tushanshu_logs

Current Mood: careful

Entry tags:

Open

Characters: Damian and Bruce Wayne, Robin (

demon_brat) and Robin (

hackingyoursensors), and also Robin (

demon_brat) and anyone!
Location: Here, there, and everywhere. Mostly rooftops, probably a lot in the Metal and Fire sections.
Situation: Meet Robin, if you wish!
Warnings/Rating: TW for child abuse. Because it's Damian.
A/N: Prose or actionspam welcome. Thread headers for Bruce and Dick, anyone else who wants to meet or talk with Robin, welcome after that!

It took Damian a couple of days after Grayson showed up to return to his, ah, usual levels of visibility. After that first conversation, he did his best to vanish out of sight, making sure not to fall into his usual patterns of anger at circumstances he did not welcome. Because neither Father nor Grayson would approve - his Grayson, this one had no reason to care - and the urge to not fail his Batman was suddenly double strong. Or, at least, more explicit.

Eventually, almost a full day later, he found his way to his Father's suite.

And the next night, and the one after that, he was cautiously back to patrol.

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[Damian doesn't have words. He's barely managed to get some grip of the confusion, the anger that came from the realization who the arrival is, and he's made himself tired in simple ways, running, rooftop running. Patrolling, but it was more Damian Wayne, the assassin who knew how to sneak into shadows than Robin. No, he didn't kill. No, he wasn't the brightly colored target that he'd accepted being a while back. But he needed that.

He tried to return to his own residence, but it felt like it was suddenly, for the first time, too empty, too quiet, the absence of a voice he hasn't heard in weeks too difficult to bear.

So he's making his way to the only place that he can think of. (Well, no, he gave a passing thought to going to Brown, but after the last time, he doesn't trust himself not to make himself even less welcome there. Plus, she will probably want to task it out or something. The way he would. And Damian... can't.) No, he's making his way to the Metal sector, and he drops into the familiar suite wrapped in shadow and silence.]

[Bruce is sitting at his desk, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee as he taps a pen against his thigh. He's the very picture of 'lounging', but to anyone who knows him there's an unmistakable intensity to his posture. He has a map of Keeliai - hand-drawn, with the detail only a Bat could have managed - spread out in front of him, with numerous other papers scattered about.

This is the part of the job Tim had been doing before his disappearance. It's the part Bruce likes the least.

Oh, he's every inch the Detective, of course. He knows that doing this work saves more lives than being out on the street knocking heads together. But he knows which he prefers. Which he's always preferred.

He doesn't look up when Damian joins him, but he recognizes the light step, the breathing rate, the displacement of the air.

Robin.

Damian has never felt like Bruce's Robin. He wasn't the one to bestow the title upon the boy and frankly found him ill-suited to the title, no matter that he's... grown into it. But he only did that growing because of Dick.

And now Dick is here. From another world. At an age when he knows nothing of the pain to come. Bruce knows that losing his temper at the boy the first night he was here was... foolish, but the differences between this version of Dick and the one he remembers were too salient to ignore.

Bruce stands abruptly, gathers his paperwork into its leatherbound portfolio for storage under the loose panel in his floor which no one - not even Tim - knew about. He doesn't return it to its place, instead he simply leaves it on his desk and turns to Damian.

The only person who could possibly be taking the nature of Dick's arrival harder than him is his son.

Bruce purses his lips. Then he gestures, open-handed, at the large, clear area of his suite that he's outfitted specifically for working out. Including a mat designed for tumbles and throws. The offer is wordless, but it has been a while since he's sparred with Damian.]

[For all intents and purposes, Damian should be tired. He's been on the run for hours, and he's found no peace, whatever means - violent or peaceful - he's tried tonight.

And, in a way, he is. He is not paying attention to what his Father leaves (maybe he remembers it, his trained memory overriding his conscious mind, but he doesn't comment), he is not even looking at the rigidity, the silent rejection of what he does that his Father has been careful to keep away from their encounters so far. It might have hurt, if he'd been paying attention. It might have made him run away again.

But he's not looking deeper than the surface, right now. And the surface is quiet, and the surface is inviting him to fight, safe setting at all, a worthy enemy. (...an enemy to the House of al Ghul. Very well, Mother. I hope I will be a worthy enemy.) (Fight me, Father! This one has been a long time coming...) (And yet his thoughts go to the spars with Grayson, the ones where he found out where a decade and a half in the field left a person more prepared than even the best of training.)

He doesn't speak. But he does answer by moving where Father pointed, a very small shift in the way he moves, from everyday walk to a fluid motion that showcases his years of work, and the work of teachers who've pushed him further than any other student of there has been pushed. For others, the hours on the go would be grueling, tiring.

For Damian, for this, they are warm-up.]

[Bruce watches the way Damian moves. Far more efficiently than he did at that age. Of course, at that age he was still mired in his own grief, and hadn't yet set himself on the path to become what he is today.

In terms of technical ability, Bruce thinks that Damian will overtake him one day. Not soon. But perhaps in a decade. He'll be in his forties, then. Even with his trip to the Lazarus Pit, Shondra giving up her mind to heal his back-- even after Bekka's healing on Apokolips, the years of abuse he's put into his body will be taking their toll. He already feels it sometimes, the old aches and injuries. Bones that never healed quite right. Muscles that have been ripped and torn. Scars that hide old bullet fragments that Alfred couldn't dig out.

There's a part of him that looks at Damian and doesn't want that life for him.

And there's a part of him that knows perfectly well that Damian couldn't have been raised any other way. Bruce had been willing to give up his life as Batman to raise a family. Could he have? He and Talia and Damian (he would have had a different name, if Bruce had been there--) living the socialite's life in Gotham?

Trying to imagine it is... difficult. That chapter of his life is closed. He shouldn't dwell. Instead, he clears the thoughts from his mind and steps onto the mat.

He's already barefoot, in loose drawstring pants and a simple shirt in the local style. Perhaps it's not perfect for fighting, but he's fought in both better and worse. He turns to face Damian, gives a short bow - really just an incline of the head - for Bruce is the master here.]

[This? This is a language that Damian can understand. This is a language that he asked Father to speak with him, a lifetime ago and a world away, except now he isn't issuing a challenge, and neither is Father.

Not the way he meant it then, at least.

He shrugs off his local-style robe, remaining in loose trousers, and kicks off his shoes; his return bow is proper. And not taking his eyes away from the opponent. It has nothing to do with not trusting Father, and everything to do with habits ingrained into him since before he could form actual sentences.

Then he takes a low stance, believing that Father would take the advantages he had (even in sparring) (unlike Grayson, who'd kept insisting on giving him advantages) (until he'd gotten better, at least), including his height.

He hadn't been in a mood to pick a fight. But not that it was here, he half-let, half-felt himself relax into practiced skills, routines ground into him and lessons learned from his most recent teachers learned, both. Don't anticipate. Do not get angry.

Win.

One does not win by reacting.

He waits for a blink, and he's darting forward, aiming for the edge of his palm hitting Father's side.]

[Bruce doesn't often fight opponents that are so much smaller than him. He's trained three Robins, worked with two more, but training is never the same as fighting. And Damian is even smaller than Tim was, once upon a time.

But Damian also has more than just Tim's training in karate. He was trained to kill. He shifts, enough so that the blow connects but ineffectually, and drops his hand down against Damian's wrist to knock it away. He's careful about it, but there's an authority to his motion that belies the lack of direct force behind it.]

[While practically everyone Damian has fought has been bigger, mostly stronger, and even, occasionally, faster. (He should probably go fight the red panda. Fighting beside the little koan sprouter made him curious.)

He's already twisting away and down, aiming another hit - low, at a knee - and immediately after that, a kick - high, elbow or chest, if he can manage that.

He's already switching gears. His last sparring partner would probably be already in the air somehow, flamboyant and loud and yet somehow still unreachable - while this time, it's all about controlled force, precision.

Perfection.]

[Bruce blocks everything, each motion calm and smooth and focused. Damian's good, there's no denying that. He's the heir to two different worlds, each demanding perfection in and of themselves. To be an al Ghul and a Wayne... the dichotomy is dizzying, cruel, even by Bruce's standards.

It's... strange to him that he's still learning things about his son. He's just glad (yes, glad) that he's around to do so.

Right now, he's all about defense. He's not particularly interested in attacking. This is a test. He's seeing what Damian is putting behind his blows. Reading his emotions. How much of it is anger, how much efficiency. How separate he is from what's going on around them (Dick) and what they're doing right now, in this moment.

Bruce shifts his stance, whips one leg forward in an outside-to-inside crescent kick. It's more to force Damian to put space between them than it is to actually attack outright.]

[If it had been a few hours ago, Damian might have been angry. He might have lashed out, the attacks jagged and uneven and too strong, using combat as an outlet to not wanting to feel and being incapable of escaping it.

But he didn't initiate any sort of communication until he got in control of that. Until he no longer wanted to fight.

Now, he is clinging to the balance and peace of a fight, instead, the quiet inside his mind that the exchange of blows, the control, the calculation, the attention to the adversary, the familiarity of the exertion all bring. He's barely ever admitted to this peace, before, and he certainly hasn't sought it (he didn't, now, either, it was Father's suggestion), but now that it's here, he is reluctant to let it go.

Except there is that swipe, and in comes close to being the first thing this far to make proper contact as Damian hesitates for a moment, wondering whether Grayson's flightier technique wouldn't actually be more effective against this implacability than his own usual techniques.

He dismisses the thought, and leaps up before either Father's leg reaches him or his breath manages to hitch (though that does come, when he's in the air), and he tries for a hit on the outer side of the thigh before, yes, twisting out of Father's immediate reach.

Then he takes a half crouch, watching for a few moments. His eyes are wide and alert, whole body in readiness, and, yes, now that a reminder, a question, has snuck back in - his pupils are a little dilated, too.]

[Bruce doesn't block that hit, only twists a little so that it's a lighter touch, and then he sweeps that same leg back, finding a more balanced stance.

Good, Damian. He doesn't say it, but he can see the calculating shift of tactics at work. Damian is trying to decide how to fight him. Who to emulate. And Dick has always been the right choice. Bruce and Jason were both bruisers -- Tim fought a little like everyone, but Dick... Dick has always been the one of his children that stood the best chance of taking him out directly in combat.

(He remembers flying high above city lights, his fingers wrapped around Dick's throat as he choked out, thought maybe I had a chance.

His jaw tenses at the memory, and he steps forward, into another low scything kick. No sense using his hands with Damian, the boy's barely up to his belt and Bruce would have to overextend himself to so much as touch him. No. Kicks are more efficient, and where Bruce is concerned just as fast.

It's something his opponents are always startled by. His speed. In that, he doesn't hold back.]

[Damian's never tried to emulate Grayson before. I'm not you is what he said in their very first sparring session, and that never changed.

Except now, he's considering it.

It does have merit, against this kind of tactic and skill and speed, and the first two sweeps do get him flying out of the way (and he wonders if it's the same approach that this very young, newly arrived Grayson would use)...

... but he's never been one to run for long.

So, the third time, he aims for landing on the extended leg, rather than away from its path.]

[Bruce allows the landing just long enough to reach to wrap one hand around Damian's ankles. Think fast, Damian.]

[... sadly, Damian's quick thinking is offensive, almost inevitably. His hand aims to land, with enough force to hurt (trying to avoid harm, though) at the side of his Father's wrist. The other leg's knee is already heading towards Bruce's face. Precarious balance, yes. But not impossible.]

[Nnnnnnope. Denied. Bruce jerks his hand sideways, which accomplishes three things.

One, it pulls Damian completely off his (foot).

Two, it neatly avoids that second blow aimed at his head.

Three, it results in (after the dust has settled) Bruce holding Damian by one ankle, perfectly upside-down and at arm's length away from his body.

Sorry, son. Offence wasn't the answer, there.]

[FINE, Father.

This is Damian, hanging perfectly upside down by one ankle, the other leg tucked behind it. He crosses his arms, glaring at his Father, then arches an eyebrow up. Errr. Down.]

[And Bruce... smiles.

Halfly. It's not significant by any means, but it's there. After a moment, he offers his other hand, so Damian can grip onto it and flip himself right ways up.

It's not that he couldn't do it by himself. God knows the boy's talented. But... this is about working together. More than anything.

Batman and Robin. Not his Robin, nor one he would have chosen for himself. But their titles still matter, for what they mean to one another.]

[... and, more than any move this far, the gesture disorients Damian. He has to watch the extended hand for a long moment before registering what it's there for (no, he does not need it) and deciding what to do about it.

Even so, the motion of his own hand to meet it is almost uncertain. Until he touches the warm palm. And then, still slow, he grabs it steadily, waiting for the change in the hold to put weight on the hold and flip sideways to upright.]

[Bruce closes his fingers around Damian's hand (he's so tiny-- even compared to all his other children. Bruce came into their lives too late to see them at this stage) and he shifts his hands so Damian isn't jarred by the transition.

Then, once he's upright, Bruce sets him back on the floor.]

Again?

[With any of the others it would be a command. But Damian isn't someone he needs to train directly, not in terms of combat. So he asks, instead.]

[The first word either of them has spoken shatters something, and Damian blinks slightly. It's been so easy, falling into action, into a fight. Taking his thoughts away from what they had been.

And now they come rushing in, and he has to resist shaking his head to clear it. Because this isn't how spars usually go (spars. Still new... as such. Practice fights tended to have an edge, always, before Grayson), except this part, and he has to take a deep, sharp breath. Because it's not the Again? he's used to hearing (too bare), and yet it's exactly as natural...

He nods, taking a step back and bowing first, this time.

But the easy focus is not coming back, words heavy in the silence around them for the first time in his life.]

[Briefly, he regrets speaking at all. Easy to see that Damian's focus is lost, and easier to guess at why. Bruce frowns.

He has no idea how to ask. What to say. Or even how to let Damian know that... he's here if he wants to talk. So instead, his shoulders tense, and he looks down at the boy.]

Damian.

[That one word has... damn near all of his confusion and concern and frustration entombed in it.]

[... and Damian tenses in turn, eyes widening. Did he do something wrong?]

Father?

Are you all right?

[Four words. They aren't easy to say.]

[... oh.

Open your mind, Damian.

The automatic shrugging off of the question gets mixed up. He does shrug, but also pulls back the defensive posture a bit, looking up.]

I should be. [He doesn't see why he isn't, not logically. And yet.]

I never thought he could be so... [young? innocent? careless?] ... vulnerable.

[And Bruce... understands.

He kneels in seiza on the mat.]

It's difficult to see your heroes as... less than what they are in your eyes.

[Damian... has to consider that. Because is hero what Grayson is, to him? He wouldn't have thought so, not really. But it's Father, and he considers the word.]

It is not... disappointment. I just... He's here, but I somehow notice his absence more?

[What am words?]

Father and son

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