[If Damian had know what he knows now, when they first met, that's how things might have been, back then. But he didn't know then. For all that he knew about his Father, and he did know a lot, Mother had left him without a clue as to what he expects. What matters to him. It has taken him this long to understand even this little bit. This long and this much loss and damage, for so many.

This feels like a more proper beginning than the one he completely botched.

... and he still cringes lightly at the hair-ruffle. Out of habit. But he doesn't pull away. And he gives another nod, ready to follow. Or fall back in step with Father. His voice... may also hold a trace of enthusiasm. Or anticipation. Both rare in cases not involving either patrol or actual violence.]

Of course.

[Also of course, it's barely been a few minutes after that, Damian carefully paying attention to what Father is doing, what he pays attention to, what makes those faint reactions play on his face, when the boy stills, head canted to one side, and then looks towards one of the side alleys, nearby. Its' not quite a cry for help, but he thinks he heard a dull thump, like stick on skin, and a grunt of receiving pain.

His eyes shoot up to check if Father's caught it, too.]