Entry tags:
the young and rich
I can't sleep.
While the sun has yet to dip below the horizon, it's been days since I had any semblance of rest. Pain and fatigue have worn mostly down, only a light thrum remaining in the air, pressing against my temples and forcing every thought to a roadblock. Every action is stilled by a need not to interrupt that steady ebb and crash of water that sounds. I can't decide if it's my imagination filling the silence, or if the beach is truly so close. I lie on the sofa, a T-shirt several times too large loose over my shoulders, the first serviceable item of clothing retrieved from the box. I should check on my suit. Make sure everything is in working order, and every weapon accounted for.
Instead, I'm waiting until Damian gets home, thinking more carefully through Stephanie's words. At least when it comes to this, it's likely that she knows better than I do. She's spent more hours with him and can see through the quick tongue that he uses to lash out at everything that isn't to his satisfaction. And, if nothing else, discovering the fact that I've been missing to him for months, dead for months, better shapes my perspective.
Here is an opportunity to make an effort I've owed for some time.
While the sun has yet to dip below the horizon, it's been days since I had any semblance of rest. Pain and fatigue have worn mostly down, only a light thrum remaining in the air, pressing against my temples and forcing every thought to a roadblock. Every action is stilled by a need not to interrupt that steady ebb and crash of water that sounds. I can't decide if it's my imagination filling the silence, or if the beach is truly so close. I lie on the sofa, a T-shirt several times too large loose over my shoulders, the first serviceable item of clothing retrieved from the box. I should check on my suit. Make sure everything is in working order, and every weapon accounted for.
Instead, I'm waiting until Damian gets home, thinking more carefully through Stephanie's words. At least when it comes to this, it's likely that she knows better than I do. She's spent more hours with him and can see through the quick tongue that he uses to lash out at everything that isn't to his satisfaction. And, if nothing else, discovering the fact that I've been missing to him for months, dead for months, better shapes my perspective.
Here is an opportunity to make an effort I've owed for some time.
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Beyond that, it wouldn't hurt for Damian to make some friends.
"But I wasn't giving you permission, Damian. It was a request," I clarify, moving to the side of the sofa, curious to see if the boy is even willing to sit down for a talk after our prior exchange. It's good to see him out of the mask.
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"And I built that sofa."
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"It's well-made," I acknowledge, for what it's worth. It might not be the validation he's truly seeking, but I don't see what it could hurt. My gaze raising to meet his once more, I pat the empty space. "We need to talk, Damian. About our next steps."
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Drawing himself to his full height (very tall for his age, but hardly imposing compared to his father), Damian stands with his shoulders back and his head held level. Careful to keep eye contact, he drops his earlier attitude, replying in a deceptively calm voice, "If you're about to dismiss me, I'd prefer to stay standing."
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He's so proud. I don't know who he gets it from. No doubt that Talia al Ghul has carried herself with that same confidence before, but I come from no less impressive of a family, no less of a legacy, and this house is ultimately the one that Damian has chosen. I wonder now, just how much of a reflection Damian is of me, or how much of myself I should expect to find in those eyes. I worry for the childhood that he seems to have been robbed of, and at far younger of an age than mine was taken from me. If there is a sigh on my lips, it isn't aimed at him so much as it feels for Damian, and exhaustion passes over my features as I'm reminded again of Stephanie's words.
(It won't happen again. Damian isn't Jason. I should stop comparing the two.)
"Damian, I've been told that you worked admirably at Dick's side as Robin. And different though our styles may be, I know that the position isn't one that Dick takes lightly," I begin, watching and wondering if he'll sit. "However, I also haven't seen this progress for myself."
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"And you've already thrown away the one I might've had by going to chase after the nutcase by yourself."
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Leaning forward, I press my fingers briefly to my lips. "So show me. Tell me, given what you know of Jason's past, what you think you could have done to help me in that mission. I'm listening."
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I lean against the back of the sofa, crossing my arms over my chest.
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"If you didn't want to scare him, why go down there at all?"
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Or, worse yet, as indication that his loyalty and presence will go unacknowledged.
"Because he is also my son, Damian, and one who I let down," I explain. He's seen the uniform. He knows the history. "The least I could do is make sure that his life here isn't suddenly disturbed by my arrival. Which is not a message he can receive from anyone else."
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He bristles at the mention of yet another false son. Drake had been bad enough, but Damian will never lower himself to call Todd his brother. One good deed at Halloween doesn't erase the past, let alone the other boy's pedigree.
"Not all messages need delivering through words," Damian points out. Though some of the intricacies of civil discourse remain lost to him, he has a cannier understanding than many are inclined to give him credit for. "Ignoring him would've been less of a disturbance than hunting him down to deliver a message about how you plan to ignore him."
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Or do I keep the thought to myself?
(I went down because he needed that moment, defenses down, because I needed to see that his finger wasn't ready to pull the trigger.)
"Perhaps," I confirm, sitting straight. "But then it would have become a waiting game. Each waiting for the other to attack. No trust formed."
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"Or can you think of anyone who would have sufficed as a serviceable go-between? Knowing that he has reacted in extreme and violent ways before?"
I wouldn't want to send my son to that.
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"Would that have been serviceable enough for you? I could have helped."
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"It's too much of a risk," I conclude, more firmly than before. "I won't throw my son into that."
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Including going up against the Red Hood.
"Are we done here or do you wish to tell me I can't do something else because it's too much of a risk?"
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It's late.
"We'll speak again tomorrow. You'll start lessons, and we'll train come evening. But I want you to get sleep tonight." With a look, I add, "And I'll know if you haven't."