim felt. Did he know something more than him?

“Do you want me to be there, I’ll make Bruce feel bad if he lets you down again.” Well he knew something, perhaps not everything, but he must have had a good enough idea.

“It’s okay. Maybe he’ll apologise about Damian trashing me after nationals.” A pipe dream. Not once had Bruce apologised or pulled Damian into line, largely because he didn’t see the worst of it, well at least what was directly said to Tim. Still, Bruce was Damian’s father, he should have at least tried to discipline him in some way shape or form regarding their issues.

Dick didn’t look impressed, the both of them sighing as the gates were opened, the warning for them to get off the ice. “Doubt it. You know how Bruce is, if he thinks it will cause drama he’ll do it in private and unless he’s forcing Damian to apologise he’d have said it when he asked for the meeting.”

“You’re not wrong.” Tim was the first to move, picking up his guards from the barrier, following Dick around the rink to where the other’s guards were. God he could see Bruce looking down at them from one of the upstairs windows, his gaze commanding him to hurry it up. “I gotta go, if I make him wait it’s only going to make him less delicate.”

Dick waved him off, Tim putting his guards on before making his way to Bruce’s office, picking up his water bottle and bag along the way. He had off ice work to do but it didn’t have to be at the rink, he easily would be able to head home and then go to the gym from there, the facilities superior in some ways, not to mention no one knew him there, if people talked about him it wasn’t based upon knowing him or rumours they’d heard, it came from superficial views, because he looked too small to be doing weights, he’d definitely heard the word twink thrown around a time or two before but there was no obviously malicious tone.

Bruce had already moved back into his office by the time he got upstairs, knocking on the wall by the door frame. “Tim, take a seat.” Bruce sounded detached, in truth he always did but the pit in his stomach screamed that it was bad news, that he wasn’t going to like anything about this.

“Is this about what happened after nationals?” He should have asked Dick to come up here with him, at least then he’d have someone to tell Bruce he was wrong if something crazy came out of his coach’s mouth.

“No, that’s of no consequence.” That was rich, the quote had been discussed at length, it had added fuel to the flames that was Tim being undeserving of victory, Damian didn’t even compete for USFSA but it didn’t stop him from having opinions. “I’m going to get to the point, there’s no use in wasting time, you’ve got a lot to do before getting on the flight. I on the other hand will not be travelling with you.”

“Are you coming a day late?” Not the end of the world, mistakes were made and there had been a lot going on lately.

“No, I will not be travelling to Shanghai, period, this week.” That was a problem.

He in no way saw that one coming. “What?” Tim sat back in the chair, trying to shrink into the furniture.

“Damian, will be competing at the Bavarian Open and he needs his coach with him.” Bruce stated matter of factly.

“But… wait, what, you’re going to another competition?”

“I have more than one student Tim, you aren’t my only priority.”

He’d heard that phrase before, the last time Bruce sent him to a competition by himself, a competition he should have had at least a thirty-point spread on his opponents, he’d won by just a few points but it hadn’t been pretty. “Exactly, you have more than one student.” He was always going to choose Damian, Ra’s had told him as much when he’d tried to convince him to move.

“Tim, I wouldn’t be sending you there alone if I didn’t think you were able to win it without me.” Bullshit. There was no way Bruce thought he could win this without him.

“Alone?” He felt sick, but he needed answers, needed to at least have Bruce hear his opinions, whether he listened or not. “You can’t send me there without anyone.”

“You’ll have a federation representative as a caretaker, however, I don’t believe Dick has a visa for China at present if he can get one in time he can join you.” A caretaker wasn’t a coach, it was a stranger who had a knowledge of record and little else.

The idea that Dick could possibly get a visa on such short notice was absurd, they were well connected and USFSA had influence with embassies but it far too late. “I leave tomorrow night, he can’t get one that fast.” Nothing he said was going to matter. “B, I don’t think I can do this without a coach that I trust. Why can’t Dick go to Germany, he was in Europe just a few weeks ago for one of the junior girls?”

“Because Damian needs me.” Damian, it was an excuse, he didn’t need Bruce at every moment in his career, Bruce was just trying to make up for lost time.

“I need you.” He sounded so small, fighting back an obvious display of emotion, being emotional wouldn’t get through to him. Nothing would. He just had to say everything he possibly could. “Bruce, I’m drowning at the moment, listening to his constant sniping, everyone else saying I can’t win with Jason around and it’s true. I want to prove that I’m a winner, but I can’t go to a major competition without a coach.”

“If you don’t think you’re able to succeed  then you won’t be able to.” Tim lowered his eyes, his right knee bouncing, an all too obvious sign of anxiety.

“Do you care?”

“Of course, but things need to go a certain way.”

He doesn’t care.

“Certain way?”

“You’ve become far too reliant on me, you need to prove you can be successful without someone telling you exactly what to do at all times.” Too reliant… Had Alfred and Dick not recommended him to Bruce after Jason’s injury because he was obedient, because he listened to everything a coach asked of him regardless of his own thoughts?

Had that not been a positive attribute? “I… all anyone has ever told me is, that’s exactly what you liked about me, that it’s what you wanted.”

“You’re young-”

Condescension, of course. “No. It’s fine I get it, you think my time is up. It’ll be fine, I’ll do my job. Another silver in the cabinet but at least we’ll probably have a podium sweep.” He could barely focus on the movements of his body, standing, and grabbing his things. This conversation was over, Bruce had no faith in him and was preparing for the next Olympic cycle. Not on the one that had been passed up because with a wild card like Jason in the mix, they needed someone they knew to be reliable.

“Tim...” Bruce didn’t even sound like he was trying to get him to stay, just speaking because it was the thing you were supposed to do. How did people think he was the robot when Bruce didn’t possess an ounce of empathy?

“I’ll see you when I get back.” At least he didn’t choke on the words, it was the coldest he’d sounded since walking into the office. He was out of there, stopping at the exit when he realised he still had his skates on, he could dry the blades in the car but he needed the skates off his feet before he stepped outside. Tim took a knee, wasting no time at undoing the knots and ripping the first skate off his foot, switching knees before getting to work on the other one. The girl at the counter who was surely unbelievably bored wearing a sympathetic look. She might not have known why he was upset but she probably knew the struggle of wanting to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Tim didn’t bother taking his shoes out or stuffing the skates into his bag, his car was parked not fifty feet from the door, he could carry the skates. It hadn’t rained or snowed this week despite it being late January which meant he wouldn’t have to worry about his socks being soaked through.

What was he going to do?

Travelling wasn’t easy and having no coach to guide him, to make assessments about the ice or just give a perspective that wasn’t his own was going to be a huge problem.

Everyone liked to joke he was a robot because he hid his emotions and rarely spoke up but he was still a person, who needed some sort of team behind him if he had any hope of winning.

Bruce clearly thought he had no chance of winning, which meant he’d have to prove him wrong.

----

It hurt, every muscle in his body was in pain. Impact from hitting the boards not once but three times. All of his jumps were off, every single one of them and he’d fallen five times. That meant nine deductions. Why was the crowd even bothering to clap? Why throw gifts and flowers onto the ice when he hadn’t done the bare minimum to at least stay in it?

The USFSA rep handed over his guards, no words, nothing to encourage him, to make it feel better or worse. There was his jacket, God, his hands were shaking way too much to zip it up. Everyone’s eyes were on the video screen showing the replays. He couldn’t stomach glancing up, he could watch it later on. “These things happen.” Soft words from the rep that fell on deaf ears.

These things didn’t happen.

Not to him.

Not to any of Bruce Wayne’s students.

He couldn’t even stop the tears from spilling, holding a gloved hand over his mouth as he tried to at least suppress any kind of sobbing. This was going to look bad.

Timothy Drake – USA

TES: 61.53 PCS: 75.94 Deduction: -9.00

FS: 128.47

Twelfth

Combined Total: 230.22

Fifth

Fifth with five skaters to go.

Fifth and would likely be Tenth.

First to Tenth.

In one skate.

At the same competition.

Fuck.

He’d failed.

He was meant to win this.

He couldn’t breathe.

Why didn’t Bruce listen to him?

Why couldn’t Dick get through to him?

How was he supposed to stop crying?

Fuck.

The cameras weren’t on him anymore, but there were certainly hundreds of eyes. Likely waiting to see what he did next. A few tissues were handed to him, shaky breaths coming out but little going in. This was how he cried in his car after a particularly shitty practice, when nothing went right.

This was something he knew how to deal with alone. Not in an arena with thirteen thousand fans, some of whom probably wanted to see him fail to make way for their favourites.

He ran his hands through his hair as he lowered his head, shifting his feet to make sure the blade guards were on before rising. Making his way off the kiss and cry platform and away from the rink side. There was no way he was answering questions, he just had to move past the mixed zone as quickly as he could, waving off the one reporter that tried grabbing his attention. Everyone else seemed to get the message at least. Aside from national media outlets no one wanted to speak to a tenth placed skater. Even if they crashed and burned spectacularly.

He could just see the headline now; ‘Timothy Drake Chokes At 4 Continents Championship, Is It Time For Bruce Wayne To Focus On Younger and Better Talent?’ That question probably didn’t need to be posed, Bruce was definitely focused more on Damian, this would probably confirm he was getting cast out to make way for Damian’s senior debut. Most coaches could focus on more than one student at a time but apparently not Bruce, at least not in this case.

It wasn’t until he rounded the second corner that he found the locker room, keeping his head down as he avoided the gaze of those that had chosen to get changed rather than watch the last group, not stopping until he reached a toilet stall. Flipping the lid down and sitting on it, hands working on his left boot laces first, eyes squeezed shut at he tried to calm himself down. If someone could see him they probably would think he was losing the plot blindly taking off each skate because he was trying to dull at least one sense.

Trying to stop himself from cracking even further.

He only opened his eyes at the sound of something sliding across the tiled floor, his small suitcase being pushed under the door, Tim taking the right skate off before leaning further forward and pulling the suitcase towards him. “We’ll meet tonight to discuss today, another representative can speak on your behalf, we understand you’re not comfortable with the press.” He couldn’t say that USFSA had done anything bad by him at this competition, they’d done everything right in taking care of the situation but it wasn’t the same as having a coach or just anyone that was in his ordinary support network.

“Thank you. I’ll… I will send a message when I get t-to the hotel and am cleaned up.” That sounded far better than he felt. He honestly thought no words would come out at all.

---

What are Bruce Wayne’s Priorities?

Timothy Drake Coachless in Shanghai Finishing Tenth Whilst Coaching Son Damian Wayne Who Can’t Claim Victory in Oberstdorf

Vicki Vale

When Drake took gold at the U.S. National Championships just two weeks ago many of us thought he was a shoe in to take Four Continents gold this week. However, a cloud of doubt started to hover over him when he showed up with no coaching team whatsoever. After the short program he sat rather comfortably in first, six points ahead of his fellow American and rival Jason Todd, who had missed Nationals this year due to a stomach virus.

However, upon arriving at the venue for the free program today it was obvious that there was something wrong. According to USFSA representatives there was no sign of injury or tightness the night before and they’d encountered no complaints from Drake. He’s allowed nerves to get in his way in the past but never quite to this extent.

This is a skater that Bruce Wayne has said several times in the past that he, “...can tell from [Drakes] beginning pose whether he will skate clean or stumble over mistakes...” this comes from an understanding between a coach and skater with a relationship that’s been built over an extended period of time. Today it was obvious to everyone in the six minute warm up that Drake was not mentally there, the few jumps he did in the warm up resulting in falls, poor landings or being doubled or singled, this coupled with a frosty exchange between Drake and Todd that no one appeared to catch what was said, made it apparent to many that Drake needed Wayne at this particular competition.

Despite earlier in the season missing Drake’s first competition for his son’s Junior Grand Prix event in Tallinn, the coaching relationship between Drake and B.Wayne was perceived to be business as usual, although what occurred behind the scenes is a mystery to many and underhanded comments seemingly to slight Drake from the younger Wayne to the press at different points in time now bring about the feeling that Wayne and his coaching team might not be producing the healthiest of environments for their students.

The question in particular is what was going through Bruce Wayne’s mind that prompted him to leave his star skater, who appeared to be on the cusp of a breakthrough season. For a junior, blood or not. That is struggling to show he is anything more than a particularly proficient jumper, who lacks the musicality or dance based technique that has been synonymous with Wayne’s previous skaters such as Richard ‘Dick’ Grayson, Jason Todd and Cassandra Cain, the final who is still being coached by Wayne part time.

Whilst it would be harsh to claim that the Bavarian Open at which D.Wayne competed at isn’t a competition worthy of Wayne’s time, the favouring of a junior merely trying to get additional senior competitions under his belt before Junior Worlds whilst his most senior men’s skater is being sent over to the final major competition prior to the World Championships is dumbfounding to say the least.

There is something to say in Drake being a more experienced skater and not everyone will agree that Wayne’s priorities are out of sorts, but it is of the understanding that there were options for D.Wayne to be accompanied to Oberstdorf whilst B.Wayne was the only member of his coaching team, with the proper accreditation that could attend Four Continents this week due to Grayson, choreographer and close friend of Drake, confirming that he’d attempted to fill the void left by Wayne but had visa struggles due to the exceptionally late timing of the decision for Wayne to travel to Germany.

This performance and the devastating reaction of Drake, which I for one won’t be able to shake any time soon, following his skate both in viewing the replays and receiving his scores, potentially could have been easily avoided if not for the errors in judgement and disorganization of Wayne.

[damian-lil-babybat]

Damian: Batman and Son (Re-imagined)

Summary:

'Father,' the tip of Damian's sword ran slowly across the caped man's neck, the pressure has all the intent to kill and yet was never enough to break the skin, 'I imagined you taller.'

AN: Highly based on the first appearance of Damian Wayne in the issue of 'Batman and Son.'

Inconspicuously, his head tilted towards the driver's seat. Damian's eyes shifted under the blindfold securely placed on his eyes. Ballistic nylon, double stitched with 90% rayon and 10% silver, anti-EM/RF radiation cloth. Impressive, to say the least. Even if he could easily take it off, he let the constraints stay to appease the man whom his mother claimed to be his father.

The title came too easily, so natural that it felt—right, in its own way.

His mother, after all, had briefed him extensively and exhaustively about his biological father, both as Batman, and Bruce Wayne. No, not Bruce Wayne. Mother was not much interested in the man behind vigilante crusader. But only a few minutes of searching on the League's connections was all Damian needed to know everything about the billionaire philanthropist playboy of Gotham City. And, of course, the Batman.  

He scoffed as he remembered the menacing cowl, entirely theatric, the cape, again overly dramatic, and the symbol of a silhouette of a bat on his chest, in case an idiot would not get the reference, perhaps?

Being under his mother's tutelage and Al Ghul's brand of education, Damian had seen his fair share of worse and crazy. A full-grown man with no augmentation or mutation, wearing a costume every night would be on the lowest end of the spectrum, in his book. And after all, he had never expected his biological father to be normal to begin with. Any man who gets the attention of Talia Al Ghul should be nothing if not—exceptional.

It is interesting, he thought as he continued silently sitting in the passenger's seat of the Batmobile.

Typical of mother, to leave him on irritatingly amusing situations with nothing but clothe on his back and his sword. She gave him one statement and one statement alone before ushering him to follow his father. He clicked his tongue. He had stopped questioning every and all of his mother's actions at age four, he'd rather not start now. But this time, he could sense something momentous.

To study and learn from his father, the boy can't help the smirk that works on his lips.

Damian had proven himself worthy of the heir of grandfather and had received his mother's approval. Should it not only be natural to have father's too?

 'You can open your eyes,' Damian felt the tension on his blindfold loosen and finally saw the scene before him, 'We're here. This is my cave,' father continued and the older man made a poor show not to mix the pride in his voice.

Granted, Damian would have quipped a comment or two about the lack of utility of space, but the boy held back, still trying to capture the overall inexistent layout of the place. A looming dinosaur on one end, a joker card hanging from the ceiling, and the 'toys' for lack of better term to use on his father's gadgets. Months of studying the Bat meant he has garnered data and information that needed only a few seconds of cross-referencing.

By the time the boy had already devised five escape routes, ten to infiltrate and another six methods to disable their alarms and servers (the ones visible were boringly modeled around Wayne Tech), the man in the cowl had already finished his topic about 'his new home.'

Damian was too preoccupied that before the boy could act, his father was already kneeling in front of him with two firm hands placed on his small shoulders. The gap on their size had never been more evident at that moment. The gauntlets precariously resting on Damian had even covered up to his collarbone.

One simple maneuver and it was enough to break bones.

The image put alarm bells on the young assassin's head but he stifled the urge to retreat. Doing so would mean he saw Batman as a threat, and that would defeat the purpose of why he was here.

Then in one breath, his father offhandedly gave him a role to play with, and orders to obey.

'If you intend to stay with me, we'll put that training to good use in the fight against crime,' he heard him announced loud and clear and Damian did not appreciate it.

But when he looked up, in a split second, Damian finally felt that he was face to face with the man, Bruce Wayne, and not the vigilante superhero. The few features that can be gleaned from his mask shows clearly a pair of eyes that mirror his own with the only difference in color. Damian had his mother's eyes, he could see that now, however, the ones directed at him looked...disappointed, and full of pity.

What is that? Why is that?

Damian snapped, flinging away from the unnatural intimate gesture and those sad looks. 'Fight crime? Hah!' don't make me laugh. What exactly is so great about fighting crime? He wanted to retort but clamped his mouth shut as he felt his temper rising again.

There's this growing impulse to drag this person on the ground and wiped that look on his face.

How dare him mock me. Pity? What part of me should be pitied?

Damian tried to change the subject to mundane stuff, things he had no time to think about as he tried to reign in his unjustified indignation. It's been years since he received such condescending stares, and the last time it happened, that very same person had begged with his own eyes as tributes.

'Damian, your mother said she sent you here to learn,' Bruce continued without masking the irritation in his voice, emphasizing the word 'learn' as if Damian himself was lacking. Two hours flight, thirty-three minutes in Batmobile, and this was the first time Damian heard him said his name. And it felt nothing, it meant nothing.

'My mother was never there for me...' Damian said in an even voice as he tried to remember his mission. He turned his back on his father and continued mouthing off a useless justification for his mother's decisions. Decisions, he once tried to understand. But what is the use?

Before long, he was already having his way at the Batcave. Half of what the boy was saying was lost as to what he was actually thinking. 'Is this your new Batmobile?' he callously remarked as he flung the blanket away from what he supposed to be one of his father's pet project.

'It is not finished yet,' the boy felt Bruce loom behind him disapprovingly. There was an undeniable finality on those words that simply irritated Damian. It's been such a long time since he heard that tone from anyone, it filled him with such a jarring nostalgia that he was gritting his teeth. 'We need to talk,' the man added, a clear dismissal of his behavior as childish. Him? Damian Al Ghul Wayne, the rightful heir to League of Assassins, the same ruthless blood of Al Ghul was coursing through his veins...childish?

They might be of blood, but they have not met more than a day ago, and the man has the gall to use a high handed tone as if he knew him. But when Damian saw that unwavering stare of his father, he had enough.

And with this range, it was more than enough.

'Fight me!' Damian almost growled and leaped at the man, grabbing the chance to lash out. He hated how it sounded shrill on his ten-year-old voice when the challenge was an honest duel with his life on the line.

'Don't be ridiculous,' a simple backstep was all it took to counter his kick. He had good reflexes, Damian thought. And when Damian's jab connected, he knew the older man had enough brawn to overpower him, and yet his father pulled back and had even stubbornly refused to draw weapon.

Why?

'Show me respect and fight!' he shouted, going low and landed a solid one on Bruce's stomach.

'You're good...but,' was that a compliment, funny how it sounded sarcastic. Damian was too busy figuring out how to take Batman down that the next statement was drowned in his anger. And just as Damian was trying to calm himself, it was followed by words he had heard all his life, 'you're not good enough.'

You're not good enough. Ra's Al Ghul used to say that. And he had made sure all his life that he would be immune to such remarks, and yet...damn it.

Damian continued his assault.

  'My weekend in the mountains was pretty uneventful,' all of a sudden, a stranger's voice cut through their duel. Cheerful, nonchalant words without a hint of hostility, echoed throughout the cave. And there standing a few boulders away from them was an equally ridiculously, albeit less monochrome, dressed masked teen, 'What did I miss?'

'It gets worse,' Damian muttered under his breathe, as he spied the young man behind his father.

'Robin. I'd like you to meet Damian,' the relief of his father was too obvious, it was stuck ringing in his ears. 'He'll be staying for awhile.'

So this is the third Robin. Timothy Jackson Drake. Instantly, a list of background checks clicked on his mind as he retrieved his brass knuckles back under his glove.

Drake walked closer, all smiles and friendliness. From where he stood, Damian already found the intruder insufferable. 'Hey, how are you?' Robin asked while giving a knowing look at his father as if saying, 'again? You've brought another lost boy, somewhere?'

Damian could almost hear Bruce sigh as an answer.

This is wrong. What is wrong with this man? Why is he not protecting father? Aren't I obviously trying to kill Batman, so then why is he simply standing there on a sideline?

Damian's gaze moved up and down on the newcomer. The will to fight left his small body in tension. The exchange of blows now seemed to have been discounted as nothing more than a 'ridiculous' with no one taking his challenge seriously.

On instincts, he studied Robin meticulously and ended up staring at Tim's outstretched hand in deep thought. The fourteen-year-old had his shoulders slouched, stance relaxed, feet unbalanced...too many openings, too many weaknesses to exploit, and not enough vigilance. A liability. And this adopted prepubescent runt is supposed to be the partner to father? This 'thing' was what father deemed to be 'good enough' to stand at his side? Preposterous.

'Umm,' the teen added, his extended hand awkwardly kept hanging in midair, 'here in my world, we call this gesture a handshake...'

'Don't patronize me or I'll break your face,' it was not a warning, it's a statement. A threat this Robin should take heed if he had a functioning brain.

'Enough! Alfred will help you unpack,' that tone again. What is with these people? 'It's been a long and difficult journey. You should get some rest.'

'Don't tell me what I should do!' Damian declared with as much authority as he was breed to have since he had learned his destiny. And yet, why is no one listening to him? He had been used to people hanging over to his every word, his every utterance the same weight as mother, and just as revered as grandfather, and yet these people can't seem to take anything he says seriously. It was exasperating! 'Mother let me do what I want!' he added sharply before he could stop himself, and Damian knew all too well how petty and petulant it sounded that he cursed inwardly.

'Things are different here,' his father made his ultimatum, and for all its worth, he has to agree. Things are very different. Nothing seems to work on common sense.

Bruce repeated his command. Before he could say anything more, Damian walked out bitterly. And with the old butler following behind his heels, muttering some servile perfunctory sentiments, Damian finally left off the curse that was stuck in his throat.

 This is aggravating. What did I do wrong?

Damian looked at his surrounding, the soft four-posted bed, the nightstand with its lamps and vases that would not be out of place on any museum or art gallery, and an entertainment set immaturely designed for underdeveloped youth. He was standing at a table, stubbornly refusing to take a seat with a plate of roasted pheasant, grilled potatoes, and rigatello cheese placed in front of him, and a promise for more from a butler, named 'Alfred' who was content to stand guard behind Damian.

With the way the butler was looking down on him, Damian won't be surprised if the man was contemplating whether he had seen enough of civilization to know how to use a fork and a spoon.

He had dined with princes, and broke bread with sultans and oil magnates alike. This home-cooked fine dining was a joke in comparison. Add the room's obvious modern youthful exterior made him heavily feel like they were gravely treating him as a kid.

Pathetic. The boy returned the servant's scrutinizing stare, equally, and frowned at everything the butler and this room represented.

Comfort. Silence. Safety. With no one attempting at his life for half the night.

How is this supposed to educate me?

Comfort breeds complacency. Silence is suspicious. Safety is an illusion. Unless it was taken by your very own hands, one should question all. And not once did Damian had felt this emptiness to his surroundings that it creeps to his skin. Instead of helping him rest, it simply made his guard on so high alert that it was putting him on edge.

'Pennyworth, isn't it?' Damian said. Loathingly, even at his full height, he could only reach up to the servant's pristine white waistcoat.

'How may I serve you?' Alfred Pennyworth, butler to Bruce Wayne and his appointed babysitter, said courteously. Too courteously, it was almost an insult.

'I want my sword,' Damian said, dragging the words as he picked up the butter knife and twirled it expertly between his fingers. If their form of torture was to bore him to death, then they are gaining grounds.

'It is in my opinion that children should stay away from sharp objects,' Damian raised an eyebrow, he would have added how contradictory that was when his father had a literal line of boys armed, but the butler was quick to add, 'Awfully true to those reared to maim and kill, young sir.'

The boy scoffed, 'An unsolicited opinion from a servant. Father's management of his properties must be crippling to hire one of you.'

'I was not hired by Master Bruce.'

'You must have come with the inheritance then. Tell me, butler, exactly how am I expected to train without a weapon?' Damian clicked his tongue, 'Unless father wants me to be creative, that is.' The boy threw the knife across the room and struck, base deep, at a bust of a historical figurehead he would not waste time to learn. The rebuke was plastered all over the old man's expression.

'Yes, the arts of silver cutlery, impressive, if not extravagant," he shook his head and added monotonously, 'If I may, Master Damian, if you wish to train, a gym had been installed within this room,' and the butler gestured towards a punching bag hanging beside the window.

Damian frowned, 'you meant these decorations?' he strode towards the punching bag and started testing the boxing equipment—with test, he meant beating the bag with all the temper of a grade schooler. The restraints rattled like trinket.

'I prefer the cave—somewhere I could break things,' he exclaimed.

'A flair you seem to share with Master Timothy, no doubt.'

'To compare me to a future road-kill, you must have a death wish, Pennyworth,' Damian made a series of high kicks and jabs at the thing as an example. Despite his efforts to be menacing, the bag proved to be well-made and sturdy, and the only reaction he got was the old man's mouth twitching.

Still, the butler must have sensed that his concentration was elsewhere and mechanically offered the boy a towel. The motion seemed to have been practiced so many times that Damian could see the moment it dawned on the old man what he just did. That was, until his usual cold professionalism sets in once more.

Damian shrugged it off but did not refuse the towel.

'I also require a laptop, and a working net access, get to it, or do you need to demonstrate to me again how useless you are?' Damian demanded, taking care to make his voice as sullen and testy as he could.

The old man's calm facade seemed to crack.

To his defense, Damian was patient enough to let the old man pester him with more than the adequate amount of lectures which included a full explanation (with footnotes) about the stately Wayne Manor's rules on how not to raise a budding tyrant.

Satisfied he had the butler distracted, Damian scrutinized the plan again on his head while trying to work out his evening session without damaging any more properties.

It was careless of his father and that sorry excuse of a Robin to discuss a case within his earshot. They might not know that he could hear exceptionally well, but that was still unacceptable if they would prioritize security. Though standing for a lapse of time at the door long after the butler had closed and entered the passkey might have been unsafe, still, he had deemed it as a necessary risk.

And Damian found his eavesdropping to be fruitful.

He doesn't care if they talk behind his back. Though he can't help but frown at his father's supposedly obligatory 'love and respect' due to their filial relations. How archaic. The lip service on his behalf, that, he could also disregard.

If he needed to prove his worth, then there was only one way to prove it. How was it again? Vigilante work, is it not? Being a hero? Would that be too hard? The city is small, and there seems to be no end to criminals. Maybe a few initiative on my part wouldn't be too bad.

And he had to thank Drake for giving him that initiative. 'Spook'. 'Blackgate Prison'.

Now if only he could get a hold of more information and his sword.

Just to make sure, Damian continued to torment the servant and made an extra effort to his role as the demon spawn they all seem to equate him with.

'Why can't I get a laptop!?' Damian yelled once more, with his fist leaving a deep impression on the bag.

Just as he expected, Bruce came barging to the room.

At the sight of his father, Damian can't help but recall those shadowed eyes that seem to bear down on him. This time—it was filled with regret.

'He's all yours, sir,' Pennyworth dragged his exhausted body towards the door, 'My tolerance for colorful insults is wearing a little thin, I'm afraid.'

Perfect, he thought derisively, 'What have you done to my sword? Where are we?' the boy asked, straining his ears at the sounds of Pennyworth typing the key pass, while strategically spying at his peripherals as the butler made his way out of their father-and-son talk.

And while we're at it, why not torment father, too?

'This is part of my home, where I grew up. And you'll get a computer and the sword when I decide it's safe,' Bruce, still in his Batman suit, declared, 'I still don't know much about you, Damian.'

Then let me rectify that, for one thing, 'I hate it here!' Damian complained, not dropping the act.

'Too bad. You'll still be staying until we figure out what you mother's up to,' Damian opened his mouth to say something, but his father unceremoniously advised, 'you should eat.'

His mood dropped, which seemed to be the norm whenever he attempted to talk to his father, 'Eat? You call this food?!' Damian flung the plate and the sound of breaking porcelain was grating.

'It's actually pretty good...when you don't mix it with the wallpaper,' just hearing his father talk made Damian lose his calm. Somehow, the act became reality with every punctuation from his father pushing his displeasure.

Complaisant, disdainful...what exactly does...

'I suggest you rest.'

'Rest'. This was the second time he had ordered Damian to rest. As if his father was shooing a cat, or any domestic animal, out of his way. A burden he wanted to be tucked away to bed and out of sight.

Something gave way inside Damian. The fury came like hot metal searing him into a numbness that he simply blurted out his anger unthinkingly.

'I've been sent here against my will!'

Damian didn't choose to be here. But he is. Now. Here. And the first thing his father wanted was to play 'house' and leave him with a bumbling servant who has no sense to heed orders, and consequently preserve his own life!

'You can't make me do anything I don't want to do!'

His father won't even test him. Won't even give him merit. Or a trial to show what he was capable of! And he wanted Damian to call it a night?

He's still not finished with his outburst, when his father bellowed, 'Enough!'

The fires fueling his emotions ebbed just as instantly when he saw his father's unreadable expression.

Batman had mastered intimidation to perfection and he seemed to have no qualms to unleash all of it to his son, 'You dishonor your sensei with this loss of composure! Your rage is born of fear and is unbefitting in a student of martial arts!'

The older man stepped closer, the dark cape cast a shadow as dark as the deepest of abyss, and the boy didn't realize that his body has reeled back until he felt the corner of the table pressing from behind. The threat from those eyes was real that Damian could feel the sweat forming in the palm of his hand.

'You'll be given opportunities to prove yourself to me. Until then, Boy...Patience is a virtue!'

Damian gulped. He could feel goosebumps from his spine.

'Yes, yes father' he repeated his answer automatically, a natural response only his mother could pull out of him.

When he raised his eyes once more, his father was already gone. And he heard the unmistakeable locking mechanism of the door, shutting him in, indefinitely.

 He paced the room. The butter knife he had retrieved a while ago was now tight in his grip.

Nothing changed, the boy thought while replaying the scenes with his father. If he had to take his father's words into consideration then that meant he was on the right track.

And Damian, of course, had drawn only one conclusion, it was a challenge.

He must proceed with the plan.

With that in mind, Damian took a deep breath and shifted on his seat in front of the television. A number of the latest playing consoles were sprawled on his feet and an audio system at one end. He took on the remote control and started clicking away, like a person going over his groceries.

He waited and skipped a few news channel.

Gotham's cable reception apparently was filled by hourly crime reports of the mean and the gritty and accentuated with base gossips and distasteful luxury.

But even so, Damian would find himself pausing a few seconds more whenever a channel would feature Batman. He had to admit, seeing things on a screen was different from seeing it in person.

He had watched and rewatched his father on footages going on nights on end, with his vigilante works, and it does not take half a brain to know that Batman was out there doing just that.

Despite their bouts, Damian was—is 'excited' the correct word for it?

In fact, the first time he saw his father's nightly escapades, under the supervision of his mother of course, he initially found it...cool. A man dressed as a bat, stalking the shadows for justice, ah yes, he would be taken to his grave before he would confess such thoughts.

He glanced at the mess of his dinner still left untouched and sneered.

Another chess piece.

It would take a miracle for that old man NOT to came checking up on him. The butler might not act like a servant, but Damian can recognize the pride in which Pennyworth carries himself as a caretaker of the Wayne family.

He was surprised at the confidence he had at the butler, but he was sure Pennyworth would definitely clean up after him and for that, he had Damian's regards if nothing else.

After a while, the boy found himself lost in his own thoughts. The changing visage of the monitor toss dancing lights on his face. The frown was gone and despite the intense look on his hazel eyes, Damian had looked exactly like any harmless innocent child lounging lazily in front of a screen.

But all of it changed when he saw his target. The assassin's mind instantly took over as his whole body became taut with precise sharpness drilled to him from countless training.

Spook.

It took considerable restraint on Damian's part not to roll his eyes. Questionable aesthetic both on the criminal name and on his wardrobe. Such a small fry was not even a blip on his radar when his data consisted of international threats and contingencies. He sighed when the news anchor zoomed in to show the hostage-taking. Granted even the minions had it bad. Blanket with cut holes for eyes? What a cheap preference only fitting for children stories.

Oh, how he would just fit right in.

With the name and face of his mission acquired, and the butler's timely, unmistakable, British drawl announcing his own intrusion, Damian took off the towel from his shoulders and silently slipped behind the door.

'Now, let's hunt,' he whispered to himself.