questions would not be asked

[crusaded]

From the moment the bathysphere surfaces, I wonder if I've made a mistake. The type of oversight that would have, in Gotham, possibly gotten me killed. On some level, I can recognize that the two situations are not the same. Gotham is a city that I've lived in all my life, no street unwalked and no corner unturned. I know it as well as the back of my own hand, or even better, for to know Gotham is to know the collective minds that inhabit it, the peculiarities and fear alike, practically palpable in the air. In Gotham, the face guarding the sole entrance to a building, let alone an entire civilization past, would not be unfamiliar to me. Questions would not be asked. Fear would lace itself into the pale blue of the woman's eyes, and her shock of red hair would rightfully send a jolt to the pit of my stomach— but the pieces don't fit well, and so I continue to wonder if I've made a mistake, etching each question into the back of my mind for safe-keeping, for when I know I'll return to the spot, requesting access to Jason.

But if there is one thing that all people should learn about mistakes, it's that retracing is rarely a fix. Apologies are thin, at best, a gesture more than a solution. No way to keep a bridge standing. So for all that a part of me wonders if I should have stayed in the depths below, I find myself pushing forward with the original plan, quickly covering territory and scouting the terrain. Wherever I sense people in the distance, I veer in the opposite direction, knowing that Damian isn't likely to remain there for long, or that Tim would also have a hideout somewhere hidden from the general populace. I press forward and towards higher altitudes, feeling the wind unseasonably warm against my skin. There's a light rustling in the distance, almost silent, but lumbering with all the ease of a beast unconcerned by my presence; in the distance, I spot a pylon clear above the canopy, then decide to walk its perimeter.

I can't speak for Tim, but if this fence is safe to cross, something tells me Damian might be on the other side.

And if it isn't, I'd be willing to double those odds.

Comments

[aworthyone]

There's more information Damian could give, but he's not so blinded by his own desires to know that it wouldn't be a waste of time. His father doesn't trust him. No surprise, there. Their whole family thinks of him as something to be watched, to be monitored. Drake would have had him killed he was considered such a threat.

(Technically speaking, this was just a returned favor, but Damian has the excuse of being raised by assassins and master criminals. His father's favorite pet does not.)

Grayson gave him a chance, at Pennyworth's urging. Batgirl, too, in her way. But Damian's never had much opportunity to spend with his father, and the consequences of this are clear, now. Something in his chest feels tight and it's a challenge to keep his face free of emotion. It's only out of pride that he meets it.

"Is this how it's going to be?"

[crusaded]

The question is more revealing than his expression. In that, perhaps he takes after me. When I search for the signs, I stumble across them, littered about and haphazardly corrected. A jaw kept purposely loose against the bright and almost boring shine of his eyes. His hands rest by his sides, relaxed. And the element of control, the one that Jason Todd always lacked for the entirety of time that I knew him, is something that I find now in Damian, a blessing that isn't to be taken for granted. There is anger underneath the facade in both of us, and a ravine to be crossed. I've hardly made the attempt.

I can already hear Alfred's encouragement in the back of my mind, even in his absence.

I turn to face him fully; it's the most I can offer. "No," I reply, firm. No, this is not going to be the way things remain. No, I don't plan on keeping him at a distance. No, after what I've seen of his actions, I know that he is not solely his mother's son. If anything, he's more of mine.

"Damian, I expect you to be here when I return."

In many ways, he holds the greatest amount of potential on his shoulders. Tonight, I wonder if that's the very reason I've shied away.

[aworthyone]

It's what he wanted, that sign of recognition, but Damian has little intent for allowing that to show. He holds still for a moment longer, then shoots a line up into the trees, the sound cutting sharp through the quiet, and ending with a dull thump as the hook wraps around the branch.

He'll return here as instructed, that much isn't in question, but there's no mistaking Damian as happy, now. Whatever spark of trust Todd might have ignited with his actions on Halloween faded into nothingness the moment Batman decided he was more important.

"Whatever," Damian says, reeling himself up into the air, and then he's gone into the darkness.

[crusaded]

I wait until the sounds fade, sensing already that this is another of many issues that I'll need to address upon my return. Not twelve hours in another dimension, and the only recurring theme seems to be the one and the same that I've carried on my shoulders for years. Fighting crime is a straightforward task, a matter of an observant eye and ear, and a willingness to press forward even in the most dire of circumstances. If anything, it's too simple to get lost in such a goal, to lose sense of perspective as one's aim narrows to pair of unrepentant eyes. It's those who help to shape my perspective who fade black and white into shades of gray. Alfred would make things clearer for me, were he around.

But he's not.

So I wait, until the last sound brush of leaves falls quiet under the evening wind, before I turn on my heel to return to the place I came from.

Wondering if, in trying to correct one mistake, I'll only make countless more in turn.